Trell sat with his forearms on the picnic table, fingers laced, watching the strip of parking lot beyond the gazebo roof. The shade barely helped. Heat still crawled up off the concrete and into his legs.
Ant stood a few feet away with his shoulder against one of the gazebo posts. His arms were folded across his chest. A thin wind tried the space and failed, moving just enough hot air to rattle the leaves around the park. Somewhere a kid yelled near the swings and a woman answered without looking up from her phone. Traffic ran steady on the street that cut along the far fence.
A car rolled up slow, tires crunching where the blacktop broke into gravel. Three men sat inside, windows down enough that their laughter got there first, Spanish riding the last line of whatever joke had hit just before they parked. The driver eased the car crooked into a space not far from the gazebo and killed the engine. Doors opened one after another, thudding shut in uneven rhythm.
Julio climbed out of the driver’s side, shoulders broad, grin already set. The two men with him slid out on the passenger side, still catching the tail of the joke they had been telling, heads tipped toward each other. Julio tugged at the collar of his shirt as he walked, then let his arms spread wide as he stepped up under the gazebo.
“What up, homie?” he called, the words rolling out easy.
Trell pushed up from the bench in one smooth move. He stepped out from the table to meet Julio halfway under the shade. Their hands hit, palms catching, fingers locking. They pulled each other in for a quick hug, chest to chest for a second, hands landing heavy on each other’s backs.
On the break, Trell tapped a loose fist into Julio’s midsection in a fake punch, knuckles thudding against soft. “You getting fucking fat eating all those tacos, Julio.”
Julio laughed, loud enough that a couple of kids by the jungle gym glanced over before going back to their game. He slapped his own stomach with an open hand, the sound sharp. “That’s what having a good woman does for you, bro.”
He leaned past Trell to dap up Ant, their grip short and firm. Ant nodded once and went back to his post near the beam, eyes sliding over Julio’s two men and then out across the park again. The two stayed back under the edge of the roof, hands loose at their sides, sneakers scuffing the concrete in small shifts.
Trell dropped back onto the bench. Julio lowered himself onto the one across from him, forearms braced on the table, shoulders still relaxed. The wood carried the thump when he set his weight down. Ant stayed standing. Julio’s boys did too, one near the end of the table, the other near the steps, both close enough to hear everything without crowding the talk.
“Hey, I’m sorry about how those fools were acting the other day, huh?” Julio said. “Lalo let someone get in his head and make him think shit was something that it wasn’t.”
Trell gave a slow nod that didn’t give much away. “You know we don’t do business like that,” he said. “I ain’t tell Ant to kill him only ‘cause of you, but next time?”
The end of the sentence hung there between them. Ant didn’t move. He only shifted his weight off the post a fraction, enough to show he heard his name.
Julio brought both hands up, palms open in a loose surrender. “I get it. I wouldn’t blame you. But know there was punishment dealt out to both of ’em, Lalo and Eddie.”
Trell watched his face for a beat, then dipped his chin. “Appreciate that.”
Julio let some of the tension leave his shoulders. “Didn’t know you spoke Spanish now, though,” he said, grin creeping back. “You been on Duolingo?”
Trell’s laugh sat low in his chest. “That was Google translate.”
Julio sucked his teeth and leaned sideways toward his men without breaking eye contact with Trell. “Fucking Google translate,” he said, amused. The two behind him chuckled on cue. Then he turned back, eyes a little sharper. “That wasn’t no fucking Google translate.”
Trell only rolled one shoulder in a small shrug. The park hummed around them. A horn popped somewhere past the trees. Someone fired up a grill near the far picnic tables and the smell of meat and charcoal started to cut through the damp air.
Julio shifted, business settling over the easy grin. “We need a few more packs every time we reup,” he said. “The fucking Naranjo got it hard to get shit through TJ and Nogales, Brownsville.”
Trell tapped one knuckle against the tabletop, the sound a soft knock. “We might be able to figure some shit out,” he said.
“I know Peanut had them hookups all up and down I-95,” Julio went on. His finger traced an invisible line on the wood between them, dragging from one side to the other.
“85, too,” Trell said. “We still got shit rolling over just the same.”
Julio nodded, satisfied. His gaze shifted off the highways and landed on closer ground. “Cass still in the game?”
The question landed quiet. Trell’s eyes flicked toward Ant for a breath, almost nothing, then back to Julio. He shook his head once. “Nah.”
Julio snapped his fingers and laughed, a quick sharp sound. “She was that motherfucker’s secret weapon, amigo. Kept shit real smooth.”
“I know,” Trell said. “But you know she got Peanut’s J.R. to be there for.”
Julio’s smile thinned into something more thoughtful. He nodded once, then turned his head toward his men and dropped into Spanish. “¿Crees que el niño es para el viejo jefe?”
The one closest to the table snickered. The other let out a short breath through his nose, shoulders jumping once. They shared the line between themselves and let it fade. Trell’s face didn’t change. His sunglasses hid where his eyes went.
“Well, next time you see her?” Julio said, back in English. “Tell her to hit me up next time she’s in Houston for old times.”
Trell dipped his chin, answer short. “I’ll do that.”
Julio slapped the table once with his palm, the sound cutting through the park noise. He pushed back from the bench in the same motion so the legs scraped against the concrete. “Let’s go get some fucking food, man. We can keep talking business but I’m hungry.”
Trell shook his head, the corner of his mouth pulling up. “You always fucking hungry, nigga.”
~~~
The sun sat low enough that the light slanted in over the tops of the pines and bounced off the white helmets on the field. Heat pressed down on the grass and on the metal bleachers and on the patch of dirt by the sideline where the boys in pads had worn the green away.
Laney sat under a thin tree just past the painted stripe, a folding chair sunk an inch into the soft ground. The shade helped some. Her sunglasses stayed on even with the limbs cutting most of the glare. It made it easier not to meet too many people’s eyes, easier to watch only what she needed to.
Out on the field Knox jogged into his spot with the other players, helmet wobbling a little on his head as he looked over at the sideline. His little chest plate rose and fell faster than it should for the middle of the first half. The coach shouted in a tight voice, lining the boys up, one hand on his own cap, the other pointing to where he wanted them.
Tommy stood close to the chalk, feet set square, arms crossed high on his chest. He didn’t yell. He didn’t move much at all. His eyes stayed on Knox and the line, face still, jaw tight. From where she sat, Laney could see the way his shoulders barely shifted when the play started, like he was bracing for contact too.
Every few snaps Knox’s head turned quick toward the tree. He looked for her, quick and jerky, the way kids did when they were checking to see if the person who mattered was watching. Each time Laney lifted the corner of her mouth and gave him a small smile, a nod he could see through the dark lenses. It didn’t slow the way he fidgeted at the line, cleats digging little nervous trenches at his spot.
Blake stood just off her shoulder, a half step behind her chair, the plastic bag of chips crinkling each time he reached in. Grease spots bloomed darker on the crumpled bottom edge. He had one hip leaned toward the tree trunk, ball cap tugged low, eyes on the field. When the play blew dead and the whistle cut through the air, he licked orange dust from his fingers, slow, then rubbed his hand down the front of his jeans.
“Told Nevaeh that I want to put Josiah in football as soon as he’s old enough,” he said, eyes still on the boys, “but she says that it messes up your brain. I told her it teaches discipline.”
Laney didn’t turn her head. Her gaze stayed on Knox as he jogged back to his huddle, hand going up to adjust his chinstrap. “Ain’t you play football in high school?” she asked.
Blake nodded, a little smile pulling at his mouth as some old Friday night came back to him. “Yeah. Receiver.”
“I can see why she thinks that then,” Laney said, her voice easy.
Blake let out a short sarcastic laugh. “Very funny, Laney.”
Down the sideline, Braxton and Hunter were a tangle of skinny legs and too-big jerseys with the other little boys. They had drifted toward the far end where the line of cones opened into an empty patch of field. Somebody’s older cousin tossed them a smaller ball and they were taking turns throwing it, arms too wild, passes wobbling but chased down anyway. Their shouts rose and faded over the whistle and the thump of pads.
Blake shook a few more chips into his palm and nodded toward the sideline where Tommy stood. “You back to normal now that he’s back, huh?” he said. “Back to being a cold bitch.”
Laney looked up at him then, just enough that he could see her eyes over the rim of the sunglasses. “I don’t think that was ever different when it came to you,” she said.
Blake glanced down into the bag, the corner of his mouth tipping. “You ain’t wrong,” he said.
Laney pushed herself up out of the chair, the metal legs scraping a little in the dirt. She brushed her hands once down the front of her jeans and walked toward the sideline, steps steady, head angled toward the field. She stopped beside Tommy, close enough to share his shade from the brim of his cap, but a step behind his shoulder where she always seemed to settle.
On the field Knox was under center, knees bent. The line across from him bounced on their toes. The coach shouted the count. Tommy’s arms stayed locked across his chest.
“You’re makin’ him nervous,” Laney said, low enough that it barely carried past his elbow.
Tommy cut his eyes toward her for a second, then back to the play. “He’s not doing what the coach is telling him to do,” he said.
The ball snapped. The boys shoved into each other in a clatter of plastic and breath. Knox hesitated a beat before he drove his feet, getting turned halfway as the play went by. The whistle blew them dead again.
“’Cause you’re makin’ him nervous,” she said, just as quiet.
“You shouldn’t have been coddling him when I was gone,” Tommy said.
Laney’s jaw worked once behind the sunglasses. Her eyes narrowed, then smoothed out again before he looked back at her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just tryin’ to help.”
“Stepping out of your place, more like.”
Her lips pressed flat for a second. The heat pressed at her back. She shifted her weight, voice even. “It’s hot out today. You need anythin’?”
Tommy gave a small shake of his head, eyes never leaving the field.
Laney turned on her heel and walked back to the tree. The chair waited where she had left it, one leg sunk deeper into the grass. She eased herself down and let the metal take her weight, crossing one ankle over the other.
Blake watched her settle. He lifted the bag of chips, gesturing toward Tommy with the crinkled corner. “Bet he’d agree you gotta teach your family discipline,” he said.
Laney didn’t say anything, just kept her eyes on the field.
~~~
Caine knelt by the side of the bed, one knee on the worn carpet. The room was dark except for the thin strip of light coming in from the hallway. It cut across the comforter and the small rise of Camila’s body under it. Her curls had spread over the pillow in a soft fan, tight coils catching whatever light there was. Her mouth was parted, breaths coming slow, chest lifting and falling under the cotton of the little Georgia Southern shirt she had insisted on sleeping in.
He slid his palm over her hair, fingers moving gentle so he didn’t wake her. The strands gave under his hand and sprang back. She made a faint sound in her throat and settled again, lashes resting heavy on her cheeks. The smell of baby lotion still clung to her, carried up from her skin when he leaned closer.
He bent and pressed his lips to her forehead. When he drew back, he brushed a thumb along her hairline, then eased himself up, joints protesting after the night’s hits. He gave the comforter one last small tug up toward her shoulder and stepped back from the bed.
The apartment was quieter once he opened the door. The TV in the living room hummed low, some late-night recap cutting through all the way from the couch. The light from the screen washed in down the short hallway, throwing a dull glow on the walls. Caine pulled the bedroom door almost shut, leaving it open just enough to hear her if she shifted or called out, then walked toward the sound.
Sara and Mireya sat side by side on the couch. The TV showed highlights from some other stadium, colors different but the same churn of bodies. Volume sat low enough that the commentator’s voice was only a murmur.
Sara looked up first when she felt him come into the room. Her shoulders eased and she smiled, the same small, tired curve she got at the end of long days. She pushed her hands against her knees and stood. Before she stepped away, she leaned down, hand going automatically to Mireya’s hair. Her fingers smoothed over the top of Mireya’s head, then she bent and kissed that spot, whispering, “Good night, mija.”
Mireya tilted her head just enough to meet the touch, eyes on the TV.
Sara crossed the room to Caine. He dipped his head toward her without thinking so she didn’t have to reach too far. She cupped his cheek once and kissed him there.
“You played good tonight, mijo,” she said.
He smiled, one corner of his mouth kicking up a little higher. “Had my fan club in the stands.”
Sara swatted at his arm, a light hit that said she heard the joke and accepted it. Her smile stayed as she turned away. She headed for the bedroom, hand catching the door as she stepped through. The wood clicked soft when she closed it over.
The living room felt smaller with the door shut and the night pressed up against the windows. Caine walked around the end of the couch and dropped down next to Mireya. The cushion dipped under his weight. His arm slid along the back of the couch and settled around her shoulders without him having to think about where it went.
Mireya leaned into him in the same easy way, her body finding the familiar angle against his side. Her head brushed his shoulder, hair faintly smelling of the shampoo she used when they stayed over. “Did she fight going to sleep?” she asked.
He nodded, eyes still on the TV even though he was not really seeing it. “Yep. She never wants to sleep when she’s here.”
“Because she feels like she’s missing out on time with you,” Mireya said.
The words sat between them. Caine didn’t say anything for a moment. The TV cycled through another set of highlights. The glow shifted over their faces. Somewhere outside a car drove past, music thudding low under the hum of the building.
“I could transfer after this season,” he said finally. “LSU might want me. Tulane. I’m playing good enough, you know?”
Mireya turned her head to look at him. The light from the TV caught the faint shadows still hiding under her eyes from the week she’d had. “Don’t come running back because you think you fucked up, Caine,” she said. “I’m not going to have you blaming Camila because you make a choice you don’t really want.”
“No, I just—” he started.
Mireya shook her head once, a small sharp motion. “It’s not worth the argument right now.”
He held her gaze for a second, then nodded. His hand flexed once against her shoulder and went still.
On the table in front of them, his phone buzzed against the wood. The screen lit up and flashed with a stack of new messages. Names slid by in quick lines, little demands and jokes from people pulling at him to come out, hit the bars, stretch the night a little longer.
Mireya glanced down at it. “You want to go?” she asked.
Caine shook his head and looked at her instead of the phone. “You want to?”
She let out a small breath and shook her head. “It’s been a long week.”
“You good?” he asked.
“Just midterms and work, nothing crazy,” she said.
He nodded once. The phone buzzed again and then went quiet when the screen dimmed. The announcer on the TV shifted into another game. Outside, some drunk voices echoed faintly from the parking lot and faded. The apartment settled into that thin quiet that came when everybody else had gone to bed and there was nothing left to do but sit with whatever was still moving around in your head.
Time stretched. Mireya’s weight rested warm against his side. Every so often his thumb dragged a slow line over the curve of her upper arm through her shirt. Her eyes stayed on the TV without really tracking the plays.
After a while, she moved. She slid forward just enough to break his arm from around her, then swung one leg over his lap, careful in the way she lowered herself. She settled on his thighs, facing him fully now. The couch cushion sank deeper under them both.
Caine’s hands found her hips without searching. His fingers spread over the denim there, holding her steady. Up this close he could see every small shift in her expression, the way her mouth pressed and released.
She lifted her hands and framed his face, palms warm against his jaw. His eyes came up to meet hers. For a second neither of them spoke.
“Do you love me, Caine?” she asked.
He nodded, the movement small under her hands. “You know I do.”
Her thumb brushed once along his cheekbone. “¿Para siempre?” she asked.
“Sí, para siempre,” he said.
She leaned in until her forehead rested against his, breath mixing with his in the small space between them. Then she closed that space and kissed him.
