Page 3

CREED LANGSTON

T he sound of a bouncing basketball echoed through the walls as I sat on the edge of my bed, wrapping my wrist with athletic tape.

March Madness was here. The energy on campus was at an all time high, and for the past week, it felt like the only thing anyone could talk about was Rutgers making it to the tournament.

For me, though? It was just another step toward where I needed to be.

"Yo you ready?"

I glanced up as Brodie stepped into my room, already dressed in a fitted black tee and sweats. His duffel bag was slung over his shoulder, and I could tell he was hyped for the night ahead.

"For practice or this party you keep talkin’ about?" I smirked, finishing the tape job on my wrist.

"Both," he grinned. "You know Coach gon’ run us like we in boot camp tomorrow but fuck it. We celebrating tonight."

"Y’all throwing a party ‘cause we made the tournament?"

"We celebrating ‘cause we them niggas," Brodie shot back, laughing.

I shook my head, standing up and rolling my shoulders. The season was everything. These next few weeks could make or break my career, and I wasn’t about to let anything throw me off.

"Where’s Don and Trent?" I asked, referring to our two other roommates and teammates.

"Already at the gym. You know Trent don’t play about his warmups, and Don said he needed to work off some stress before he ‘wilds out on the court’ tomorrow."

Sounded about right.

Donovan Roberts had a temper that stayed on ten, and Trenton Walters was probably the most dedicated dude on the team. We all had different personalities, but we made it work.

"Aight," I nodded, grabbing my sneakers before heading toward the door. "Let’s get this work in."

By the time practice was over, sweat dripped from my forehead and my muscles ached. The gym was damn near empty, and I had just finished my last set of free throws when my phone buzzed in my duffle.

Mama.

I grabbed my phone, stepping into the locker room before answering.

"Hey, Ma."

"Baby, you sound tired. Coach running y’all ragged?"

"You know how it is," I muttered, leaning against the locker.

"Mmhmm. You eat today?"

I sighed, shaking my head with a small smirk. "Yes, Ma. I ate."

"Don’t be sighing like that. You know I gotta check on you."

I did know. Because I was hundreds of miles away from her and Pop, and I was still her baby, her only child.

"You ready for the tournament?" she asked, a hint of excitement in her voice.

"Yeah. We locked in."

"That’s what I like to hear. Your grandpa wants to talk to you."

I barely had time to respond before I heard the shuffling of the phone switching hands.

"Boy, you gettin’ your extra shots up?"

I grinned at the sound of Pop’s voice, deep and firm as always, his southern drawl seeping in every other word.

"You already know."

"You better. Ain’t no damn excuses when the scouts are watching."

"I hear you, Pop."

"Nah, you don’t hear me. You listenin’."

That was Pop for you. No bullshit. No sugarcoating.

"We proud of you, Creed. You keep your head right, you hear me?"

"Yeah, Pop. I got it."

"Aight. Now let me pass the phone back to your mama before she has a fit."

I chuckled, hearing him mutter something about "women always needing the last word" and my mama telling him to “hush old man” before she got back on the phone.

“I’m back, crazy old fool always talkin shit.” She muttered, causing another laugh to escape my lips. “I saw Gianna, she mentioned y’all hadn’t spoken in a while.”

“Just been busy Ma, that’s all.” I sighed before thinking about my girlfriend Gianna. It was crazy for me to be having a long-distance relationship, but somehow we made it work or at least I did; I couldn’t tell you what shit Gianna was getting into.

“You sure that’s all it is?”

I shook my head and placed my fingers on the bridge of my nose.

This was a normal conversation for us but honestly I was tired of having it.

No matter what, the expectation was that Gianna and I would be together at the end of it all.

It wasn’t really my choice, we sort of got forced on each other.

Being that our mothers were best friends since they were younger, it was their dream for us to be together, have some babies and grow old together.

That wasn’t the life I had wanted for myself.

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."

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 around him.

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.

"For what?"

"The party nigga, duh," he smirked. "We celebrating tonight. Ari coming and she bringing her cousin Serenity."

“Word?”

"You down or what?" Brodie asked.

I thought about it. I had shit on my mind. Pressure on my back. But maybe, for just one night, I could forget all that.

"Aight, bet," I finally said. I had no idea that tonight would change everything.