The mop slapped against the locker room floor, water sloshing around Khalif's sneakers as he worked double-time. Every second spent cleaning this pissy floor was another second she was waiting outside, probably checking her watch and rolling those pretty eyes of hers.
"Clean this shit up, Crowder!" Coach Pearson barked from the doorway.
"Yes, sir," Khalif muttered, wringing the mop with more force than necessary. His muscles ached from the game—not that he'd played more than six minutes in the third quarter when they were already up by fifteen. Still, he had gotten in the game this time. That had to count for something.
The JV locker room stank of sweat, cheap body spray, and teenage desperation. Khalif glanced at the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes since the varsity game ended, which meant fifteen minutes since he'd told her to wait for him by the gym entrance.
"You better not leave," he'd texted her during halftime of the varsity game.
He dumped the dirty water into the drain, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. Just one more quick pass with the mop, and he'd be free. He moved faster, nearly slipping as he rounded the corner of the bench.
"Careful there, Crowder," Coach Pearson chuckled. "Got somewhere important to be?"
"Just trying to get done, Coach," Khalif replied, not looking up. If he made eye contact, Coach might find something else for him to clean.
"Well, make sure those trash cans are emptied before you go."
Khalif bit back a groan. "Yes, sir."
The trash took another five minutes—five minutes too long. By the time he'd changed out of his practice gear and into his street clothes, a full thirty minutes had passed since the final buzzer. He grabbed his backpack and sprinted toward the gym exit, praying she had kept her promise.
The cool night air hit his face as he burst through the doors. The parking lot was nearly empty now, just a few cars belonging to coaches and the custodial staff. Khalif scanned the area, looking for her familiar silhouette.
Then he spotted them—two figures walking away from the school, heading toward the neighborhood beyond. Even from behind, he recognized Trey's walk, her purple backpack slung over his shoulder.
"Charlene!" Khalif called out, his voice cracking embarrassingly on the second syllable.
They both turned. Charlene's smile faltered for just a second before she tossed her head back with a laugh that carried across the empty lot. Trey's grin stretched wide across his face, eyes glinting with amusement. "She's good, Blood! I got her."
…
Trey slouched in the plastic chair, eyes half-closed as he stared at the TV bolted to the wall. Some reality show bullshit. Women screaming at each other over nothing while a bunch of grown men in the common room watched like it was the NBA Finals. Fifteen minutes left of rec time before they'd be herded back to their cells for count.
The bench creaked as someone sat down beside him.
"Yo," they said. "You hear about Big Reggie?"
Trey kept his eyes on the screen. Big Reggie had been there when he got put on, ran with Dro back in the day before he had to do a bid right before Trey really got active.
"What about him?" Trey asked, keeping his voice casual.
"Heard he got knocked down. Up in San Diego. At his crib and shit."
Trey scratched his chin slowly, processing, "Oh, yeah?"
"Sound gang related to me," his homie continued, voice barely audible over the TV. "Walked right up to his door, put three in his chest."
The reality show cut to commercial, some car insurance ad with a talking lizard. Trey watched it without seeing, mind racing through possibilities, connections, implications. Big Reggie getting touched meant someone was cleaning up after themselves, making sure that the past remained where it was, tying up any loose ends and that only meant one man. And the fact that Trey didn’t know about it happening beforehand meant something else too. Something more important.
…
Keshawn hesitated outside the dressing room door, bouquet of purple dahlias and white roses clutched in his oversized palm. The studio hallway hummed with activity, production assistants scurrying past with clipboards, makeup artists wheeling their cases toward other rooms, someone shouting about a lighting issue on the main stage.
He knocked twice, softly.
"It's open!" Candace's voice called from inside.
Keshawn pushed the door open, finding her seated at the vanity, removing her lashes. Her eyes met his in the mirror, widening slightly before her face settled into a careful neutrality.
"Hey," he said, suddenly feeling awkward standing there with flowers like some high school kid trying to make up after a fight.
Candace turned in her chair, one eye still sporting dramatic lashes while the other was bare. "I didn't know you were coming by."
He stepped forward, offering the flowers. "I saw these at the store and thought of you."
She accepted them, fingers brushing against his. "They're beautiful. Thank you."
The dressing room was small but befitting of a rap star: plush couch against one wall, rack of designer clothes along another, vanity covered in makeup products. A half-eaten salad sat forgotten beside a script with "Celebrity Matchmaker" emblazoned across the top, certain lines highlighted in neon pink.
Keshawn sat on the edge of the couch, watching as she placed the flowers in an empty water bottle. "How was filming?"
"Long," she sighed, turning back to the mirror to remove her second lash. "Six hours of pretending to be interested in what some TikTok star's idea of a perfect date is."
"Better or worse than a basketball player’s idea?"
The corner of her mouth twitched upward. "To be determined."
A silence stretched between them, not quite comfortable but not as tense as their last conversations had been.
"Listen," Candace said finally, setting down her makeup wipe. "I might have overreacted the other night."
"No," Keshawn shook his head. "You were right. We've been doing this for eight months, and I've been treating it like some casual thing when it's not. Not to me, anyway."
She studied him, those piercing eyes searching his face. "What are you saying, Keshawn?"
"I'm saying I want to be more intentional about us. About where this is going."
"And where is it going?" she asked.
"Wherever we want it to. But I'm tired of hiding, private rooms and late dinners," he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I want to spend time together, real time together. With our families, friends, in each other’s lives."
Candace's expression softened. "You know I want that too. But I don't want it to feel forced or staged like my last relationship.”
"This wouldn't be like that," he assured her. "It would just be us, living our lives."
"With the show airing soon," she gestured to the script on her vanity. "The timing isn't great."
"So we wait until after," Keshawn suggested. "Let the show do its thing, and then we just stop hiding."
She leaned against his shoulder, the familiar scent of her perfume welcoming him into her embrace. "I like the sound of that."
Keshawn wrapped his arm around her, feeling the tension of the past few days finally release from his shoulders. "So we're good?"
"We're good," she confirmed, tilting her face up toward his. "But you know what would make us better?"
"What's that?"
Her smile turned mischievous as she reached past him to lock the dressing room door. "I've got about twenty minutes before they need me back on set."
Keshawn grinned, pulling her onto his lap. "I only need ten for real."
…
Alon pulled the car to a stop in front of the townhouse, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. The neighborhood was quiet, respectable with rows of identical units with small patches of grass out front. Not what he'd expected when the man he hired tracked down this address.
"I'll be right back," he told Nina, who sat rigid in the passenger seat.
"I'm coming with you," she replied, already reaching for her seatbelt.
"Let me talk to him first," Alon said, more firmly this time. "Please."
Nina huffed but settled back into her seat.
Alon walked up the narrow concrete path, his polished shoes out of place among the scattered toys and bicycles of the neighboring units. He knocked, three sharp raps against the door. As he waited, he straightened his collar, brushed invisible lint from his sleeve.
The door swung open, and Ernesto stood there, eyes narrowing when he recognized him.
"Mr. Bronstein," he said flatly.
"Ernesto." Alon nodded, forcing civility into his voice. "May I come in?"
Ernesto stepped outside instead, pulling the door closed behind him. "How can I help you?"
Alon kept his face neutral. "I'd like to see Nadia."
"She's not available right now," Ernesto crossed his arms over his chest.
"Not available?" Alon repeated, the words bitter on his tongue.
"I really don’t want to get in between this, sir."
Alon glanced at the house, at the second-floor window with its curtains drawn. Was she up there? Watching? Hiding? "So she has moved in with you."
Ernesto's jaw tightened. "That's not my place to say."
"She's my granddaughter," Alon said, his voice rising despite his efforts to remain calm. "It’s my place to ask."
"She's an adult too," Ernesto replied, his tone maddeningly even.
A car door slammed behind them. Nina marched up the path, her heels clicking against the concrete, her face tight with anger.
"Where is she?" Nina demanded, ignoring Alon's warning look. "We know she's in there. Nadia!"
"Mrs. Bronstein," Ernesto said, his voice hardening. "Please. Not like this."
"Don't you dare tell me what to do," Nina hissed. "We have every right to see her!"
"I’m not saying you don’t," Ernesto said. "She just doesn't want to see you right now."
Nina pushed forward, trying to get around Ernesto to the door. "Nadia!"
Ernesto moved to block her, his face darkening. "That's enough. You need to leave."
"Or what?" Nina challenged.
"Or I'll call the police," Ernesto said simply. "This is private property, and you're not welcome here right now."
The threat hung in the air between them. Alon placed a hand on Nina's shoulder, feeling her trembling with rage beneath his palm.
"Come on," he said quietly. "This isn't helping."
"I'm not leaving without seeing her," Nina insisted, though some of the fight had gone out of her voice.
Ernesto stepped back inside the house.
"Goodbye," he said, and closed the door with a decisive click.
