Page 8

His older brother, Nate, had been in the streets since we were kids. He wanted Nas right there with him, but Nas had more sense than that. Or at least, he used to.

"I ain’t trying to be like Nate," Nas said lowly. "I just… I ain’t got options like you."

"Bullshit. You do. And Imma make sure you see that."

Another pause.

"How?" he finally asked.

"You know how."

Nas knew exactly what I meant. If I went to the draft, I’d have the money and power to get him out for real. No more hanging around dudes that didn’t care if he made it to tomorrow. No more Nate. Plus, I happened to know that my friend was a talented fighter. He’d been into boxing since we were kids just about as much as I had been into basketball. Nas was talented as fuck, threw hands like nobody else I’d ever seen before. He just needed a little bit more training and the right people aroundhim. When I made it, I planned on helping him get to his full potential.

"We’ll see," he muttered.

"Nah, we will," I corrected him. "Stay outta trouble, Nas. You hear me?"

"Yeah. I hear you."

I knew that wasn’t a guarantee, but it was enough for now.

"Aight, bro. Imma hit you later."

"Bet."

I hung up, exhaling slowly as I looked out over campus.

I had everything ahead of me.

But back home? My people were still stuck in the same shit.

I had to make it out. For them.

Living in South Oak Cliff, and going to school at Rutgers in New Jersey were like living two completely different lives.

In Dallas, I was just Tasha Langston’s son. Joseph Monroe’s grandson. The kid who lost his daddy too soon and the one everybody was betting on to make it out. At Rutgers? I was Creed Langston, the star player, NBA-bound, the dude everyone wanted to be around.

At home, I was trying to keep the people I loved above water. At school, I was expected to live like I had already made it. And in between those two worlds I sometimes felt like I was losing myself.

I barely remembered my father, but I remembered the day he died.

I was six years old when Mama and Pop pulled up outside a crime scene in Chicago, and I saw my mother screaming, fighting against my grandfather’s grip.

My daddy was dead.

Wrong place, wrong time. A stray bullet ended his life in seconds.

After that, Mama packed us up and moved us to Dallas, back home with Pop, the only real father figure I ever had.

He put a basketball in my hands before I even understood what the game meant.

"Either you gon’ be in these streets, or you gon’ get out. You choose."Pop told me once when I was younger.

I chose.

When I got back to the apartment, Brodie, Don, and Trent were already inside, talking shit and hyping themselves up for the night.

"Yo, you in or what?" Brodie asked as soon as I walked in.