Bigger Than The Program

[Agent]

aint nobody bigger than the program cuh

you must not know THE JZA!

[The JZA]

Three Hats
(Prologue)

Three hats...

That was what the next chapter of Cortez Terrano’s life had boiled down to. Three pieces of stitched fabric arranged across a folding table beneath the auditorium’s merciless white lights. Three university logos. Three possible futures waiting to be claimed by one hand. Three roads leading away from the same cracked sidewalks, crowded hallways, and brick buildings that had shaped Cortez long before recruiting websites learned how to spell his name.

Outside, February had the Bronx in a chokehold. Winter had been threatening snow for weeks, but nothing ever came down. The sky remained a dull sheet of gray stretched tight over the five boroughs, swollen with something it refused to release. Until it finally broke, the cold settled for smaller cruelties. It gnawed at exposed ears. Stiffened fingers. Slipped beneath coat collars and sank its teeth into bone. Noses ran like dripping honey while people cursed beneath their breath and hurried toward heated buildings.

Inside Kennedy’s auditorium, the air carried a different kind of pressure.

Heat rose from hundreds of bodies packed into the bleachers. Students leaned over shoulders, whispering predictions and trading rumors they swore came directly from coaches, cousins, girlfriends, or somebody’s uncle who supposedly knew somebody inside a college athletic department. Parents guarded seats with winter coats, handbags, and outstretched legs. Camera operators wrestled with tripods along the baseline while reporters tested microphones beneath the championship banners hanging from the rafters. Every few seconds, the double doors swung open and released another blade of cold air into the room.

Nobody seemed to mind.

National Signing Day had transformed the school into something larger than itself. For one morning, Kennedy was no longer just another public school wedged between the Major Deegan Expressway and the Hudson River. It had become a stage. A launchpad. A place where young men who had spent years being told what they were not could stand beneath television lights and announce what they were about to become. College colors flooded the bleachers. Rutgers hoodies, Temple jackets, Syracuse caps, Black and gold Army scarves. Families dressed themselves in the futures they wanted for their sons, nephews, brothers, and grandsons. Some had already accepted the outcome and arrived wearing old letterman jackets from their alma maters, the leather cracked and the wool faded but the pride still fresh. Others wore rival programs like declarations of war. One family had turned an entire row into a border dispute between Rutgers and Temple.

Scarlet occupied one side, Temple controlled the other. Their chosen one sat between them in a plain black sweatsuit, carrying the only opinion that mattered.

The excitement electrified some seniors. It terrified others. A signature could carry a boy out of the city, but it could not promise he would survive what waited beyond it. A scholarship was an opportunity, not a guarantee. It was a door opening into unfamiliar territory, where every athlete had once been the fastest, strongest, toughest, or most celebrated kid in his hometown. On the other side of that door, nobody cared what you used to be.

Cortez understood that better than most.

He stood beside the padded wall near the coaches’ office, watching the auditorium fill without joining the celebration. His shoulders rested against the red padding. His arms were folded across his chest. From where he stood, the polished hardwood stretched out before him, the name "Kennedy" painted across the out-of-bounds line only a few feet away. Years of sneaker marks hid beneath the shine. Scratches ran along the floor where the bleachers had been dragged open and shut a thousand times. The building had been cleaned for the cameras, but no amount of wax could erase what it truly was. Cortez knew every scar beneath the polish. He had practiced footwork on that court when freezing rain and snow made the football field unusable. He had thrown passes beneath basketball rims while Coach Lloyd timed his release with a stopwatch. He had spent an entire Saturday running the bleacher steps after missing a film session because he had been too angry to show his face.

That version of him felt distant now.

Cortez studied the crowd as Lauri came through the double doors carrying two cups of hot tea. Their uncle Antonio followed behind her, his broad shoulders filling out a black leather jacket that looked older than some of the students in the room. Antonio stopped just inside the auditorium and searched through the crowd until his eyes found Cortez. They exchanged a nod.

Nothing more was necessary.

Antonio had never wasted words when silence could carry the same weight.

Lauri offered more.

She held Cortez’s gaze for a few seconds longer, her expression soft but alert. She had always been able to see the cracks he hid from everybody else. On the football field, he could manipulate linebackers with his eyes and freeze safeties with a twitch of his shoulders. Lauri had never fallen for any of it.

Cortez looked beyond her toward the entrance. The doors opened again. A family of five stepped inside wearing matching Florida International apparel. The father had on a navy jacket with FIU stitched across the chest. The mother wore a Vive La Fete FIU scarf. Three children followed behind them, stamping slush from their shoes as they searched for somewhere to sit.

The doors swung shut and Cortez continued staring.

Minutes passed...

The auditorium grew louder. Empty spaces vanished from the bleachers one by one. Faculty members began directing people away from reserved sections. Camera lights brightened near the signing table. Teachers who had never attended a football game squeezed into the back of the room, eager to witness history now that history had come with television crews. Still, Evelyn Terrano never walked through the doors. Cortez inhaled slowly and released the air through his nose. A faint smile touched his mouth, but there was no humor behind it.

It looked more like surrender.

Evelyn missing the biggest day of his life should not have surprised him. She had been absent from smaller moments, and disappointment had a way of training the heart to expect less. Their relationship had spent the previous two years growing callouses, not because of one catastrophic betrayal, but through dozens of smaller wounds that never healed correctly. Missed games, broken promises, arguments and accusations hurled through the fifth-floor apartment with enough force to cut through walls and spill into the hallway. Evelyn had become a stranger who still knew exactly how to hurt him like family. Some stubborn part of Cortez had believed Signing Day might be different. That she might wake up, understand what the morning meant, put aside whatever storm lived inside her, and walk into the auditorium before his name was called.

But the only thing different was the date and time attached to another no-show.

He pushed the disappointment down before it could grow teeth. Her absence would not change what waited on the table, it would not erase the scholarship offers, it would not take back the touchdowns, the bruises, the late-night workouts, the dawn practices, or the Friday nights spent bleeding beneath his uniform. She had already missed the road.

Missing the destination was only natural.

The ceremony began beneath a burst of applause. One by one, Kennedy’s seniors took their places behind the folding table. Some made their decisions quickly, grabbing a hat and putting it on before the reporters had finished raising their cameras. Others stretched the moment out, reaching toward one cap before pulling their hand away and choosing another. Families screamed, teammates stomped the hardwood, coaches stood off to the side wearing measured smiles, watching years of labor become names written across scholarship papers. Every recruit represented a different fight. A defensive end who had spent most of junior year sleeping on his grandmother’s couch after his family lost their apartment. A cornerback who tore his ACL as a sophomore, rebuilt his leg, returned faster than before, and climbed the national rankings while everyone expected him to disappear. An offensive lineman who once weighed nearly four hundred pounds and reshaped his body without losing the violence in his hands. Teammates on Friday nights were becoming rivals in the fall. Friends were committing to schools separated by hundreds of miles. Young men who had shared jokes on buses, nonsense in locker rooms, and silent sidelines after losses were preparing to scatter across the country.

Cortez applauded every one of them.

He understood what each name called to the stage represented. Football had given them a language the world could not ignore. Every scholarship was proof that something valuable could grow from neighborhoods outsiders only visited when news cameras came looking for tragedy. For once, microphones had arrived to record possibility instead of pain. Still, everyone knew who the room had been waiting for.

The star quarterback.

Cortez’s talent had never been a secret inside Kennedy. The coaches had seen it in the way the football left his hand, a clean spiral capable of slicing through rain and wind. His teammates had seen it whenever a play collapsed and Cortez turned disaster into yardage. Defenders became believers whenever he refused to slide, lowered his shoulder, and forced them to earn every inch of turf. Recruiters had taken longer to believe. As a sophomore, Cortez had been undersized and impatient. As a junior, he had been reckless. His arm was powerful, but his decision-making could betray him. He could drop a forty-yard pass between two defenders and then throw an interception on a five-yard route. He played every snap as though the game had personally insulted him.

Two stars appeared beside his name on recruiting websites.

Cortez pretended not to care. He cared enough to memorize quarterbacks ranked ahead of him. The transformation began the following late spring. Before sunrise every weekend, Antonio drove him to an empty field in Van Cortlandt Park. Once school let out for summer, they went four mornings a week. There were no crowds, no cameras, and no college coaches dressed in university colors. Only damp grass, traffic humming beyond the trees, and Antonio’s stopwatch cutting through the silence.

Cortez rebuilt everything. His feet. His body. His patience.

Antonio forced him to repeat the same movements until they were no longer movements but instinct. Three-step drops. Five-step drops. Resetting his base. Climbing an imaginary pocket. Rolling left. Rolling right. Throwing against momentum. Throwing before a receiver made his break. Every lazy rep earned another, every bad throw had to be chased down, every excuse died in the morning fog. Cortez studied defensive coverages until formations followed him into his sleep. He watched film during lunch on his phone. He watched after practice with teammates crowded around a laptop. He watched at Antonio’s apartment with the television muted while Lauri worked at the kitchen table. Every mistake became evidence and every weakness became an assignment.

By fall camp, the football came out faster. His shoulders stayed square longer. His eyes stopped betraying where he intended to throw. The chaos that once controlled him became something he could manipulate.

Then the season changed everything.

A few weeks after the opener, Cortez faced one of the highest-ranked teams in the city and threw four touchdowns through driving rain. Two weeks later, after Kennedy lost both starting tackles, he escaped a collapsing pocket and ran thirty-five yards for the game-winning touchdown. By October, college coaches were standing along the sideline in university jackets.

Then came the offers.

Letters first, then phone calls. Then home visits, handshakes, promises, and men who spoke about loyalty while carrying contracts in leather folders. Among the major programs, Ohio State came first. The Buckeyes promised tradition, national exposure, state-of-the-art facilities, and a campus close enough for Antonio and Lauri to reach without crossing an entire continent. They spoke about championships as though competing for them was a yearly obligation. They showed Cortez photographs of packed stadiums, future NFL players, and trophy cases glowing beneath museum lights. Notre Dame arrived later carrying its own mythology.

Gold helmets. Touchdown Jesus. National broadcasts.

A history heavy enough to bend the backs of boys who mistook attention for readiness. The Fighting Irish offered prestige, discipline, and expectations large enough to bury an eighteen-year-old beneath them.

Oregon offered something else.

Speed. Space. Reinvention.

A wide-open offense. A western horizon. Facilities that looked carved out of the future. A city far enough away for Cortez to become whoever he wanted without the Bronx standing over his shoulder and reminding him who he had been.

Three hats. Three versions of himself.

The applause swelled as another recruit completed his announcement. Cortez returned to the present and saw Coach Lloyd standing near the bleachers. Their eyes met. The coach gave a slight motion with his chin.

It was time.

Students shouted his name. Teammates raised their phones. Camera operators shifted positions as lenses tracked him toward center court. His footsteps disappeared beneath the roar, but Cortez felt every one of them. Antonio and Lauri remained near the wall as Cortez had decided days earlier that he would sit at the table alone.

The choice confused people.

Signing Day photographs usually placed the recruit at the center of a family portrait. Parents, siblings, coaches, mentors, and distant relatives crowded behind the athlete as though everyone needed visible proof of their contribution. Cortez needed no such photograph, because Lauri and Antonio had already stood behind him when there were no cameras. They did not need to stand there now.

He reached the table. The three hats waited beneath the lights. Ohio State sat to his right. Notre Dame rested to his left, navy and gold calm beneath the glare. Oregon occupied the center.

Three hats...

Each represented months of phone calls, home visits, campus tours, late-night conversations, and carefully rehearsed promises. Each had been placed in front of him by men paid to convince young athletes that one campus could become a kingdom if they were brave enough to believe. Cortez pulled out the chair and sat and for a moment, the auditorium vanished, the lights blurred. The cheering dulled into a distant rumble. His fingers rested against the edge of the table as memories rushed through him faster than he could stop them.

He saw himself at ten years old, throwing a football through a tire Antonio had hung from a chain-link fence behind his grandparent's home in East Brunswick. He saw Lauri wrapping ice around his swollen ankle at the kitchen table while Evelyn slept behind a closed bedroom door. He saw the interception during his junior year that had cost Kennedy a playoff game. He heard rival students laughing as he walked off the field, his helmet hanging from his fingers, their voices following him toward the locker room. He saw his name buried near the bottom of recruiting lists. He saw the first envelope arrive from Rutgers and Lauri reading it three times to make sure it was real. He saw Antonio driving home in silence after every camp that failed to produce an offer. He saw Coach Lloyd erase the old depth chart and write Cortez’s name at the top. He saw every defender who had celebrated over him and every coach who had doubted him.

Cortez stared at the hats.

Ohio State would keep him within reach. Not close, but close enough. Close enough for Lauri and Antonio to make the drive. Close enough for the Bronx to follow him across Pennsylvania and into Ohio. Close enough to carry the support of home and the burden of everyone believing they could reach him whenever they pleased.

Notre Dame was only a little farther, a skip and a hard ride west. It offered distance without disappearance. Prestige without complete exile. He could leave and still remain connected to the life that had built him.

Oregon was different. Oregon meant leaving behind everything he understood. The condensed population, the subway tunnels breathing hot air into winter streets, the bipolar Atlantic weather, the sirens at night, the bodegas blaring bachata all day long, the apartment walls thin enough to hear somebody else’s argument two floors away. Oregon meant forests. Rain. Red flannels and work pants. Mountains standing where high-rises should have been. It meant waking up three time zones away from everyone who had ever called his name from the bleachers.

All three roads led to the same destination.

A world where Cortez would no longer be the most gifted athlete in the building. Every quarterback in those locker rooms had been special somewhere. Every receiver had embarrassed defensive backs beneath Friday-night lights. Every linebacker had been the nightmare of his hometown. They had all been praised, ranked, photographed, and promised greatness. College would strip those promises down to bone. It would mean competing in front of more people on one Saturday than Kennedy could fit inside its building across several years. It would mean cold mornings, unfamiliar faces, brutal practices, and no easy train ride home when life became heavy, It meant being judged by strangers who only knew the number on his jersey and failure arriving louder than success.

The auditorium waited. Hundreds of faces watched Cortez study the table.

To them, the choice was about football, playing time, facilities, television exposure and championships. The possibility of one day hearing his name called during the NFL Draft.

But for the Bronx kid sitting alone beneath those lights, the moment carried more weight than a game could hold. He was not merely escaping the neighborhood, but becoming the first person in his immediate family to attend college. The first to turn all those early mornings, bruised ribs, missed parties, busted lips, and empty refrigerators into a future nobody could repossess. He was cutting a path through ground that had never been cleared for him, and once he crossed, the road would remain.

For Lauri. For the children who might someday carry his name. For every kid watching from the bleachers who had been taught that survival was the highest ambition the city allowed them.

Cortez looked toward the wall. Antonio stood with one hand inside his jacket pocket as the other held a cup of tea, his expression carved from stone. Lauri held her own, her eyes fixed on Cortez. Neither of them nodded. Neither of them hinted suggestively towards a hat. They had carried him far enough to understand that the final choice had to belong to him. Behind them, the double doors remained closed.

Evelyn was still absent.

Cortez reverted his eyes back toward the table.

Three hats. Three roads. Three futures waiting beneath the white heat of the cameras.

His right hand lifted from the edge of the table. The auditorium seemed to inhale with him. Just like the other selection moments that afternoon, the entire building went silent, and Cortez Terrano reached toward the next roadmap of twists and turns life was ready to carve out for him.

National Rank: 2904 | State Rank: 30 | Position Rank: 192

[The JZA]

he's back

Got the e-mail and answered the call

Let's fucking go.

Good to have you brothas along

aint nobody bigger than the program cuh

There's always someone bigger than the program blud

aint nobody bigger than the program cuh

you must not know THE JZA!

This ain't that type of party lol Not this time

[James]

JZA got another classic joint going. This should be good.

[The JZA]

The Beginning Of The End Pt.1
(SZN 1 , EPI 1)

Summer in New York had finally shown a crack in its brazen armor.

For more than a hundred days, the city had been cooked beneath a sun that seemed personal. Dry heat scorched the concrete by noon. Humidity waited underground, then climbed out of subway grates and wrapped itself around every throat in the five boroughs. Apartment windows stayed open through the night, inviting in sirens, arguments, car horns, and air too thick to breathe. Now, with the academic year returning, the forecast had begun whispering mercy. Gray skies, cooler evenings, a chance of rain. A relief that was almost holy. Fall waited just beyond the horizon, sharpening its teeth behind the clouds.

And with it came the beginning of the end.

Summer jobs were becoming part-time shifts. Some were ending altogether. Families who had escaped the city for vacations were returning with darker skin, lighter wallets, and stories nobody else wanted to hear. Students poured back into the neighborhood wearing fresh sneakers and expressions that said they had changed over the break, even when the same old fears followed them through the school doors.

For Kareem and Cortez, the summer had carried a different weight.

They had spent it like two men trying to outrun a clock. Three afternoons a week belonged to the YMCA. They ran cardio drills until their shirts clung to their backs and sweat pooled beneath their feet. They suffered through water aerobics while elderly women moved through the pool with more grace than either of them. When the structured work was finished, they played pickup basketball against whoever had enough confidence to step onto the court. Four evenings a week, they trained at the gym owned by Cortez’s uncle Antonio. The place was small, worn, and built without decoration. Heavy bags hung from reinforced beams. Old photographs of fighters curled inside chipped wooden frames. The rubber flooring had been patched so many times that no two sections looked the same.

Antonio closed at ten. After the final members dragged themselves home, he locked the front doors, lowered the metal gate halfway, and surrendered the place to Cortez and Kareem until morning.

There was only one condition: They cleaned everything. Mats scrubbed, weights re-racked, mirrors wiped, bathrooms bleached, heavy bags disinfected and sweat erased from benches where grown men had spent the evening trying to beat weakness out of themselves. That alone was half the workout Antonio premeditated, keeping them earnest in their already established repetitions.

In exchange, the boys received private access to the gym until sunrise.

No crowds, no waiting and no excuses. It was a no-brainer for the captains of Kennedy’s two most visible teams.

Kareem was the highly sought-after star guard-forward for the JFK Campus Knights. At six-foot-five and a shade over two hundred pounds, he moved with a smoothness that made his size feel unfair. His shoulders were broad enough to absorb contact, but his hands belonged to someone smaller. He could bring the ball up the floor, post a defender near the block, split a double-team, or throw a pass through a seam that had not existed until he created it.

Teachers called him gifted, coaches called him special, recruiting websites called him the next somebody.

The next Jordan. The next Kobe. The next LeBron.

Kareem never subscribed to that nonsense, Kareem was the next Kareem.

A jack of all trades who could spend one night handing out ten or fifteen assists like Rajon Rondo, then come back forty-eight hours later and drop fifteen or seventeen points in the span of a few violent minutes on some Rockets T-Mac shit. He understood timing. Momentum. The strange electricity that ran through a gym when a game started tilting toward one team. Kareem could sense that shift before everyone else, then put both hands on it and drag the entire building in his direction. Colleges had been watching him since sophomore year

Cortez’s rise had been uglier.

He had been a "close-but-no-cigar" kind of talent, a player people praised with one hand while seeking out the next big thing. His legitimacy had not arrived naturally. He had been forced to grow into it beneath the Friday night lights where every mistake came with spectators. His opportunity at quarterback arrived too early during his freshman season. Kennedy’s junior captain had been injured in a car accident. One night he was the leader of the football team. By morning, he had been told he would spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. The depth chart shifted in the most uncomfortable way possible. Cortez became the next man up before he understood what that phrase could cost. He had always possessed a feel for football. He could see throwing lanes before they opened. He could sense pressure creeping from his blind side. But his arm had not caught up with his instincts, and his nerves had been shredded before the first snap.

His high school debut became an execution performed beneath stadium's flood lights. Fifty-nine passing yards. Three interceptions.

After that blunder, he took a trip to the bench before the start of the fourth quarter. He sat with his helmet between his shoes while the game continued without him, listening to the crowd groan every time Kennedy’s offense failed to move. Nobody needed to tell him what they were thinking. He could feel it in the empty space around him.

Too raw. Not ready. Maybe never.

Cortez carried that humiliation home like gasoline. He poured it over every doubt, every insult, and every memory of being pulled from the game.

Then he lit the match.

When another opportunity came a couple games later, he played as though the first performance had been hunting him. He made quicker reads, took the easy completion and used his legs when the pocket collapsed instead of forcing the ball through bodies. Behind Cortez's efforts, Kennedy earned its first victory after opening the season 0–3. The Knights finished 7–4 overall and 5–3 in the PSAL 4A division and Cortez earned a nomination for the 2024 All-City Quarterback team. The potential only grew from there, and so did the expectations.

By the time the first day of senior year arrived, the city had stopped feeling like summer without fully becoming fall. The sun still hung over the Bronx with bad intentions, but clouds had started gathering above the buildings. The air no longer tasted like scorched metal. Wind moved between the blocks carrying the faint promise of rain.

The final bell rang through Kennedy’s hallways and the classroom doors burst open. Students scattered through the building like disturbed roaches beneath a refrigerator, spilling toward stairwells and exits in a loud, restless flood. Fresh notebooks disappeared into backpacks. Teachers shouted reminders about assignments nobody planned to think about until midnight. Lockers slammed. Sneakers squeaked against waxed floors. Somewhere near the main entrance, security guards yelled at a group of freshmen who had chosen the wrong place to start shoving each other.

The escape felt familiar, almost comforting.

Ten minutes later, standing beneath a sun that had refused to surrender, he regretted every second of it. The walk back toward Kingsbridge Terrace waited for him like punishment. Heat rose from the pavement in waves, filling the far and few gracious gust with a warmth of unforgiveness. The back of his shirt had already begun sticking to his skin, and the heavy backpack against his shoulders felt packed with bricks instead of school supplies. For half a second, Cortez wished he had joined a book club. Something indoors, somewhere air-conditioned. Keeping him inside just until the sun lost interest and dropped behind the buildings. Instead, he stopped near the fence, just passed the roundabout and looked out across the football field. The field was encased in a track ring that stretched down near the fence where the tree line overgrew through it. The turf faded in places where cleats had chewed through it during summer practices. Yard lines sat bright against the green. Hot empty aluminum bleachers watched from the sideline. Beyond them, apartment buildings rose against the overcast sky, their windows reflecting scraps of dull light.

“What's up, Money?” Kareem’s voice pulled him out of the vision. Cortez glanced over as Kareem approached him. He wore his varsity jacket despite the lingering warmth, carrying it like another layer of skin. His backpack hung from one shoulder. “Already thinking about the upcoming season, huh? ” Kareem clapped Cortez on the shoulder before stopping partially in front of him.

Cortez looked at him through narrowed eyes. The squint came partly from the sunlight and partly from the smirk threatening his mouth. “Do I make it that obvious that I'm ready?” He returned his attention to the field. “This is what we trained for all summer long, to play our best game at this level before it's all said and done... And for you to look pretty for the ladies as they can't get enough of, "Prince Rah"—I'm sorry—"Prince Kareem."

Kareem barked out a laugh. The sound carried across the railing as he shook his head. He knew Cortez meant well, but the "Prince Kareem" nickname had been worn down to the bone. What had begun as a joke among teammates noting how "pretty" he played, had spread through the school until freshmen Kareem had never met were bowing dramatically when he passed them in the hallway.

“Aye, ain't even that though,” Kareem replied, casual on the surface, though a thread of annoyance moved beneath the words. “I appreciate the support and all from my humble subject, but you know the deal. Season starts in November, I got a month left to stay in line. I gotta make sure my shot's tight.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the tree beside Cortez. Above them, the overcast sky deepened from silver to bruised gray. The weather app had promised afternoon showers, but New York forecasts were politicians in digital form. They said whatever sounded convincing and apologized for nothing afterward.

“Lucky you. We got our season opener on the 18th, giving us about a week to get our shit together. I'm not sure what's been busting our asses more, fall camp or this heat.” Cortez finally pulled his eyes from the field. He turned toward the school building and leaned back against the other side of the tree, waiting for the third member of their walk home.

Students streamed through the exits, loading up on buses. None of them were Lauri.

“Aye, you pass by Lauri on your way out? I hate when she does this and keep us waiting.”

Kareem shook his head with a shrug, “Nah, I haven't seen her yet. Probably caught up talking to some teacher or whatever,” he said, adjusting his varsity jacket. “You know how Lauri gets when she wants to chat. Could be five minutes or twenty.” He crossed one ankle over the other.

The wind swept across the open field, carrying the smell of the turf and distant exhaust. Leaves rustled in the trees bordering the campus and above them while the gathering clouds had stopped making empty threats.

“We boutta catch one though. Gonna be pouring soon.”

Cortez started to look up. Before he could inspect the sky, the double doors from the distance flew open with enough force to strike the brick wall.

The bang snapped Cortez and Kareem's eyes in that direction, others looking behind them.

Lauri stepped through the entrance as though she had kicked open the doors to her own music video. Cortez and Kareem moved back over to the entrance to meet up with her.

“Finally.” Cortez said what both boys had been thinking. “Any longer, we was gonna leave you to the wolves. You good?”

Lauri came toward them with her usual swagger, twin braids swinging behind her. An Off-White crewneck clung loosely around her frame, the sleeves swallowing part of her hands. Her denim jeans rested comfortably on her hips. The gold hoop earrings swayed subtly and the gold necklaces layered across her chest, catching what little light managed to slip through the clouds.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm good,” she said, waving him off. She pulled out her phone, typed something rapidly with both thumbs, then tucked it away. “Got held up by Mrs. Henderson in the hallway. She was asking about my future plans and shit.”

Lauri rolled her eyes, but the movement did not fully hide her irritation. She hated conversations about her future when they arrived disguised as concern. Too many adults looked at her social-media presence and decided it was evidence of emptiness. They saw photographs, outfits, short videos, and follower counts. They never considered that all of it required timing, editing, promotion, networking, and a tolerance for public judgment most grown people did not possess.

“Again?” Cortez asked. “Didn't y'all go through this last year? What you tell her this time?”

Lauri’s expression tightened. Her brown eyes narrowed by a fraction. She reached toward one braid, then tucked a loose strand of black hair behind a gold hoop.

“It's not like I planned to relive this conversation, Cortez,” she snapped. There was no real heat behind it. Only defensive irritation sharpened by repetition. “Mrs. Henderson just... doesn't get it, I guess. She kept going on about 'realistic career paths' and 'stable jobs."

She raised both hands and carved air quotes around the phrases, rolling her eyes again.

“Like, I get where she's coming from, but it's annoying. Just because I post fit pics and funny videos doesn't mean I don't have a plan.”

The wind strengthened and pulled at her sweater. Cortez watched her for a second. He knew Mrs. Henderson. Everybody did. She had been teaching at Kennedy long enough to watch former students become parents of current students. She could be relentless, nosy, and painfully repetitive, but she remembered the name of every child she had ever taught.

“That lady loves you, L. At least somebody cares for your future. She a bit redundant, but she's a real one, I guess.”

A small smirk crept across Cortez’s face before he looked toward the sky again.

“Y'all ready to bail? I'm not trying to get to the crib soak and wet if it pours down.”

Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the buildings. Not close enough to frighten anybody, close enough to make a promise. Kareem glanced upward, studying the darker clouds pushing in from the west.

“Yeah, let's move before it gets nasty. Still got time before it hits though.”

Kareem walked away, leading the charge as they curve the school building to get on the main street.

“What you got planned anyway, fam? Besides avoiding Mrs. Henderson's future planning session part deux,” he called over his shoulder, grinning at Lauri.

Lauri fell into step beside Cortez. Her hands disappeared into the deep pockets of her sweatshirt. The cooler wind brought a small shiver through her body, though whether it came from the temperature or the conversation remained unclear.

“I got a couple shoots lined up this weekend,” she admitted. Away from the school building, her voice softened. “Nothing crazy. Just some streetwear looks for this brand I've been in talks with, and maybe catch up on that new anime everyone's been talking about.” She glanced toward Cortez through her lashes. For a moment, the bravado slipped. “You think Mrs. Henderson's right though? About needing a 'real job' or whatever?”

The question landed harder than her tone suggested. Cortez looked at her, but before he could assemble an answer, Kareem’s voice came from several paces ahead.

“Aye, y'all tryna hit up the gas station on the way. Wanna grab some carbs while I can enjoy them.”

“Yeah, we're right behind you.” Cortez watched Kareem continue up the straight, then returned his attention to Lauri. “You didn't tell me you some shoots set up. With who? Some small time ads?”

Her face brightened as she pulled out her phone and scrolled through a folder of saved posts, screenshots, and messages.

“Yeah, something like that. This brand called, 'StreetKingz', reached out a few weeks ago. They saw my posts and wanted to feature me in their fall collection launch.”

She held the phone toward him. On the screen was a mock-up of Lauri wearing a layered urban outfit: cropped jacket, fitted cargo pants, clean sneakers, gold accessories arranged carefully enough to look effortless.

Beneath the photograph sat the caption:

“Built From Struggle. Worn With Pridel #FallVibes.”

“They're sending me free gear to rock, and they wanna use my content for promotion. Pretty sweet deal, right? Plus, they're paying me for the posts.” Pride lifted her shoulders. “I'm basically their unofficial ambassador now.”

“Unofficial.” Cortez echoed. “That's like being a captain with no ship.”

Lauri looked at him with mocked offense, looking like she wanted to clock him one.

He straightened up as he handed back her phone. “Unofficial or not, lock in and keep it professional. I know you gonna kill it.” He nudged her with his shoulder.

The validation softened her immediately. A wide grin spread across her face, warming the brown of her cheeks as she bumped him back.

“Aww, thanks big bro. You know I got this.”

They quickened their pace and caught up to Kareem as they near the corner where the fumes of the passing traffic had lingered.

“You hear that Kareem, Lauri here coming for that crown as GQ!” Cortez called out with a laugh.

Lauri stopped for half a second and struck a mock pose, planting one hand against her hip while lifting her chin toward an imaginary camera.

“Though I wouldn't mind being on the cover of Vogue first, if we're being specific.”

Kareem looked back over his shoulder, amusement glinting in his dark eyes. “Aye, don't come for me unless you're ready to bring it, princess,” he said, throwing her pet name back at her.

Lauri laughed, all exaggerated confidence and sharpened attitude.

“What? Don't sleep on me, Prince Charming. One day I'll be the one in the magazines, sipping on the finest wine on the waters of Venice while you're busy winning us a championship.”

Kareem shook his head at her performance.

“But for real though, that's dope. Glad to see you getting recognized for your style.”

The warmth in his voice was real. Lauri heard it, to which she smiled genuinely.

The three of them left the school grounds and entered the current of the neighborhood. Traffic crawled along the avenue. Buses groaned at curbs before dragging themselves forward again. Music leaked from passing cars, each vehicle carrying its own soundtrack. Old heads stood under the bus awning, debating basketball as if ESPN had left the final verdict to them. A woman pulled a screaming child by the wrist while pushing a stroller with the other. The wind moved wrappers along the sidewalk in nervous circles. Their destination was the to go gas station, just on the corner in the direction they needed to go to get back to Kingsbridge Terrace. The gas station store windows crowded with advertisements for lottery tickets, energy drinks, cigarettes, and food that looked better in photographs than it ever did beneath heating lamps.

As the trio approached, Cortez noticed a group gathered near the entrance.

A few girls from Kennedy. Loud laughter with their phones out. Fresh sneakers arranged in a loose semicircle around somebody accustomed to standing at the center.

Then he saw the pink hair. Recognition reached him before the face did.

Jennessa Caris.

Ms. Popular. Ms. Prom Queen. Most importantly, his ex-girlfriend.

Jennessa stood near the convenience-store entrance surrounded by her usual clique. She wore a form-fitting white crop top beneath an oversized distressed denim jacket. High-waisted jeans traced her figure before ending above pink Converse. Black hair at the roots, transitioning to pink, moved in the wind as she laughed at something one of her friends had said. Her dark eyes were hidden behind oversized shades, but they found Cortez anyway.

Then her expression shifted.

Casual amusement thinned into something sharper, more deliberate. Her body stilled while the girls around her continued talking. She watched Cortez approach with the patient focus of a cat that had noticed movement in tall grass.

“Well, well...” she murmured. A slow smile curved across her full lips. She tilted her head, studying Cortez with an interest she made no attempt to conceal. The gold-linked chain around her neck flashed beneath the washed-out daylight.

Cortez felt Lauri’s attention sharpen beside him. Kareem noticed the change in both siblings but wisely kept moving.

“Yo, y'all go ahead inside and get what y'all came for. Give me a minute out here.” Cortez requested as they approached the store front.

Kareem headed inside. Lauri followed more slowly, giving Jennessa a long, distrustful look before disappearing inside. The glass door closed behind her, but Cortez knew she would not wander far.

He stopped several feet from Jennessa.

Her friends examined him with open disapproval. Cortez recognized two from school and another from parties Jennessa had once dragged him to. They stood close enough to hear everything and far enough away to pretend they were not listening.

“What do you want, Jenn?” Cortez asked without ceremony. “You don't have anyone else to antagonize and blow up their phone for two months straight?”

Jennessa’s smile remained in place. If anything, his bluntness seemed to entertain her. She stepped closer and tilted her chin upward, meeting him with eyes hidden behind dark lenses.

“Antagonize? Such a strong word, Cortez...” she purred, coating each syllable in honeyed sarcasm. “I prefer to call it 'keeping things interesting.”

“Interesting? More like delulu, if you asked me.”

Cortez looked past her toward the clique. They returned his stare with matching expressions of disgust.

“Listen, whatever you on about, I'm not with it. Prime reason why I avoided you in school all day. I ain't trying to put you on blast, so whatever you on. Keep that to yourself. You know we're done.”

A muscle shifted along Jennessa’s jaw. The rest of her remained composed. She crossed her arms beneath her chest, pushing it upward slightly as she held her ground. Every movement felt rehearsed to appear casual.

“Oh, I know we're done,” she said. Her voice sharpened without rising. “Trust me, I remember the day you so graciously informed me of that fact via text message.”

She crossed the remaining distance and stepped directly into Cortez’s space. Her perfume reached him before her body did—expensive, floral, and familiar enough to drag unwanted memories behind it. Car rides. Dances. Her head against his shoulder. Arguments conducted in whispers so nobody else would know how ugly things had become.

“What's wrong? You couldn't break up with me to my face? You had to hide behind a keyboard?.”

Jennessa stared up at him through her shades, searching for movement in his expression.

A flinch. Regret. Anything she could use.

Cortez scoffed and waved one hand dismissively. “Nice try, but you ain't worth it, Jenn. You not worth the hassle for anything amicable.”

The insult struck.

Jennessa’s mouth tightened as Cortez turned toward the store. The glass door opened before he could reach it and Lauri stepped outside. She planted herself near her brother and gave Jennessa an eyeful of warning. Her stance said what her mouth had not yet bothered to explain: back off.

Jennessa’s attention shifted toward her. Something dark passed across her face. Annoyance came first. Resentment followed. Beneath both sat an injury neither of them had completely buried.

They had been close once. Before the breakup, before accusations and screenshots, before every shared secret became ammunition.

“And here comes my favorite little bodyguard,” Jennessa drawled, venom sliding beneath the words. “Tell me Lauri, do you always insert yourself wherever you're not wanted? Or is that just a special talent reserved for fucking up relationships?”

The hostility did not erase the hurt behind it.

Lauri’s eyes narrowed. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she stepped forward, placing herself between Jennessa and Cortez without hesitation.

“Wow. For someone who claims to be 'over it' on social media, you sure do spend a lot of time bringing up old drama,” she said, her voice low and controlled. “Maybe if you weren't so obsessed with stirring up shit, we wouldn't have to remind you to stay in your lane.”

She crossed her arms. Her twin braids shifted over her shoulders as she held Jennessa’s stare. There was no fear in her expression. Only calculation. A cold warning resting one bad sentence away from violence. “And for the record? I don't give a damn what you think of me. But if you keep disrespecting my brother, we're gonna have problems.”

Cortez exhaled. He placed one arm across Lauri’s path and gently pushed her backward.

“Yo, chill kid, she ain't worth getting your hands dirty over. You already exposed her ass for what she is.”

Lauri’s posture loosened beneath his arm, though the tension never fully left her shoulders. She stepped back and folded her arms tighter. “Whatever,” she muttered.

Jennessa’s gaze returned to Cortez. For one moment, the attitude disappeared. Something vulnerable flickered behind her dark lenses, visible only in the slight downturn of her mouth and the breath she failed to hide, then the mask returned.

“Fine. Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night,” she said, taking a step back and adjusting her denim jacket with deliberate calm. “But you know... I never got to say what I actually wanted to say.”

The words hung between them.

For a fraction of a second, even Lauri said nothing.

Cortez’s expression remained closed.

“Yeah, and you gonna have to save that. I'm not trying to hear none of that.”

The finality in his voice hardened Jennessa’s face. Her jaw clenched visibly. Whatever she had intended to say died behind her teeth and transformed into something colder. Before she could recover, the convenience-store door opened again.

Kareem emerged carrying a plastic bag in one hand and a tray of food in the other. He looked from Cortez to Lauri, then toward Jennessa and her silent clique.

“Yo, Reem, come on, we out!” Cortez commanded as he turned away.

Lauri remained for one additional second, holding Jennessa’s stare long enough to make the threat clear, then followed her brother.

Kareem gave Jennessa one of those, "it is what it is" looks before joining them, the plastic bag crinkling against his leg.

Behind them, Jennessa watched the three retreat off the lot and down the block. She released a slow breath through her nose and rebuilt her expression before turning back toward her friends.

Neutral. Untouched. Unbothered.

The performance fooled nobody who mattered.

“Ayo, what'd I miss?” Kareem asked as he caught up, looking back over his shoulder one final time. His voice held mild confusion, though his eyes suggested he had seen enough through the convenience-store window to understand the general shape of the problem.

Cortez looked toward the paper tray in Kareem’s hand. Grease had already darkened the bottom.

“Really bro?”

Kareem lifted one fry toward his mouth.

“You eating gas station fries?”

“Ayo, these shits are fire!” He bit into one with complete confidence.

Cortez stared at him as though he had witnessed a personal failure.

“Now I really know you're from the Bronx,” he said with fake disappointment.

Lauri finally released the tension on her face with laughter as the three continued toward Kingsbridge Terrace.

[The JZA]

JZA got another classic joint going. This should be good.

You miss 100% of the shots you don't take Glad to have you along Big James

[redsox907]

another kid from the Bronx, lets get it

You already went ND last year - even tho you redshirted - so I'm thinking Oregon. That way you can come back home when you have to redshirt again

[Soapy]

another kid from the Bronx, lets get it

You already went ND last year - even tho you redshirted - so I'm thinking Oregon. That way you can come back home when you have to redshirt again

jza and his legions of biracials

[The JZA]

another kid from the Bronx, lets get it

You already went ND last year - even tho you redshirted - so I'm thinking Oregon. That way you can come back home when you have to redshirt again

I can already see the Jodi 2.0 slander coming from y'all

jza and his legions of biracials

#MixBreedsMatter

[Agent]

Buckeye nation let’s go