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Yeah, I loved Gianna, we’d been together since middle school, but she was on some other shit that I didn’t want no parts of. It was often clear to me that all she wanted was to be a baller’s wife. She thrived off my popularity in school, constantly making sure people knew that our names were attached. It was annoying.

“Yeah Ma, I’m sure. I’ll hit her up later.”

"Okay, baby. Just wanted to check in. You need anything?"

"I’m good, Ma. Just tell me y’all watching the game."

"You already know we are," she promised. "Now, Nasseem. You know I been worried ‘bout him. I tried to call him the other day and he didn’t answer. I think he’s avoiding me."

I tensed at that. Because I had been worried too.

"I got it, Ma," I reassured her.

"Mmhmm. Love you, baby."

"Love you too."

As soon as I hung up, I dialed Nas’s number, stepping outside the practice facility.

It rang three times before he picked up.

"Damn, nigga, took you long enough," Nas muttered through the speaker.

"You act like you called me first," I shot back.

"Whatever, man. You good?"

"I should be asking you that," I countered, sitting down on one of the outside benches. "You staying out of trouble?"

"Here you go."

"I’m serious, Nas."

A long pause. Too long.

"Yeah, I’m straight," he finally muttered.

"That don’t sound like straight."

"Man, I’m handling shit."

That was exactly what I didn’t wanna hear.

"Handling shit how?" I pressed.

"It ain’t like that, Creed."

"Ain’t it?"

Silence again.

"Pop and Ma been asking about you," I added, my voice calmer now. "They worried about you, man. So am I."

Nas sighed.

"I know, bro. It’s just… you ain’t here, and shit is different."

"I get that. But you know Nate ain’t the answer."