We need to see what Mireya looks like although it is Montgomery lmao
hopefully Tommy keeps a pistol.
American Sun
American Sun
She just trying to survive and learn how to adult all at the same time with little support, bruddaCaptain Canada wrote: ↑06 Oct 2025, 11:53Mireya's motivations are weird and I don't think I'm quite grasping it. Like, pick a struggle. Don't pick them all.
And we wonder why she does what she does, huh?!
I been meaning to do the character bios. I got ya soon.
Keeps a pistol for what? I mean, he's military, of course he got the toolie, but you think they got bears in them South Georgia pines?
American Sun
The Lord Will Abandon You in Mysterious Ways
Cold air rolled over the back of Caine’s neck while the projector threw a rectangle across the whiteboard. Aplin held the clicker loose. Fatu had the laptop open, one hand on the trackpad. Mizell leaned on the marker tray, quiet and watching.
Caine sat second row. Weston took the middle seat up front like he owned it. Tyler tried to stop his heel from jittering. Turner cracked his knuckles once and folded his hands. Dillon and Terrell lined their packets flush with the desk edge.
“First one,” Fatu said. “Empty. Motion to quads.”
The clip froze on the motion man crossing the formation. The boundary safety cheated down like he had a secret.
“Mint front,” Caine said. “Boundary creeper hiding. If they roll the weak safety late, I check draw into the bubble. If the end peels, I take it myself.”
Weston shook his head. “We got quick out tagged. Ball’s supposed to spit.”
“It spits into a trap corner,” Caine said. He nodded at the boundary corner squatting with outside eye inside the slot. “He’s sitting on that. Second and three is good money.”
Aplin let it run. The pressure walked. The out died on the catch. Tackle. Second and long.
Nobody said anything. The AC hummed like it had something to hide.
“Next,” Aplin said.
They rolled to a condensed bunch set on the left. Field hash. The mike shaded weak. The nickel pointed at the point man like he wanted a piece.
“Cover six,” Caine said. “Quarter, quarter, half. Sell the run. Switch release the point and the inside. I want a wheel off the switch. If the half-field safety turns his hips, I throw the wheel. If he sinks, I take the under.”
Weston scratched at a strip of tape on his wrist. “The sheet’s got a corner route there. We hit the corner against half.”
“And run him into the safety who’s already sitting there,” Caine said. “The wheel makes him make the choice. He wrong either way.”
Mizell scraped the marker along the board without writing. Fatu ran the clip. French’s ball went to the corner. The safety folded over the top and erased it.
“Third and seven,” Fatu said, flipping to it.
Trips right. Back offset weak. The defense mugged with both backers and bluffed like they had more.
“Creepers again,” Caine said. “They bringing four, making it look like six. Lock the edge. Set half slide to the field. If the nickel comes, the back scans inside out. We run Hank with a pivot from two. If the hook defender walls, hit the pivot. If he turns and carries, stick the sit.”
“Y’all love that little sit,” Weston said. “This ain’t seven-on-seven.”
“It’s a hole in grass,” Caine said.
Aplin kept the clicker in his hand and didn’t press it. The room leaned.
Weston shifted in his chair. “Five yards’ not getting you a first down on third and seven.”
“It does if the flat defender widens and the hook bails,” Caine said. “We run the pivot to turn his hips. If he doesn’t turn, glance backside. But I ain’t throwing something that’s covered because you say I’m supposed to.”
Fatu hit play. The rush came from one side and dropped from the other. The quarterback in the clip threw hot at a body and it clanged short.
“Red zone,” Aplin said. New clip. Tight doubles. The back stacked behind the tackle.
“Tampa two look,” Caine said. “Mike runner. He turns and runs the pole. Tag a pop off play-action. If the mike sits, throw it on his ear. If he runs, snap to the glance behind him.”
Weston breathed out hard through his nose. “We repped a stick concept here all spring.”
“Where the cloud corner’s baiting,” Caine said.
Tyler’s heel finally went still. Turner whispered something to himself that might’ve been a cadence without sound. Dillon and Terrell kept their eyes on the screen and their faces still.
Fatu moved on. First and ten. Pistol. The boundary safety walked down late like he was sneaking out of class.
“Bash,” Caine said. “Back away. Guard and tackle coming back to kick and wrap. If the safety crashes, pull and hit the glance behind his head. If the backside end sits, hand it off and we’re on the safety one-on-one in the alley. Corner’s soft with flat toes. That’s us.”
Weston turned half around now, voice cooling in a way that didn’t cool anything. “You keep talking about pulling and glancing. The call is the call.”
“Ain’t we supposed to be reading the defense?” Caine said. “I ain’t trying to keep the trainers busy with hospital balls, my boy.”
Weston lifted his chin. “You weren’t here last year. You don’t know how we do things.”
Caine looked over his shoulder at him, not all the way. “Take some of that bass out your voice,” he said. Quiet. Heavy. “You don’t know me like that, potna.”
The room tightened. Mizell’s marker clicked once and stayed capped. Aplin watched the screen like it might blink first.
Weston squared up in his chair. “I know this isn’t some video game stuff. Running the offense how it’s supposed to be run is how you win games.”
“Sounds like you can’t read defenses,” Caine said. “If the fucking linebacker sees you staring down your first read, you supposed to throw that?”
“That’s not what I said,” Weston said.
“Sounds like it to me,” Caine said. “Got Jameis Winston over here looking at the defense, eyes squinted.”
They held there. The projector hummed. Cold air moved across the carpet and came back around their shins. Tyler stared at the whiteboard like the letters could change. Turner’s fingers pressed into his packet. Dillon and Terrell kept quiet the way smart people do when fire meets dry grass.
Fatu’s thumb floated over the space bar. He didn’t use it.
Aplin finally clicked. New cut-up. Second and long. Trips into the boundary now, a choice they rarely favored. The field corner hovered like a kite with a short string.
“Motion to stack,” Caine said. “Slot fade with an inside rub. If the nickel tries to collision, throw the fade on the line. If he overplays, bang the under. If they spin late and the half safety jumps the fade, reset and hit the rail to the back.”
Weston opened his mouth, closed it, and rubbed the tape off his wrist in one long peel. The clip ran. Last year’s ball died in the dirt at the sticks. The fade would’ve walked.
Aplin set the clicker down. “Be back here tomorrow at 8,” he said.
Chairs scraped. Paper slid. Weston stood first. He stacked his packet clean and didn’t look at anybody while also looking at everybody. He headed for the door.
Caine waited a breath, then stood and slid his pen into the wire of the spiral. Dillon raised his eyebrows. Terrell kept moving slow, deliberate. Tyler blew out his cheeks. Turner flexed his fingers and let them go loose.
The coaches had let the heat live between them and then waved it forward. That set where the line was gonna be drawn when they walked out the door.
The lot sat empty except for the sodium light buzzing over a busted cart and a grease stain that never dried. E.J. eased the gear into park and cut the engine. The fan coasted down and the quiet came in with the heat. Tessa’s street sat one block over, roofs low against the sky, porch lights throwing soft circles on cracked concrete. A whiff of fryer oil drifted from the daiquiri shop at the corner and got stuck in the car with them.
E.J. turned toward her, one hand braced on the console. “C’mere.”
She put her fingers to his mouth and shook her head. He sat back, hand falling to his thigh. He drummed two knuckles once, then stopped.
“What’s wrong?”
Tessa pulled at the edge of her seat belt. She let a long breath out. “I need to tell you something, but don’t overreact.”
He leaned his head against the headrest and stared up at the felt ceiling. “What is it? You still thinking about going live in podunk ass Mississippi?”
She gave him a look. “No.”
He waited. The light threw a tired yellow across her cheekbones. Her hair curled where the humidity had got it. She looked at the dashboard. A mosquito ticked the window and slid down.
“Brent moved back to New Orleans,” she said. “Got a new job.”
His head came off the rest. “Brent,” he said, and then his mouth tilted. “That goofy ass motherfucker your mama used to foster?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
E.J. laughed once, not mean. “You thought I’d overreact to that? Man, please.” He flicked two fingers. “Why would I care about Brent?”
She rolled her eyes and hit his shoulder with three taps, not hard. “You know he was really into me.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, you fuckin’ fine. I’d be trying to get into you too if I lived at your house, trying to get peeks of you coming out the shower and shit.”
“E.J.” She smacked him again, a little harder. The play dropped out of her face. “I just wanted to let you know in case he comes around, because… well.” She swallowed. “He’s a cop.”
The word sat between them. The car ticked as the metal cooled. Somewhere a dog barked and then stopped.
“NOPD,” she added. “Night shift for now.”
E.J. kept his eyes on her. He didn’t blink fast. “I ain’t done nothing to be worried about cops.”
Tessa didn’t say anything. She watched him the way you watch a stove you aren’t sure you turned off. He could feel her looking for edges in his answer.
He leaned across the console until they were close enough to share breath. “Even if I did,” he said, quieter now, “only you would know.”
Her jaw worked once. He smelled her shampoo and the little sting of Tide that lived in her hoodie from the house. Sweat gathered at his hairline and went nowhere.
“You wouldn’t sell me out, though, right?” His voice shaved down to something soft. “You my ride or die.”
She held his eyes. A beat passed, then she nodded. “I’m not selling you out,” she said, and then she lifted a hand to his chest. “But still don’t do shit.”
“I promise.”
He said it without smiling. His hand slid to the side of her neck, thumb light, and the car’s old seat creaked. Then he closed the last inch and kissed her.
The park looked trimmed and quiet in a way that made Mireya’s shoulders rise. The grass was short like someone measured it. The trash cans sat in pairs, clean lids shining even with the afternoon dust. A rubber track looped around a small pond where a skinny fountain kept stitching the same little thread of water back into itself. Sneakers whispered on the lanes, steady and soft. Voices stayed low. Nobody argued with anybody. No bass pushed from a passing car. No smell of Bourbon Street wafting on the wind.
Camila had a football—half flat, the leather tired—palmed against her chest. She’d found it under Caine’s couch. She tossed it up crooked and clapped at it, missed, chased, reset. The ball’s thud was small on this grass. At home, sound bounced. Here it got swallowed.
Mireya sat on a bench that left a splinter in the back of her thigh the second she shifted wrong. She tucked her hands between her knees and leaned into the posture kids had when they waited for a bell that wasn’t coming. Her hoodie stuck to her neck where the sweat couldn’t find air. She watched the track. Two old white women moved in step, the same visor, the same careful arms. A golden retriever floated along beside them, tongue out.
She let her gaze drift to the pond and then past it to the pine line and the brick roofs of the university beyond. It was the first time she’d seen the place he’d chosen over the city that raised them both, the first time she’d felt the way quiet could stand up and put its hands on you. Could she have lived here when he asked her to come? Could she have taught herself to be ok with a place that went to bed early and woke up early and never smelled like fry oil or wet concret?. She pictured years in a town like this, then another, and another after that, each one with a different park and the same quiet, each one farther from what her body knew as home.
Camila squealed when the ball found her palms and clutched it like it might try to run away. She bounced on her toes. One curl stuck to her forehead. She looked around like she was checking for witnesses to her catch and found only the track’s rhythm, the fountain, the hum from the far buildings that didn’t belong to them.
She launched the ball again and it nicked her shoulder and wobbled down to the bench leg. She chased it, tripped over her own feet, recovered with a proud little “ha,” and brought it back hugged tight.
Mireya smiled. The quiet pressed into the smile and made it small. She worked her hands deeper between her knees until her fingers warmed and her back curved. She could feel the park not looking at her. Not hostile. Not welcoming.
Camila ran over and leaned her whole weight into Mireya’s legs, the way toddlers did, face right there, breath warm with the sweet-sour of juice from earlier. “When’s Daddy coming back?”
“Soon,” Mireya said. “He went to play football.”
Camila nodded, serious. “Can I go like at home?”
“Not today,” Mireya said. “We’ll come back when he’s got a game.”
“Yay!” Camila jumped twice, the ball thumping her belly when it bounced between her hands. She spun once like the ground was a dance floor just for her and then stopped to check that Mireya had seen.
“I saw, mamas,” Mireya said. “You’re gonna have to show daddy.”
Camila’s grin went wider. She tossed the ball again, smaller this time, and caught it like the catch had always lived in her hands. The fountain hissed. A cart from somewhere on the far side of the trees rattled for a second and went away. A whistle peeped once and didn’t come back. The day sat still on top of them.
Mireya looked at the track again and felt that old itch that came when people were comfortable in a place that would never be comfortable with her. It wasn’t the kind of itch you scratched. It was the kind you swallowed and learned to breathe around. She pictured the Quarter, the sound of the locals, the way every block told on itself with smell. Beignets that weren’t sweet anymore because the oil needed changing. Water dumped from a stoop that ran into the gutter and made a sky stripe in the sun. Diesel pulling off the river.
She shifted again and the bench reminded her about the splinter. She made herself still. “You like it here?” she asked.
Camila put her finger on her chin like she did when a question deserved a ceremony. She looked at the pond. She looked at the trees. She looked back at Mireya with a face that meant she’d made a ruling. “They got boats?”
Mireya shook her head. “No boats here.”
Camila’s mouth turned down and she shook her head to match. “I don’t like it then.”
“Yeah,” Mireya said, heat catching under her tongue that wasn’t about the day. “No Mississippi out here.”
Camila dropped the ball gently and climbed into Mireya’s lap. The weight of her made sense in a way nothing else here did. She tucked her head under Mireya’s chin and found the spot she always did. The fabric between them wrinkled and warmed. Mireya wrapped an arm around her and let the other hand smooth a curl flat, which sprung right back up.
On the track the two women crossed in front of them again, still talking low, still looking straight ahead. The dog glanced over and wagged once and then kept the pace. A breeze slid through and left nothing on the air. No crawfish boil. No river breath. Not even the smell of puke from a puddle outside a club. It felt clean and wrong at the same time.
Camila traced the seam of Mireya’s hoodie with a fingertip, up and down, up and down, like she was practicing writing without letters. Her breathing slowed. The ball rolled and stopped against Mireya’s shoe.
“Mi amor,” Mireya said, and waited for Camila to tilt her face up. “¿Tienes hambre?”
Camila shook her head and kept tracing. Her eyes drifted back to the track and then to the pond. The fountain kept pretending its noise mattered.
Mireya kissed the part of Camila’s hair. The park kept being itself. She let her hands rest where they were and watched the two old women for one more half lap. The women stepped together like they’d been stepping together for years, talk light, bodies sure, the world making room.
Mireya nodded toward them and then down at her daughter. “I don’t like it either, baby.”
The meeting room smelled like dry erase and burnt coffee. A long table ate most of the space. Play-call sheets, two laptops, a stack of self-scout printouts, and a busted stress ball sat scattered like lost equipment after a scrimmage. The AC thumped on and pushed a tired breath through the vents.
Brandon Bailey stood with a marker in his fist and a frown set in. He tapped the board near a depth chart where a name was circled twice. “Emmett came back fat,” he said. “I’m not dressing it up. He’s soft around the middle and the scale says what the mirror says.”
Alex Garwig leaned forward in his chair, elbows to knees. “That’s because he keeps going to Savannah and eating like it’s free.”
Anthony Beck spun a pen between his fingers. “It is free,” he said. “He’s got that girlfriend out there. Man tried to get us to put her in an apartment here. Said it’d help him ‘lock in.’”
A couple of small laughs ran down the table. Bailey didn’t laugh. He circled the name again. “He can lock in here. He’s our inside backer. If he’s heavy, our run fits get ugly. Maybe if that girl breaks up with him, he’ll get depressed and stop eating.”
Ryan Aplin had a sleeve rolled and a coffee going cold. He didn’t look up from the self-scout. “Just get him in shape,” he said. “We’ve got a month before camp. I’m not starting fall with our mike looking like he’s switching to nose.”
Garwig clicked his tongue. “I’ll lock him in the weight room if I have to.” He held up his hands. “Kidding. Mostly.”
Beck shrugged. “I’ll make him run the kickoff lane rules until he forgets that girl’s name.”
Bailey set the marker down, then picked it back up. “Nutrition had a plan. He had one job and it wasn’t the buffet.”
The vent droned. Zach Langford flipped a page in a binder that had fingerprints of turf rubber ground into the cover. Aplin scratched a note, then leaned back.
Kaleo Fatu slid his laptop a little to the side. “What’re you thinking about the quarterbacks?”
Aplin’s thumb traced the rim of his cup. “Weston probably expects to start.”
Zak Mizell huffed a small laugh without smiling. “Being a five-star’ll do that to you.”
“I’m not attached to any of them,” Fatu said. He didn’t say it like a challenge. He said it the way you say the truth before it gets dressed up.
Mizell nodded toward the board where install headings from spring had ghosted through the last wipe. “Turner and Tyler were here last year, too.”
Langford let his chair creak. “There’s a reason we went out and got three quarterbacks, ain’t there?” He kept his eyes on the binder but the line carried.
Bailey capped the marker with a decisive click. “I don’t care who plays as long as he doesn’t make my guys stay on the field for thirty snaps a quarter.”
Fatu scratched his jaw. “Guerra’s been putting in a lot of work on his own.” He didn’t dress that up either. “I see him in there when nobody’s around.”
“Yeah,” Aplin said, and now he looked up. “Kid ain’t got nothing to lose. That’s why I wanted him here.”
Fatu nodded once. He had the film window paused on his desktop, a still of a pocket right before it became a mess. He clicked it shut. “Weston expects it,” he said, circling back. “Doesn’t mean he’s got it.”
The AC cycled off. The room went still for a beat that felt longer than it was. Papers rustled. Someone’s chair squeaked and didn’t stop until its owner shifted again.
Aplin broke the little silence. He closed the self-scout and stacked it on top of the coffee. He looked down the table to where Taylor Reed had been flipping through a rehab list with a highlighter.
“Taylor,” Aplin said. “David rehabbing that knee?”
The cheap kitchen light hummed over Caine’s table, a thin circle of brightness on the wood where crayon shavings gathered like confetti. Camila stood pressed to his side, one hand bracing the edge, the other working a dull red crayon across printer paper. The lines bled past a lopsided house and a stick figure with hair that shot out like fireworks. Caine watched her hand move, palm steadying the paper when it tried to slip.
Mireya sat across from them with her arms folded under the table. The chair creaked when she leaned forward. She didn’t say anything for a long stretch. Statesboro quiet had a way of settling in, heavy and dry. It made every scrape of crayon sound loud. The fridge coughed. Somewhere in the building a door closed and the echo ran down the cinder block hallway.
“Ma,” Camila said, looking up, “can you sit closer?”
Mireya pushed back from her chair. “I’m giving you space to draw, baby.”
“Nuh-uh. Sit there.” Camila’s small fingers wrapped the back of the chair beside Caine and dragged it an inch off the tile. The legs squealed. She set it so it touched his chair, a tight seam.
Caine’s mouth tugged at the corner. “Bossy,” he murmured, not taking his hand off the paper.
Mireya stood and moved around the table. She lowered herself into the chair Camila had shoved against his. As soon as she landed, Camila scrambled up, knees bumping the table, then plopped across Mireya’s lap and onto the edge of Caine’s, like she didn’t believe chairs needed borders. Her little feet swung and knocked against Caine’s shin.
“Careful,” Caine said soft. He tucked the paper closer and slid the crayons within reach. Camila stretched, grabbed the blue, and started adding a wide sky over her red lines.
Mireya looked at Caine. “Nos vamos mañana,” she said, voice low. “Tengo que volver al trabajo.”
Caine nodded once. “Yeah, I figured.”
“I don’t like it here,” she said. Her eyes tracked the blank wall above the sink, then the stack of dollar-store bowls Caine had rinsed and left upside down to dry. Her jaw worked.
He didn’t answer. Camila hummed under her breath, deep in her sky, tongue caught between her teeth. The hum filled the space that might’ve been a fight in New Orleans and wasn’t here. The building gave another hollow clunk as if it agreed.
“I got an apartment,” Mireya said after a beat. “Two bedroom. So, she can have her own room.”
“My own room?” Camila’s head popped back, hair frizzed from the humidity trapped in the hall air.
Mireya nodded and smiled quick. “Sí, tu propio cuarto.”
Camila’s face stretched into something wide and bright, then she dropped her head and went back to coloring, pushing blue like she meant to cover every inch.
Caine kept his eyes on the paper a second, then looked up at Mireya. “You got money to pay that rent?”
Her gaze drifted to the far corner where the baseboard peeled a little. She didn’t chase it long. She turned back. “I got a new job. Cleaning.” She slid the word across the table like a receipt. “Eighteen an hour.”
They held each other’s eyes. Caine’s face didn’t move. He searched the way he had to search sometimes. Mireya didn’t blink first. The light hummed.
Camila tapped the blue crayon on the paper. “Look. Sky.”
“I see it, baby,” Mireya said, softer now. The softness ran out quick. “You get a bunch of people in here since you moved in?” She asked it without heat, eyes on the drawing like it was nothing. Her hand rested on Camila’s belly, keeping her from sliding.
“Nah,” Caine said.
Mireya lifted her eyes and met his, same steady look he’d just given her. He didn’t drop his. His face stayed blank. The chair edges pressed against each other under them, wood on wood.
Her phone buzzed against the tabletop. It hopped and settled, screen lighting her cheek as she reached. She didn’t shift the rest of her body. Thumb down. She scanned, then tapped out a red X and “OOO,” let it go. The phone face went dark. Caine’s focus never left Camila’s drawing.
“What color the door?” he asked.
“Purple,” Camila said like it was obvious.
“Bold choice,” he said, and his hand came up to smooth along Camila’s hair. He flattened a curl behind her ear and then traced the part, slow, like he was ironing a crease only he could see.
Mireya watched his hand move. Her mouth pressed into a line and then let go. She shifted her legs to give Camila more of her lap, and the little girl settled heavier across both of them, warm and wiggly. Her heel thumped Caine again.
“Oye,” Caine said, tapping the heel. “Watch Daddy’s shin.”
“Sorry,” she said, not looking up, already dragging purple across the blank rectangle she’d left.
Mireya’s mouth twitched. She kept her eyes on the paper.
Caine let his palm rest on the crown of Camila’s head. “You gonna let me decorate your room?” he asked, voice gentle. “Put up lights. Maybe a big poster.”
Camila’s crayon paused. She looked up at him, eyes huge, weighing how much power the question gave. Then she shook her head, a grin breaking fast across her face. “No.”
“Why not?” he asked, a little smile in it now.
“’Cause it’s mine,” she said, then giggled, the sound small and bubbling.
Caine’s hand fell to the table, drummed once, then went back to her hair.
Mireya leaned back as far as Camila’s weight allowed and let the chair take her spine. The two chairs still touched. The table still hummed with the light’s thin voice. Outside the window, nothing much moved. No sirens, no second line bleeding through, no oil popping from a fry pan. Just the sound of crayon on paper and Camila’s laugh hanging a moment longer than the breath it came on.
Camila bent to her picture again, then glanced up with mischief, shook her head one more time, giggling.
Cold air rolled over the back of Caine’s neck while the projector threw a rectangle across the whiteboard. Aplin held the clicker loose. Fatu had the laptop open, one hand on the trackpad. Mizell leaned on the marker tray, quiet and watching.
Caine sat second row. Weston took the middle seat up front like he owned it. Tyler tried to stop his heel from jittering. Turner cracked his knuckles once and folded his hands. Dillon and Terrell lined their packets flush with the desk edge.
“First one,” Fatu said. “Empty. Motion to quads.”
The clip froze on the motion man crossing the formation. The boundary safety cheated down like he had a secret.
“Mint front,” Caine said. “Boundary creeper hiding. If they roll the weak safety late, I check draw into the bubble. If the end peels, I take it myself.”
Weston shook his head. “We got quick out tagged. Ball’s supposed to spit.”
“It spits into a trap corner,” Caine said. He nodded at the boundary corner squatting with outside eye inside the slot. “He’s sitting on that. Second and three is good money.”
Aplin let it run. The pressure walked. The out died on the catch. Tackle. Second and long.
Nobody said anything. The AC hummed like it had something to hide.
“Next,” Aplin said.
They rolled to a condensed bunch set on the left. Field hash. The mike shaded weak. The nickel pointed at the point man like he wanted a piece.
“Cover six,” Caine said. “Quarter, quarter, half. Sell the run. Switch release the point and the inside. I want a wheel off the switch. If the half-field safety turns his hips, I throw the wheel. If he sinks, I take the under.”
Weston scratched at a strip of tape on his wrist. “The sheet’s got a corner route there. We hit the corner against half.”
“And run him into the safety who’s already sitting there,” Caine said. “The wheel makes him make the choice. He wrong either way.”
Mizell scraped the marker along the board without writing. Fatu ran the clip. French’s ball went to the corner. The safety folded over the top and erased it.
“Third and seven,” Fatu said, flipping to it.
Trips right. Back offset weak. The defense mugged with both backers and bluffed like they had more.
“Creepers again,” Caine said. “They bringing four, making it look like six. Lock the edge. Set half slide to the field. If the nickel comes, the back scans inside out. We run Hank with a pivot from two. If the hook defender walls, hit the pivot. If he turns and carries, stick the sit.”
“Y’all love that little sit,” Weston said. “This ain’t seven-on-seven.”
“It’s a hole in grass,” Caine said.
Aplin kept the clicker in his hand and didn’t press it. The room leaned.
Weston shifted in his chair. “Five yards’ not getting you a first down on third and seven.”
“It does if the flat defender widens and the hook bails,” Caine said. “We run the pivot to turn his hips. If he doesn’t turn, glance backside. But I ain’t throwing something that’s covered because you say I’m supposed to.”
Fatu hit play. The rush came from one side and dropped from the other. The quarterback in the clip threw hot at a body and it clanged short.
“Red zone,” Aplin said. New clip. Tight doubles. The back stacked behind the tackle.
“Tampa two look,” Caine said. “Mike runner. He turns and runs the pole. Tag a pop off play-action. If the mike sits, throw it on his ear. If he runs, snap to the glance behind him.”
Weston breathed out hard through his nose. “We repped a stick concept here all spring.”
“Where the cloud corner’s baiting,” Caine said.
Tyler’s heel finally went still. Turner whispered something to himself that might’ve been a cadence without sound. Dillon and Terrell kept their eyes on the screen and their faces still.
Fatu moved on. First and ten. Pistol. The boundary safety walked down late like he was sneaking out of class.
“Bash,” Caine said. “Back away. Guard and tackle coming back to kick and wrap. If the safety crashes, pull and hit the glance behind his head. If the backside end sits, hand it off and we’re on the safety one-on-one in the alley. Corner’s soft with flat toes. That’s us.”
Weston turned half around now, voice cooling in a way that didn’t cool anything. “You keep talking about pulling and glancing. The call is the call.”
“Ain’t we supposed to be reading the defense?” Caine said. “I ain’t trying to keep the trainers busy with hospital balls, my boy.”
Weston lifted his chin. “You weren’t here last year. You don’t know how we do things.”
Caine looked over his shoulder at him, not all the way. “Take some of that bass out your voice,” he said. Quiet. Heavy. “You don’t know me like that, potna.”
The room tightened. Mizell’s marker clicked once and stayed capped. Aplin watched the screen like it might blink first.
Weston squared up in his chair. “I know this isn’t some video game stuff. Running the offense how it’s supposed to be run is how you win games.”
“Sounds like you can’t read defenses,” Caine said. “If the fucking linebacker sees you staring down your first read, you supposed to throw that?”
“That’s not what I said,” Weston said.
“Sounds like it to me,” Caine said. “Got Jameis Winston over here looking at the defense, eyes squinted.”
They held there. The projector hummed. Cold air moved across the carpet and came back around their shins. Tyler stared at the whiteboard like the letters could change. Turner’s fingers pressed into his packet. Dillon and Terrell kept quiet the way smart people do when fire meets dry grass.
Fatu’s thumb floated over the space bar. He didn’t use it.
Aplin finally clicked. New cut-up. Second and long. Trips into the boundary now, a choice they rarely favored. The field corner hovered like a kite with a short string.
“Motion to stack,” Caine said. “Slot fade with an inside rub. If the nickel tries to collision, throw the fade on the line. If he overplays, bang the under. If they spin late and the half safety jumps the fade, reset and hit the rail to the back.”
Weston opened his mouth, closed it, and rubbed the tape off his wrist in one long peel. The clip ran. Last year’s ball died in the dirt at the sticks. The fade would’ve walked.
Aplin set the clicker down. “Be back here tomorrow at 8,” he said.
Chairs scraped. Paper slid. Weston stood first. He stacked his packet clean and didn’t look at anybody while also looking at everybody. He headed for the door.
Caine waited a breath, then stood and slid his pen into the wire of the spiral. Dillon raised his eyebrows. Terrell kept moving slow, deliberate. Tyler blew out his cheeks. Turner flexed his fingers and let them go loose.
The coaches had let the heat live between them and then waved it forward. That set where the line was gonna be drawn when they walked out the door.
~~~
The lot sat empty except for the sodium light buzzing over a busted cart and a grease stain that never dried. E.J. eased the gear into park and cut the engine. The fan coasted down and the quiet came in with the heat. Tessa’s street sat one block over, roofs low against the sky, porch lights throwing soft circles on cracked concrete. A whiff of fryer oil drifted from the daiquiri shop at the corner and got stuck in the car with them.
E.J. turned toward her, one hand braced on the console. “C’mere.”
She put her fingers to his mouth and shook her head. He sat back, hand falling to his thigh. He drummed two knuckles once, then stopped.
“What’s wrong?”
Tessa pulled at the edge of her seat belt. She let a long breath out. “I need to tell you something, but don’t overreact.”
He leaned his head against the headrest and stared up at the felt ceiling. “What is it? You still thinking about going live in podunk ass Mississippi?”
She gave him a look. “No.”
He waited. The light threw a tired yellow across her cheekbones. Her hair curled where the humidity had got it. She looked at the dashboard. A mosquito ticked the window and slid down.
“Brent moved back to New Orleans,” she said. “Got a new job.”
His head came off the rest. “Brent,” he said, and then his mouth tilted. “That goofy ass motherfucker your mama used to foster?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
E.J. laughed once, not mean. “You thought I’d overreact to that? Man, please.” He flicked two fingers. “Why would I care about Brent?”
She rolled her eyes and hit his shoulder with three taps, not hard. “You know he was really into me.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, you fuckin’ fine. I’d be trying to get into you too if I lived at your house, trying to get peeks of you coming out the shower and shit.”
“E.J.” She smacked him again, a little harder. The play dropped out of her face. “I just wanted to let you know in case he comes around, because… well.” She swallowed. “He’s a cop.”
The word sat between them. The car ticked as the metal cooled. Somewhere a dog barked and then stopped.
“NOPD,” she added. “Night shift for now.”
E.J. kept his eyes on her. He didn’t blink fast. “I ain’t done nothing to be worried about cops.”
Tessa didn’t say anything. She watched him the way you watch a stove you aren’t sure you turned off. He could feel her looking for edges in his answer.
He leaned across the console until they were close enough to share breath. “Even if I did,” he said, quieter now, “only you would know.”
Her jaw worked once. He smelled her shampoo and the little sting of Tide that lived in her hoodie from the house. Sweat gathered at his hairline and went nowhere.
“You wouldn’t sell me out, though, right?” His voice shaved down to something soft. “You my ride or die.”
She held his eyes. A beat passed, then she nodded. “I’m not selling you out,” she said, and then she lifted a hand to his chest. “But still don’t do shit.”
“I promise.”
He said it without smiling. His hand slid to the side of her neck, thumb light, and the car’s old seat creaked. Then he closed the last inch and kissed her.
~~~
The park looked trimmed and quiet in a way that made Mireya’s shoulders rise. The grass was short like someone measured it. The trash cans sat in pairs, clean lids shining even with the afternoon dust. A rubber track looped around a small pond where a skinny fountain kept stitching the same little thread of water back into itself. Sneakers whispered on the lanes, steady and soft. Voices stayed low. Nobody argued with anybody. No bass pushed from a passing car. No smell of Bourbon Street wafting on the wind.
Camila had a football—half flat, the leather tired—palmed against her chest. She’d found it under Caine’s couch. She tossed it up crooked and clapped at it, missed, chased, reset. The ball’s thud was small on this grass. At home, sound bounced. Here it got swallowed.
Mireya sat on a bench that left a splinter in the back of her thigh the second she shifted wrong. She tucked her hands between her knees and leaned into the posture kids had when they waited for a bell that wasn’t coming. Her hoodie stuck to her neck where the sweat couldn’t find air. She watched the track. Two old white women moved in step, the same visor, the same careful arms. A golden retriever floated along beside them, tongue out.
She let her gaze drift to the pond and then past it to the pine line and the brick roofs of the university beyond. It was the first time she’d seen the place he’d chosen over the city that raised them both, the first time she’d felt the way quiet could stand up and put its hands on you. Could she have lived here when he asked her to come? Could she have taught herself to be ok with a place that went to bed early and woke up early and never smelled like fry oil or wet concret?. She pictured years in a town like this, then another, and another after that, each one with a different park and the same quiet, each one farther from what her body knew as home.
Camila squealed when the ball found her palms and clutched it like it might try to run away. She bounced on her toes. One curl stuck to her forehead. She looked around like she was checking for witnesses to her catch and found only the track’s rhythm, the fountain, the hum from the far buildings that didn’t belong to them.
She launched the ball again and it nicked her shoulder and wobbled down to the bench leg. She chased it, tripped over her own feet, recovered with a proud little “ha,” and brought it back hugged tight.
Mireya smiled. The quiet pressed into the smile and made it small. She worked her hands deeper between her knees until her fingers warmed and her back curved. She could feel the park not looking at her. Not hostile. Not welcoming.
Camila ran over and leaned her whole weight into Mireya’s legs, the way toddlers did, face right there, breath warm with the sweet-sour of juice from earlier. “When’s Daddy coming back?”
“Soon,” Mireya said. “He went to play football.”
Camila nodded, serious. “Can I go like at home?”
“Not today,” Mireya said. “We’ll come back when he’s got a game.”
“Yay!” Camila jumped twice, the ball thumping her belly when it bounced between her hands. She spun once like the ground was a dance floor just for her and then stopped to check that Mireya had seen.
“I saw, mamas,” Mireya said. “You’re gonna have to show daddy.”
Camila’s grin went wider. She tossed the ball again, smaller this time, and caught it like the catch had always lived in her hands. The fountain hissed. A cart from somewhere on the far side of the trees rattled for a second and went away. A whistle peeped once and didn’t come back. The day sat still on top of them.
Mireya looked at the track again and felt that old itch that came when people were comfortable in a place that would never be comfortable with her. It wasn’t the kind of itch you scratched. It was the kind you swallowed and learned to breathe around. She pictured the Quarter, the sound of the locals, the way every block told on itself with smell. Beignets that weren’t sweet anymore because the oil needed changing. Water dumped from a stoop that ran into the gutter and made a sky stripe in the sun. Diesel pulling off the river.
She shifted again and the bench reminded her about the splinter. She made herself still. “You like it here?” she asked.
Camila put her finger on her chin like she did when a question deserved a ceremony. She looked at the pond. She looked at the trees. She looked back at Mireya with a face that meant she’d made a ruling. “They got boats?”
Mireya shook her head. “No boats here.”
Camila’s mouth turned down and she shook her head to match. “I don’t like it then.”
“Yeah,” Mireya said, heat catching under her tongue that wasn’t about the day. “No Mississippi out here.”
Camila dropped the ball gently and climbed into Mireya’s lap. The weight of her made sense in a way nothing else here did. She tucked her head under Mireya’s chin and found the spot she always did. The fabric between them wrinkled and warmed. Mireya wrapped an arm around her and let the other hand smooth a curl flat, which sprung right back up.
On the track the two women crossed in front of them again, still talking low, still looking straight ahead. The dog glanced over and wagged once and then kept the pace. A breeze slid through and left nothing on the air. No crawfish boil. No river breath. Not even the smell of puke from a puddle outside a club. It felt clean and wrong at the same time.
Camila traced the seam of Mireya’s hoodie with a fingertip, up and down, up and down, like she was practicing writing without letters. Her breathing slowed. The ball rolled and stopped against Mireya’s shoe.
“Mi amor,” Mireya said, and waited for Camila to tilt her face up. “¿Tienes hambre?”
Camila shook her head and kept tracing. Her eyes drifted back to the track and then to the pond. The fountain kept pretending its noise mattered.
Mireya kissed the part of Camila’s hair. The park kept being itself. She let her hands rest where they were and watched the two old women for one more half lap. The women stepped together like they’d been stepping together for years, talk light, bodies sure, the world making room.
Mireya nodded toward them and then down at her daughter. “I don’t like it either, baby.”
~~~
The meeting room smelled like dry erase and burnt coffee. A long table ate most of the space. Play-call sheets, two laptops, a stack of self-scout printouts, and a busted stress ball sat scattered like lost equipment after a scrimmage. The AC thumped on and pushed a tired breath through the vents.
Brandon Bailey stood with a marker in his fist and a frown set in. He tapped the board near a depth chart where a name was circled twice. “Emmett came back fat,” he said. “I’m not dressing it up. He’s soft around the middle and the scale says what the mirror says.”
Alex Garwig leaned forward in his chair, elbows to knees. “That’s because he keeps going to Savannah and eating like it’s free.”
Anthony Beck spun a pen between his fingers. “It is free,” he said. “He’s got that girlfriend out there. Man tried to get us to put her in an apartment here. Said it’d help him ‘lock in.’”
A couple of small laughs ran down the table. Bailey didn’t laugh. He circled the name again. “He can lock in here. He’s our inside backer. If he’s heavy, our run fits get ugly. Maybe if that girl breaks up with him, he’ll get depressed and stop eating.”
Ryan Aplin had a sleeve rolled and a coffee going cold. He didn’t look up from the self-scout. “Just get him in shape,” he said. “We’ve got a month before camp. I’m not starting fall with our mike looking like he’s switching to nose.”
Garwig clicked his tongue. “I’ll lock him in the weight room if I have to.” He held up his hands. “Kidding. Mostly.”
Beck shrugged. “I’ll make him run the kickoff lane rules until he forgets that girl’s name.”
Bailey set the marker down, then picked it back up. “Nutrition had a plan. He had one job and it wasn’t the buffet.”
The vent droned. Zach Langford flipped a page in a binder that had fingerprints of turf rubber ground into the cover. Aplin scratched a note, then leaned back.
Kaleo Fatu slid his laptop a little to the side. “What’re you thinking about the quarterbacks?”
Aplin’s thumb traced the rim of his cup. “Weston probably expects to start.”
Zak Mizell huffed a small laugh without smiling. “Being a five-star’ll do that to you.”
“I’m not attached to any of them,” Fatu said. He didn’t say it like a challenge. He said it the way you say the truth before it gets dressed up.
Mizell nodded toward the board where install headings from spring had ghosted through the last wipe. “Turner and Tyler were here last year, too.”
Langford let his chair creak. “There’s a reason we went out and got three quarterbacks, ain’t there?” He kept his eyes on the binder but the line carried.
Bailey capped the marker with a decisive click. “I don’t care who plays as long as he doesn’t make my guys stay on the field for thirty snaps a quarter.”
Fatu scratched his jaw. “Guerra’s been putting in a lot of work on his own.” He didn’t dress that up either. “I see him in there when nobody’s around.”
“Yeah,” Aplin said, and now he looked up. “Kid ain’t got nothing to lose. That’s why I wanted him here.”
Fatu nodded once. He had the film window paused on his desktop, a still of a pocket right before it became a mess. He clicked it shut. “Weston expects it,” he said, circling back. “Doesn’t mean he’s got it.”
The AC cycled off. The room went still for a beat that felt longer than it was. Papers rustled. Someone’s chair squeaked and didn’t stop until its owner shifted again.
Aplin broke the little silence. He closed the self-scout and stacked it on top of the coffee. He looked down the table to where Taylor Reed had been flipping through a rehab list with a highlighter.
“Taylor,” Aplin said. “David rehabbing that knee?”
~~~
The cheap kitchen light hummed over Caine’s table, a thin circle of brightness on the wood where crayon shavings gathered like confetti. Camila stood pressed to his side, one hand bracing the edge, the other working a dull red crayon across printer paper. The lines bled past a lopsided house and a stick figure with hair that shot out like fireworks. Caine watched her hand move, palm steadying the paper when it tried to slip.
Mireya sat across from them with her arms folded under the table. The chair creaked when she leaned forward. She didn’t say anything for a long stretch. Statesboro quiet had a way of settling in, heavy and dry. It made every scrape of crayon sound loud. The fridge coughed. Somewhere in the building a door closed and the echo ran down the cinder block hallway.
“Ma,” Camila said, looking up, “can you sit closer?”
Mireya pushed back from her chair. “I’m giving you space to draw, baby.”
“Nuh-uh. Sit there.” Camila’s small fingers wrapped the back of the chair beside Caine and dragged it an inch off the tile. The legs squealed. She set it so it touched his chair, a tight seam.
Caine’s mouth tugged at the corner. “Bossy,” he murmured, not taking his hand off the paper.
Mireya stood and moved around the table. She lowered herself into the chair Camila had shoved against his. As soon as she landed, Camila scrambled up, knees bumping the table, then plopped across Mireya’s lap and onto the edge of Caine’s, like she didn’t believe chairs needed borders. Her little feet swung and knocked against Caine’s shin.
“Careful,” Caine said soft. He tucked the paper closer and slid the crayons within reach. Camila stretched, grabbed the blue, and started adding a wide sky over her red lines.
Mireya looked at Caine. “Nos vamos mañana,” she said, voice low. “Tengo que volver al trabajo.”
Caine nodded once. “Yeah, I figured.”
“I don’t like it here,” she said. Her eyes tracked the blank wall above the sink, then the stack of dollar-store bowls Caine had rinsed and left upside down to dry. Her jaw worked.
He didn’t answer. Camila hummed under her breath, deep in her sky, tongue caught between her teeth. The hum filled the space that might’ve been a fight in New Orleans and wasn’t here. The building gave another hollow clunk as if it agreed.
“I got an apartment,” Mireya said after a beat. “Two bedroom. So, she can have her own room.”
“My own room?” Camila’s head popped back, hair frizzed from the humidity trapped in the hall air.
Mireya nodded and smiled quick. “Sí, tu propio cuarto.”
Camila’s face stretched into something wide and bright, then she dropped her head and went back to coloring, pushing blue like she meant to cover every inch.
Caine kept his eyes on the paper a second, then looked up at Mireya. “You got money to pay that rent?”
Her gaze drifted to the far corner where the baseboard peeled a little. She didn’t chase it long. She turned back. “I got a new job. Cleaning.” She slid the word across the table like a receipt. “Eighteen an hour.”
They held each other’s eyes. Caine’s face didn’t move. He searched the way he had to search sometimes. Mireya didn’t blink first. The light hummed.
Camila tapped the blue crayon on the paper. “Look. Sky.”
“I see it, baby,” Mireya said, softer now. The softness ran out quick. “You get a bunch of people in here since you moved in?” She asked it without heat, eyes on the drawing like it was nothing. Her hand rested on Camila’s belly, keeping her from sliding.
“Nah,” Caine said.
Mireya lifted her eyes and met his, same steady look he’d just given her. He didn’t drop his. His face stayed blank. The chair edges pressed against each other under them, wood on wood.
Her phone buzzed against the tabletop. It hopped and settled, screen lighting her cheek as she reached. She didn’t shift the rest of her body. Thumb down. She scanned, then tapped out a red X and “OOO,” let it go. The phone face went dark. Caine’s focus never left Camila’s drawing.
“What color the door?” he asked.
“Purple,” Camila said like it was obvious.
“Bold choice,” he said, and his hand came up to smooth along Camila’s hair. He flattened a curl behind her ear and then traced the part, slow, like he was ironing a crease only he could see.
Mireya watched his hand move. Her mouth pressed into a line and then let go. She shifted her legs to give Camila more of her lap, and the little girl settled heavier across both of them, warm and wiggly. Her heel thumped Caine again.
“Oye,” Caine said, tapping the heel. “Watch Daddy’s shin.”
“Sorry,” she said, not looking up, already dragging purple across the blank rectangle she’d left.
Mireya’s mouth twitched. She kept her eyes on the paper.
Caine let his palm rest on the crown of Camila’s head. “You gonna let me decorate your room?” he asked, voice gentle. “Put up lights. Maybe a big poster.”
Camila’s crayon paused. She looked up at him, eyes huge, weighing how much power the question gave. Then she shook her head, a grin breaking fast across her face. “No.”
“Why not?” he asked, a little smile in it now.
“’Cause it’s mine,” she said, then giggled, the sound small and bubbling.
Caine’s hand fell to the table, drummed once, then went back to her hair.
Mireya leaned back as far as Camila’s weight allowed and let the chair take her spine. The two chairs still touched. The table still hummed with the light’s thin voice. Outside the window, nothing much moved. No sirens, no second line bleeding through, no oil popping from a fry pan. Just the sound of crayon on paper and Camila’s laugh hanging a moment longer than the breath it came on.
Camila bent to her picture again, then glanced up with mischief, shook her head one more time, giggling.
American Sun
Caine on the prowl, looking for scraps
I would say Mireya should stack her money up instead of just getting an apartment right away but
American Sun
QB battle finna bring heat
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 4973
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
American Sun
Shordy would rather the messiness of New Orleans than the piece of Statesboro because at least the mess is hers.
Sickening.
Sickening.
American Sun
Generational trauma. she's so used to chaos that it feels unsettling without it. Sometimes we can't escape our surroundings even if we say we want too. I know Mila mentioned boats, but the fact she doesn't like it shows she's already getting used to the chaos and thinks its normal. No buenoCaptain Canada wrote: ↑07 Oct 2025, 11:06Shordy would rather the messiness of New Orleans than the piece of Statesboro because at least the mess is hers.
Sickening.
Now that I've gotten my chill philosophizing out.
Weston bout to find out the hard way Caine about his business. Hope he doesn't have an attractive sister
American Sun
Caine ain't doing shit
That would've required her to keep living at the Guerras with fiftyleven people.
Caine ain't nothing if not a fiery competitor
This how you know y'all just anti-Mireya. Caine keeps the TV on at all times because he doesn't like the peace of Statesboro. But Mireya say it and it's sickeningCaptain Canada wrote: ↑07 Oct 2025, 11:06Shordy would rather the messiness of New Orleans than the piece of Statesboro because at least the mess is hers.
Sickening.
See above about Caine and his view of Statesboro. Camila can't just like watching the boats pass on the river?!redsox907 wrote: ↑07 Oct 2025, 14:03Generational trauma. she's so used to chaos that it feels unsettling without it. Sometimes we can't escape our surroundings even if we say we want too. I know Mila mentioned boats, but the fact she doesn't like it shows she's already getting used to the chaos and thinks its normal. No buenoCaptain Canada wrote: ↑07 Oct 2025, 11:06Shordy would rather the messiness of New Orleans than the piece of Statesboro because at least the mess is hers.
Sickening.
Now that I've gotten my chill philosophizing out.
Weston bout to find out the hard way Caine about his business. Hope he doesn't have an attractive sister
Weston not about that action. Caine said the only person with no siblings he willing to smash is Mireya. The rest of these huzz gotta have someone to talk to other than him.