Neighborhood.

[Caesar]

Vic about to walk Keshawn down on UCLA campus

[Soapy]

Bring it on home and then head to the league

that might be the play, it's out of my hands now. See my previous response below:

Keshawn going league after this season?

He's certainly playing himself into a potential first round pick.

My plan is to let the game decide and I will write around it.

Vic about to walk Keshawn down on UCLA campus

keshawn aint tell him to knock that girl up lmao actually told him the opposite

[Soapy]

Stay Dangerous - Episode 21
The muted glow of the television flickered across Bronstein’s face, the game film a silent testament to the battle ahead, but it was the numbers in his head that held the real strategy. Keshawn, cocooned in the rhythmic embrace of the Normatec boots compressing around his tired legs, watched his old coach more than the screen.

"Westwood called me this morning,” Bronstein began, turning from the flickering images of their Kansas’ defense. "They’re feeling more generous, boychick. Seven-fifty. Guaranteed. Housing and the works included, of course. You should get an email from them sometime tonight, I know they want to sign all of you guys back by tomorrow.”

Keshawn’s eyebrows twitched. In less than twenty-four hours, the offer had gone up one hundred and fifty grand. It was a staggering sum, a figure that just a few months ago would have seemed like a fever dream. Now, it was a reality, a Docusign that just needed his signature.

He looked at Bronstein, expecting a nod, perhaps a gruff congratulations. Instead, the older man’s lips thinned into a thoughtful line. “You’ll call them back in the morning,” Bronstein said, his gaze unwavering. “You’ll thank them for their very generous offer. And then you’ll tell them, respectfully, that you’ll need some time to consider it after the season.”

Keshawn blinked. “I am?”

Bronstein leaned forward slightly, his eyes, usually hard, holding a glint of something Keshawn had come to recognize as fierce protectiveness, the same look he’d given him before every big game at Hamilton.

"The portal is going crazy right now and as soon as the clock hits zero tomorrow night, we won’t be talking about thousands anymore, it’ll be in the millions. What are they going to do? There ain’t a kid in the portal better than you, I’ll tell you that.”

He gestured vaguely towards the television, now showing a commercial. "Every coach in the country just saw you score thirty points in the tournament. Just the mere thought of you jumping in there is worth millions.”

Keshawn felt the gentle, rhythmic pressure of the boots on his calves. Bronstein was teaching him the language of a world he didn’t understand, their game. He remembered the earlier conversations, Bronstein’s patient explanations of leverage, of market value, of not leaving money on the table. He’d absorbed it all, filing it away, trusting the man who had seen his potential when few others had.

A slow nod was his only reply. He didn’t need to voice the questions. Bronstein had already answered them. The trust between them was an unspoken contract, forged in countless hours in the gym, in shared victories and quiet counsel.

“Good,” Bronstein said, a rare, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. “Let them sweat a little. Let them watch you tomorrow. Then we talk. Then we set your price.” He stood, stretching his back. “Worst case scenario, you’re playing NBA basketball in a few months. Doesn’t sound too bad to me.”

…

A few doors down, the atmosphere was decidedly less strategic and significantly more… spirited. Stefan lounged on the king-sized bed, one arm behind his head, the other scrolling idly through his phone. The door clicked open and Andrea breezed in, a brown paper bag clutched in her hand, its contents audibly clinking.

“They’re taxing like crazy out here,” she announced, dropping the bag onto the small desk with a thud.

Stefan glanced up, a smile spreading across his face. "You got everything?”

“Only the best,” she teased, pulling out a bottle of tequila and two smaller bottles of high-end orange liqueur. “Though, for real, the prices out here are crazy.”

“Fuck it, only time motherfuckers come around this way so they’re trying to hit a lick,” Stefan grunted, pushing himself up. “Yo, keep it low-key on the ‘Gram, though, aight? Coaches be snooping and shit.”

Andrea, already unscrewing the cap of the tequila, paused. “This was your idea, Stef. We could just chill, you know, you kind of have a big day tomorrow.”

Stefan snorted, a dismissive wave of his hand. “Cuh, please. It ain’t like I’m gonna be out there playing for real. It’s all about Keshawn and Kob, anyway. We just here for the vibes and the free trip at this point.”

…

Back in the dimly lit Crenshaw apartment, the air thick with the smell of stale weed and takeout, Fat Stacks was engaged in his own pre-game ritual. No Normatec boots or game film for him. His uniform was a triple XL red shirt to hang just right over the baggy denim, the kind what whispered of his affiliation without shouting it. He ran a thick gold chain, heavy with a diamond-encrusted ankh, through his fingers, the cold metal a familiar comfort.

Alright, let’s see, he thought, his mind a whirring calculator. Everything around Dorsey should still be solid with a full count expected. Another five out to the valley boys, easy money. Gotta re-up on the blues, though, if the bulk of our customers were going to be outside The Jungle for the foreseeable future.

He strapped the bulletproof vest on next, the Velcro ripping loud in the quiet room. It was a newer model, lighter, but still a constant, suffocating reminder of the stakes and his new partnership with the Woods, who slid him a couple at no cost on account of their budding relationship. Over it, a Nike tech fit, the hood pulled low even indoors, a habit born of necessity. He checked the Glock 19, tucked securely in the waistband at the small of his back, the extended clip a reassuring bulge.

He glanced around the cramped living room, his home for the past few weeks. Satisfied, he moved towards the door, pausing at the entrance to the bedroom. The faint light from the hallway spilled onto the bed, illuminating the tangled limbs of Charlene and little Malcolm. She stirred in her sleep, one arm flung above her head, the thin strap of her tank top slipping off her shoulder, the sheet pooling around her waist, revealing the curve of her hip and the smooth skin of her back. Stacks felt a familiar tightening in his chest, a reminder of why he'd crossed that line, why he’d let things get this far. The kid, Malcolm, snuffled softly, burrowed against his mother’s side, oblivious.

A wave of something akin to guilt, sharp and unwelcome, pricked at him. Trey. His best friend. Locked down, counting days, while he was out here, living in his spot, sleeping next to his woman. But the guilt was quickly smothered by a thicker, more pragmatic thought. They safer with me anyway, he reasoned, the familiar justification already formed. Way she was moving after Trey got snatched up… better me than some random nigga off the street. At least I got they back.

He grunted, shaking his head as if to physically dislodge the uncomfortable thoughts. No time for that soft shit now. The streets were calling, and Dro wasn’t going to just roll over. He had product to move, corners to hold. He pulled the door gently, not quite closing it, the soft sounds of their breathing a faint echo as he stepped back into the living room. One last check – phone, keys, burner. He stepped out into the cool Los Angeles night, the distant wail of a siren his nightly soundtrack, the city lights a deceptive twinkle against the dark canvas of his reality.

[Caesar]

Stefan a D1 crash out (as Gen Alpha would say)

[Soapy]

Stefan a D1 crash out (as Gen Alpha would say)

gotta respect his culture, bro

[Soapy]

Stay Dangerous - Episode 22 (Season Finale)
Angela’s hair wasn’t in its natural state and for the first time in a while, she preferred it that way. It wasn’t just the twists. Paige had vacuumed every inch of her old self out the window, then stitched in rows of tiny gold cuffs, each one catching the light like a spotlight begged for her alone. She wore the lashes, the highlight, the honeyed gloss.

The DJ hollered, “If you a Trini, make some noise!” and a whole crew of Caribbean students lost their minds with canned airhorns.

Paige elbowed her in the ribs. “You’re going to stand there like an old lady or we getting lit tonight?”

Angela’s eyes circled the faces she recognized in the crowd: Candice, who was cackling into a red Solo; Theo, surrounded by two girls and a vape plume; and then, up the slight incline by the brick steps, Ronnie with his back turned, engaged in a conversation with his usual crew.

“We can turn up,” Angela said. “But I’m getting a drink first. This is…a lot.”

Ronnie noticed her before she’d even made it to the cooler, pausing in mid-laugh, then reeling it back before his friends could call it out. His eyes returned, subtle but sharp, every few seconds as he tracked her path through the yard. Angela ignored it, fixing herself a half-cup of rum punch—she’d never trusted Howard boys with an open bottle—and scouted for Paige, who already had her tongue down some Bajan’s throat on the steps.

Ronnie drifted over cool, hands buried in his jean pocket. “Angie, Angie, Angie,” he said, pitched just for her. "You ain’t tell me you was popping out.”

Angela scoffed, "Boy, please. When the last time we spoke? You’re too busy with your Greek friends these days.”

"Come on, now, can’t let a couple letters get in between us Cali folks. We got to stick together, now.”

She shrugged and sipped, exaggerated, but the heat rising in her cheeks wasn’t just the Wray and Nephew.

He laughed, then tipped his chin towards the dance floor. “A dance between old friends then?”

For a heartbeat, she almost said no, recognizing the potentially dangerous mix of liquor and nostalgia but Paige caught her eye from a distance and did the 'yes bitch' face so hard that Angela had to go along if only to avoid the after-action report.

…

The roar of the crowd was a physical force, pressing in on Keshawn as he wiped his sweaty palms on his shorts. Eight seconds. Down by two. Coach Cronin’s voice, gravelly and intense, still echoed in his ears from the timeout. “Keshawn, you and Kobe, high pick and roll. They’ll expect Kobe to pop, but you look for the lane. If it’s there, you fucking attack that rim, alright?!”

He only had eight points, a quiet night overshadowed by the deafening pressure of the championship. He nodded, a tight, jerky movement, trying to project a confidence he didn’t fully possess. The whistle blew.

Keshawn dribbled, the familiar weight of the ball a small comfort as he eyed Kansas’ defense. They packed the paint, anticipating, their eyes burning holes in him. He called for the screen. Kobe came, a solid wall, and Keshawn used him, driving left. But the Kansas big man fought over it seamlessly, cutting off his path to the basket. Kobe rolled towards the basket, but his defender stuck to him like glue, denying the pass.

Panic, cold and sharp, pricked at Keshawn. The clock flashed: 0:03… 0:02…

He saw a flash of movement, a jersey. Desperate, he threw the ball, just trying to get it to someone, anyone to take that last shot.

Lyle Harris, whose jersey still looked stiff with creases, was wide open in the deep corner—right where Coach Cronin had hidden him. Lyle hadn’t hit a shot all night and was only out there to provide spacing in an effort to clear the paint, which it didn’t. But in that final half-beat, Keshawn’s pass found Lyle’s hands—maybe not even so much a pass as an exorcism, ball leaving him in a sudden hush, the way you might chuck a grenade with the pin recently removed.

He caught, rose, released in a quick twist of muscle memory and fear. Keshawn didn’t watch. He just heard the clang, then a hush, then a weeping thunder as the ball spat itself through the net, pure. Buzzer blared. For a flicker, the whole arena seemed to stumble on its own disbelief, Lyle frozen in the corner, Keshawn with both feet pancaked to the top of the key, arms still raised in the aftermath of the pass.

…

By the time the last song faded, Angela’s voice was shredded from yelling over the bass, singing along to songs she had never heard of before that night. Her knees ached, but it felt good in the way childhood injuries used to: proof of living hard, not collapsing.

Neither of them wanted the night to end, so they sat cross-legged on Paige’s unmade twin bed, eating the remains of cold fried plantain out a waxed cardboard box and picking the glitter out of each other’s collarbones.

“You was all up on that nigga,” Paige accused, grinning.

Angela swatted the air, then muttered, “You’re the one that told me to dance with him.”

“I ain’t tell you to do all that,” Paige teased, "Y’all was practically fucking out there.”

Angela laughed and fell back on the bed, staring up at the yellowed tile. "Just some innocent dancing between friends. He knows what the deal is with me.”

“It didn’t look like dancing with me,” Paige said, voice climbing an octave. “I know that pussy throbbing right now.”

Angela covered her face in embarrassment.

"If I wasn’t here right now, you’d probably have your Rose out and everything,” Paige continued.

"Oh my god, please stop talking,” Angela shook her head, "But you ain’t lying.”

Paige leaned in and kissed Angela, soft, only a breath between lips at first, then firmer, open-mouthed and insistent. Angela laughed into it, but didn’t pull away, letting the thrill of it bloom in her chest. When Paige stopped she left her forehead pressed close, sharing the same inhale.

“It’s not cheating if it’s with a girl,” Paige whispered.

Angela giggled and pulled away at first before pausing and then she leaned in, tugging Paige down for another.

…

They sat on the edge of the bed, shoes never removed, smoke coiling lazily from a bitten-down Black and Mild. Debra traced the faded linoleum patterns with her toe, a hunk of dope warming itself on the tip of a spoon whose origin neither could remember. Quincy was already half gone, eyes jumpy, talking in endless, meandering loops. Debra nodded at each, waiting for the high to peel back something inside her head, waiting for the itch to go quiet.

He was telling Debra about their take from last night when the front door shuddered. Not a knock, a quake, like an animal or an angry landlord. Quincy shot up, awareness slicing through his fog.

They heard the second slam, all thunder and boots, then the door whined open and the sweep of bright light cut across the carpet. Quincy grabbed Debra by the forearm, dragging her to their feet. Johnny had finally got the drop on them, Quincy thought to himself, as he tried to come up with an exit plan

There was no time, just the whine of a screen door ripped from its hinges, and shouts stripping away any hope of it being some pestering kids. Through the crack in the bedroom, Debra watched as a cluster of shadowed men poured into the living room.

"Where Fat Stacks at?" Rommel's voice cut through the room like a blade, directed at the two fiends that were in the living room, a skeletal man with scabbed arms and a hollow-eyed woman in a stained tank top. They froze mid-hit, the pipe still glowing between them.

The male fiend twitched, his pipe clattering to the floor. "Who?"

Rommel stepped closer, towering over the seated man. "Don't play stupid with me. This his spot, ain't it?"

"Nah, man," the woman stammered, her voice thin and reedy. "This Debra's crib. We just..." She gestured vaguely at the paraphernalia scattered across the coffee table.

Rommel's face tightened.

From their hiding spot, Debra's nails dug into Quincy's arm. He could feel her trembling against him, her breath coming in shallow gasps. He pressed a finger to his lips, willing her to stay quiet.

Rommel paced the small living room, kicking aside a pizza box. "Ain’t no fucking way," he muttered, “Let’s fucking bounce, Stacks ain’t in this piece of shit. These motherfuckers just getting high in her.”

The male fiend, perhaps sensing the immediate danger passing, began to rock slightly, his eyes darting between the intruders. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the room's chill.

"Y'all can't just bust in here," he suddenly blurted, his voice cracking. "This some bullshit!"

"Shut the fuck up," Rommel warned, his hand drifting toward his waistband.

But something had snapped in the fiend. Maybe it was the drugs, maybe the fear, maybe both. He lurched to his feet with a strangled cry and lunged at the closest of Rommel's men.

The gunshot was deafening in the small space. The fiend crumpled mid-lunge, a dark stain blooming across his chest. The woman screamed, a high-pitched wail that seemed to shatter the air itself. She scrambled backward on the couch, arms raised in front of her face.

"Fuck!" Rommel spat, his eyes darting to the man who'd fired. "What the fuck, man?"

"He came at me!" the shooter defended, gun still raised, his eyes wide with adrenaline.

Rommel's face hardened as he surveyed the scene—the dead fiend sprawled on the dirty carpet, the hysterical woman, the cramped house suddenly feeling like a trap. His decision came quickly, cold and pragmatic.

"Clean it up," he ordered, voice flat.

In the bedroom, Quincy's blood turned to ice. He grabbed Debra's shoulders, forcing her to look at him instead of the horror unfolding beyond the door crack. Her eyes were huge, pupils dilated with terror.

"We got to get out," he mouthed, pointing to the small, grimy pane on the far wall. "Like right now, D.”

Another gunshot cracked through the apartment—the woman's screams abruptly silenced. Debra's knees buckled, but Quincy held her upright, half-dragging her to the window. His fingers fumbled with the rusty latch, panic making him clumsy.

The window finally gave with a protesting squeal. Quincy shoved it open, cool night air rushing in. He boosted Debra through first, her thin frame easily slipping through the narrow opening. She landed with a soft thud in the dirt below.

Quincy was halfway through when Debra suddenly froze, her face contorting.

"The money," she whispered, voice barely audible. "Under the mattress."

"Leave it!" Quincy hissed, but Debra was already turning back toward the house, desperation overriding fear. In her addled mind, that money—which they had slowly accrued through their unconventional business—was the only lifeline they had.

Quincy's fingers caught empty air as she darted back through the window. He dropped to the ground outside, torn between following her and saving himself. The bedroom door crashed open just as Debra reached the bed.

Rommel's silhouette filled the doorway. "The fuck—"

The gunshot was deafening. Debra's body jerked, then crumpled to the floor like a marionette with cut strings. A soft, surprised gasp escaped her lips as she fell.

Quincy bit down on his fist to keep from crying out. Through the window, he could see Debra's lifeless eyes staring at nothing, a dark pool spreading beneath her on the stained carpet. Rommel stepped toward the window, gun still raised.

Quincy ran.

His feet pounded the dirt, lungs burning, the sound of shouting fading behind him as he cut through a neighbor's yard and vaulted a chain-link fence. He ran until his legs threatened to give out, until the night swallowed him whole, until Debra's vacant stare was the only thing he could see when he closed his eyes.

[Soapy]

2025 National Championship Game: April 7th, 2025 - Alamodome, San Antonio, Texas
(22-11) #9 Kansas Blue Jays vs. #1 UCLA Bruins (33-7)

---

KU | 43 | 42 | 85
UCLA | 41 | 45 | 86

Starting Lineups
(Sr) Dajuan Harris - G - Dylan Andrews (So)
(Jr) A.J. Storr - G - Lazar Stefanovic (So)
(Sr) Zeke Mayo - F - Kobe Johnson (Sr)
(Sr) K.J. Adams - F - Eric Dailey Jr. (So)
(Sr) Hunter Dickinson - C - Tyler Bilodeau (Jr)



G Dajuan Harris, Senior: 10 pts, 4 ast, 2-3 FG, 1-1 3PT, 5-6 FT
G Zeke Mayo, Senior: 16 pts, 3 reb, 2 stl, 5-11 FG, 5-5 FT
C Hunter Dickinson, Senior: 23 pts, 5 reb, 2 blk, 8-12 FG, 7-9 FT

G Dylan Andrews, Sophomore: 20 pts, 2 reb, 2 ast, 8-16 FG, 4-9 3PT
G Lauzar Stefanovic, Senior: 10 pts, 3 reb, 6 ast, 3-5 FG, 4-6 FT
F Kobe Johnson, Senior: 4 pts, 5 reb, 3 ast, 2-3 FG
F Eric Dailey Jr, Sophomore: 9 pts, 3 reb, 3-5 FG, 1-1 3PT, 2-2 FT
F Tyler Bilodeau, Junior: 17 pts, 5 reb, 5 ast, 7-10 FG, 3-3 FT
F Keshawn Chase, Freshman: 8 pts, 3 reb, 3 ast, blk, 3-8 FG, 2-5 3PT
G Stefan Parker, Sophomore: 4 pts, reb, ast, 1-2 FG, 2-2 FT

Season Stats 16.0 PPG, 5.6 RPG, 4.3 APG, 1.9 SPG, 0.8 BPG, 1.8 TOPG, 2.3 FPG, 51 FG%, 45 3PT%, 77 FT%
Accolades Freshman All-American, Pac-12 Freshman of the Year, Freshman All-Conference

[Caesar]

Image F Keshawn Chase, Freshman: 8 pts, 3 reb, 3 ast, blk, 3-8 FG, 2-5 3PT

Keshawn came real close to having this image in his nightmares

[chosenone58]

3 of 8 shooting? 8 points??

[Soapy]

Image F Keshawn Chase, Freshman: 8 pts, 3 reb, 3 ast, blk, 3-8 FG, 2-5 3PT

Keshawn came real close to having this image in his nightmares

3 of 8 shooting? 8 points??

They had a 7 footer in the paint