A King Is Always Prepared
6:50 AM – Crown Heights, BrooklynSetting: June. Early morning. Crown Heights loft.
The loft was silent. Morning hadn’t fully crept through the blinds yet. A faint hum of the AC whispered from the vent above the door. The air smelled like cedar and lavender—his mom’s touch, even though she hadn’t lived here in a minute.Jermaine’s room was clean but not staged. It didn’t need to be. Framed cityscape photos lined the far wall—Atlanta, Oakland, Tokyo. Hardwood floors stretched uninterrupted. His closet doors were open just enough to show rows of folded jeans and stacked boxes of sneakers—everything from GR beaters to heat that never touched pavement. Kyrie hybrids. Bordeaux 7s. A crisp pair of Gamma 11s. All organized like pieces to a bigger puzzle.He was already up. Sitting on the edge of his low-profile bed, phone face down, hoodie draped over the desk chair.No music. Just his thoughts.Jermaine ran his hands over his face, eyes still heavy. This was it. Last day of high school. But it didn’t feel like a finish line. It felt like the start of something he couldn’t fully name.“Can’t sleep on what’s next,” he mumbled.He stood, walked to the mirror by his dresser—full body, smart-lit around the edges. One button tap and it adjusted the light to “Day Mode.”His reflection stared back.Same face. Same scar near his jaw from when he fought Kevon in eighth grade. A little taller now. Shoulders filled out. But the same weight sat behind his eyes.I don’t gotta be what he was.I just gotta be better than what they expect.He let that hang in his chest for a second, then reached for his fit.Laid out:A navy relaxed-fit tee with a small embroidered globe logo on the chest.
Stonewashed light jeans—Playboy patch stitched on the back pocket.
London embroidered hoodie (in case it got chilly later).
New Balance 550s in white and varsity red, laced but not tied.
He dressed quickly, each motion practiced. June mornings in Brooklyn were unpredictable. The sun could bake the sidewalk for one hour, then clouds roll through like a mood shift.From the dresser drawer, he grabbed a silver Cuban bracelet—a gift from Melo. Slipped it on his right wrist. Watch on the left. Simple. Clean.Last, he picked up the slip of paper from his nightstand: a folded index card with three words scribbled in red ink.“Always be ready.”He tucked it in his wallet. Didn’t need to reread it. He already lived it.
The smell of bacon hit first.Melo stood over the stovetop, flicking his wrist like he was still back in a kitchen on Myrtle Ave. Eggs fluffed up easily. Bacon crisped just right. Turkey sausage stacked in the warmer. A little southern soul in every move he made, even in Brooklyn. Bluetooth speaker low, playing some old-school Mary in the background.Across the kitchen, Nasir stood by the island counter in a tailored black robe, sipping dark roast out of a matte gray mug. The morning news played from the built-in speaker system, voice sharp through the overheads:“—Valor Industries’ stock has continued to rise after its partnership with the city council’s clean tech expansion project. Anonymous sources close to the deal say—”Nasir’s expression didn’t change. But he sipped more slowly. Eyes locked on the tablet beside him, the numbers on the screen glowing soft blue.“Same Valor that’s been buying up property along Flatbush and Church,” Melo said, almost like he wasn’t talking to anybody in particular. “Real subtle. But too much at once.”Nasir grunted. “They’ve been making quiet moves since that council hearing got pushed. Timing’s too clean.”Melo slid a plate onto the island and wiped his hands. “Word is, they’re expanding past tech. Buying influence now. Ain’t just about green energy no more.”“Influence is a currency,” Nasir said, sipping his coffee. “They’re stacking it.”Melo glanced up. “You watching that close for business… or personal?”Nasir didn’t answer. Just stared down at the news scroll running across the tablet.Footsteps creaked above.“Look who finally descended from the throne—there goes the prince now,” Melo said, loud enough for it to annoy him.Jermaine hit him with the side-eye as he hit the bottom step. “Bruh, stop callin’ me tho just grinned. “Can’t help it. You move like royalty. Slow, dramatic… late.”Jermaine ignored him, grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, and leaned on the counter. His eyes scanned both of them—Melo in sweats and house slippers, Nasir silent in that tailored black robe, still glued to the news like something was about to break.“You good?” Melo asked.Jermaine nodded, then shrugged. “Yeah. Just feels like the air is different today.”“It’s June,” Melo said, tossing him a fork. “Everything feels different in June.”Jermaine sat, half-focused. The news is still playing through the ceiling speakers.“…city council postponed vote again on Valor Industries’ land rezoning initiative… community groups are demanding transparency—”Nasir muted it with a tap. Didn’t say a word.Melo slid a plate over. “Eat. Don’t make me waste these eggs.”Jermaine started eating quietly.Then Nasir spoke without looking. “A king is always prepared.”Jermaine chewed slowly, wiped his mouth, and finished the sentence on instinct.“That’s why I stay one step ahead.”Melo chuckled. “Boy thinks he’s clever.”“I don’t think,” Jermaine said, “I just know.”Nasir looked at him then. Just for a second. Like he saw something. Then looked away.It wasn’t awkward. It was just… how they operated.Melo? Melo would talk about anything, anytime. Laugh it off, joke, give you a gem right in the middle of the convo.Nasir? He was structured. All present. Never raised his voice but still filled the room.Jermaine lived in that in-between. Half warmth, half weight.“Rome hit my line twice already,” he said, standing. “I’ma go link up with him before school.”Melo reached out for a quick fist bump. “Move light, lil bro.”“As always.”Jermaine slung his bag over his shoulder. Just before the door opened, Nasir added:“You need anything… call me direct.”Jermaine nodded once. “Always do.”The door clicked shut behind him.Jermaine stepped out the front door of the loft, twisting his keys once before sliding ’em into his pocket. The air smelled like concrete heat, bodega grease, and summer promises. The sun is already doing too much.Rome leaned against the hood of his car like it owed him rent. Black Durango—washed, waxed, and loud in every way. Hooping bag in the trunk. Folded slides in the backseat. Jermaine’s other pair of kicks is right there, too, just in case.Niq sat passenger-side, scrolling through her phone, one AirPod in. Lemonade from the corner store in her lap. Edges on point. Nails red. Hoodie off the shoulder. That girl stayed ten steps ahead of trend forecasts.“Look who finally made it down from his throne,” Rome said. “What’s good, Prince?”Jermaine rolled his eyes. “Chill, bro.”Rome smirked. “Just sayin’. Whole lotta royalty goin’ on in that building.”Jermaine let out a dry chuckle, dapping him up with a shoulder bump. “What’s the move?”Niq smirked. “How you two got the IQ of a sandwich but somehow still pass physics is beyond me.”“Cuz I cheated off you,” Rome said without missing a beat.Jermaine laughed as they started walking up the block. “So, are we just admitting that now?”“Bro,” Rome said, “after graduation? I’m confessing all my sins. Might even go vegan.”
The Durango slid through traffic like it owned the lane, bass rumbling from the subs in the back. Rome had one hand on the wheel, the other tapping against the door in rhythm with the beat. Niq sat in the back, AirPods in, scrolling her phone like she wasn’t paying attention, but she was catching every word in the car.Jermaine rode shotgun, hood up, watching Brooklyn wake up through the window. He wasn’t in a rush—school was school—but this was his last week here, and every street they passed felt heavier than usual.The Durango turned into the student lot, a sea of cars, noise, and sneaker heat on full display. The morning air was thick with energy—some laughs, some stares, some people already moving like trouble was clocked in early.Rome eased the truck into a space in the back row. Doors popped open.That’s when they saw it—two dudes damn near nose-to-nose in the middle of the lot, a Royalist and a DeWitt. Voices are low, but sharp.Rome didn’t hesitate. “Man, not even first period yet,” he muttered, heading over. “Yo, chill out,” he told them, stepping in the middle. “Y’all can save the playoffs for after homeroom.”Jermaine stayed by the Durango, watching. The DeWitt kid turned his head and locked eyes with him—didn’t say a word, just gave that look. Not friendly. Not random either.Jermaine narrowed his eyes, about to ask Rome about it—That’s when Kash’s voice broke through the morning noise.“Wassup, Little Prince?”Jermaine turned. Kash strolled up grinning like he had the punchline to a joke only he thought was funny. “Daddy’s little boy ’bout to shy away again?”Jermaine didn’t respond right away. He could feel Niq’s eyes on him from behind, Rome glancing back over his shoulder.Kash smirked, waiting for him to bite.Jermaine slid his bag off slowly, shoulders loose but eyes steady. “Ain’t nobody shying from nothing.”Kash’s smile didn’t move. “We’ll see.”Kash was already peeling off with his boys, still throwing glances over his shoulder.“Y’all good?” Rome asked, looking from Jermaine to Niq.Niq rolled her eyes. “Always the same clowns trying to start a morning show.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and started toward the doors. “Come on before we’re late.”The three of them moved together through the crowd, sliding into the current of students. Hallways buzzing, lockers slamming, a mix of laughter and gossip bouncing off the walls. You could feel the eyes—some curious, some just waiting for something to pop off again.They reached their wing and turned into homeroom. The fluorescent lights hit different in here—brighter, colder. Jermaine dropped into his seat near the back, and Rome posted up against the wall until the teacher told him to sit down.The last bell hit like a starter pistol. Backpacks zipped, chairs scraped, and everybody spilled into the hall.Jermaine was halfway to his locker when he caught Rome up ahead, posted near the doors with a couple of Royalist kids. They were hyped, all talking over each other.“Yo, Rome, we hittin’ Fort Greene after this. You runnin’?” one of them asked, spinning a ball in his palm.Rome smirked. “Man, you know I’m always ready.” He glanced over his shoulder at Jermaine. “Maine, you rollin’?”Jermaine didn’t even hesitate. “You already know.”Niq came weaving through the crowd, juggling a stack of papers and her bag. “Y’all goin’ to hoop?” she asked.“Yeah,” Jermaine said, pulling his hoodie over his head. “You comin’?”She shook her head, a little smile on her face. “Nah, I got a meeting with the committee. Valedictorian life.” She gave him a look that said Don’t get in trouble before heading the opposite way.Before she left, she leaned in toward Rome, kissed him quick like it was nothing, and told him she’d text later.By the time Rome’s Durango swung into the Fort Greene lot, the courts were already loud—ball smacking asphalt, chains rattling, trash talk flying over the summer air.Jermaine stepped out, duffel slung over his shoulder, eyes scanning out of habit. Rome was already dapping up a few Royalists posted by the benches.That’s when he saw her—Lia—posted near the far fence with a small crowd. Deion was right beside her, rocking his usual smug grin, flanked by a few DeWitt Set boys in matching fitteds and gold chains. They were posted up like they owned the joint.Jermaine didn’t say a word. Just adjusted his bag and kept walking toward the court.Deion noticed Jermaine before Jermaine even clocked him. Instead of coming at him head-on, he leaned back against the fence, hands in his pockets, voice light like they were just having a friendly chat.“So,” he said with a little grin, “I heard the Little Prince doesn’t think hoop dreams are worth it. Says it’s too cliché.”The words were casual, but his tone wasn’t—there was that undercurrent, like he wanted Jermaine to know he’d been talking to Lia, and he was comfortable enough standing in her shadow to play it off.Jermaine didn’t break stride. He just shot him a calm look and said,“Just because you’re cool, limiting your life and potential doesn’t mean you gotta trample on others.”Deion smirked like he’d just gotten exactly what he wanted, and Jermaine kept walking, not giving him the satisfaction of looking back.The next game was already calling. Shirts vs. skins. Rome tossed Jermaine a ball to warm up. The sun was dipping behind the buildings, painting the court in gold, and for a second, Jermaine forgot about all the other. The first run was light work. Rome was bullying in the post, cleaning the glass like it was personal. Jermaine played off him, hitting step-backs and slipping through defenders with that smooth, no-wasted-movement type of game.The crowd around the court thickened quickly. Word always spread fast when Rome and Jermaine ran together—like you knew you were about to see something.Second game, they switched up. Jermaine took point, running the floor, dimming up teammates, pulling from deep just to hear the “oooh” from the sideline. Rome laughed after one no-look bounce pass from Jermaine dropped perfectly into his hands for a dunk.By the end of that game, both of them were grinning, sweat dripping, the chain nets still swinging.That’s when the sideline chatter shifted. A couple of heads turned toward the park entrance. Somebody muttered, “Yo… Kash just pulled up.”Sure enough, there he was—Kash and his crew, all matching energy like they walked in here on a mission. They didn’t head straight to the bench. Nah, they leaned against the fence, eyes locked on the game, waiting for their turn.Rome glanced at Jermaine with a look that said Here we go. Jermaine just spun the ball in his hands, that calm, low-burn expression settling in.The next run started up, but it wasn’t the same vibe. You could feel Kash’s presence even from across the court—loud laughs, comments just low enough to make you wonder if they were aimed at you.Jermaine didn’t bite. He kept running the offense, hitting midrange pull-ups, swinging the ball when the defense collapsed. Rome was the one calling for the ball more, clearly itching to keep their momentum rolling.On the sideline, Kash leaned over to one of his boys. “Ain’t no way they think they run this park,” he said, voice carrying just enough for the nearby crowd to hear. People smirked, eyes darting between him and Jermaine.After a missed layup, Jermaine jogged back on defense and caught Kash looking dead at him. Kash just smirked, tapping his wrist like time’s almost up.Meanwhile, Rome was chirping with one of the Royalist kids in the crowd, keeping things light. He was the buffer without even realizing it.Jermaine? He was locked in, but not in a flashy way. He’d been here before—he knew if he jumped too early, Kash would win without even touching the ball.Every possession, the noise from the fence got louder. Every bucket, more eyes shifted from the game to the tension brewing on the sideline.It was only a matter of time.The last game wrapped with a one-handed dunk from Rome that had the fence rattling. The crowd noise swelled, and before the ball even hit the pavement, Kash was already peeling his hoodie off.“Aight,” he said, strolling to half court like it was his birthright. “Our run.”One of his boys scooped up the ball and spun it in his palms. “Who y’all got?”Rome didn’t even look at Jermaine—he knew the answer. “We’re running it back.”That’s when Kash’s eyes found Jermaine, and the smirk followed. “Perfect,” he said, like this was the moment he’d been waiting on all day.The two squads lined up. Kash had his usual crew—big bodies, trash talkers, one sniper on the wing. Jermaine’s side was Rome, two of the Royalist kids, and a wiry guard who could defend.First possession, Kash called for the ball at the top. He didn’t rush it—just jabbed, rocked, and tested the air between him and Jermaine. “Hope you stretched, little prince.”Jermaine didn’t answer. Just sank into his stance, eyes locked, hands loose.The game started with bumps and grabs that had nothing to do with basketball. They weren’t even playing for the scoreboard yet—they were playing for the first crack in the other’s composure.By the second possession, the whole park had shifted closer.Everyone knew this wasn’t about hoops anymore.Kash’s first drive was all power—lowered shoulder, two hard dribbles, and a spin into the lane. Jermaine slid with him, chest firm, but Kash still muscled in a layup off the glass.“Too small,” Kash muttered on the jog back, flashing a grin at the sideline.Jermaine caught the inbound, walked it up slow. He didn’t even look at Rome waving for the ball—this one was personal. Quick cross, hesitation, step into a pull-up from just inside the arc. Net barely moved.Rome nodded. “Yup… talk to him.”Next trip, Kash went at him again—same set-up, but Jermaine anticipated the spin. He stripped it clean, the ball bouncing toward half court. Jermaine scooped it and pushed, drawing Kash in before whipping a behind-the-back pass to Rome for the dunk.“Keep watching, you might learn something,” Jermaine said under his breath as they ran back.It kept going like that—Kash trying to bully his way to buckets, Jermaine answering with footwork and midrange touch.By the fifth possession, the trash talk was just background noise to the way they were mirroring each other’s energy. Sweat dripping, sneakers squeaking sharply on the blacktop, neither one blinking.The score was tight, but nobody cared about that.This was a battle over respect.And neither one was giving an inch.Ball checked at the top. Game point. The winner takes it.Kash palmed the rock like he already owned the moment, bouncing it slowly, looking Jermaine dead in the eye.“You gon fold like last time,” he said, voice low but loud enough for the crowd to eat it up.First step, Kash burst left, sharp crossover right. Jermaine slid, stayed glued. Another hard dribble, Kash spun into the lane like he’d done all game. But Jermaine was already there, chest up, hands out. Ball popped loose.It was all instinct after that. Jermaine scooped it before it even hit the ground, turned, and pushed off. Kash was still pivoting to recover when Jermaine pulled up from deep, just beyond the arc.The ball hung in the air a second too long.Then—swish.The court erupted.Rome grabbed him in a half-hug, shaking him. “That’s my brother, boy!”Kash’s jaw clenched. He didn’t move at first, just stared. Then he barked out, “Man, lucky shot,” before stepping up close enough for Jermaine to smell his breath.“Enjoy it while you can, Little Prince,” Kash said, voice dipped in venom. “You know they only cheer ’cause they think your daddy got pull.”“Shame your mom ain’t here to see it. She would’ve loved to clap for her little prince.”Jermaine’s eyes darkened, chest rising slowly.Kash didn’t stop. “Funny, though, Nasir can talk about savin’ the block all he wants, but he couldn’t save her when it counted. Couldn’t even keep his own house safe.”Rome’s voice cut through, “Yo, chill—” but it was too late.Jermaine didn’t shove him. He stepped in and cracked Kash across the jaw with a heavy right hook that echoed off the backboard. Kash’s head snapped, body tilting before he hit the pavement.A couple of DeWitt Set runners jumped in, swinging wildly. Rome was there in a heartbeat, grabbing one by the hoodie, dropping another with a shoulder check.Shouts filled the air, bodies rushing in from both ends of the court—chaos brewing until the sharp pop-pop-pop of gunfire cut everything in half.The gunshots cracked through the park like thunder—short, sharp, and close.Everybody scattered.The sound of sneakers slapping the blacktop turned into the slap of palms hitting chain-link. Bags hit the ground. Someone yelled, “Run!” and the whole court exploded into motion.Jermaine grabbed his bag without thinking, and Rome was already yanking him toward the exit. A DeWitt kid tripped near the baseline, crawling to the fence. The smell of hot metal and cheap gunpowder burned in the air.Another round went off. Too close.They pushed through the crowd, ducking low as they hit the path out of Fort Greene. A bike toppled over. Someone’s half-empty water bottle rolled across the pavement. Jermaine’s heartbeat felt louder than the shots.Rome’s Durango was parked half a block down. He fumbled the keys once before getting the doors open. They piled in—Rome in the driver’s seat, Jermaine riding shotgun.Rome threw it into drive, swerving around a delivery truck just as another volley of shots echoed behind them.Jermaine glanced out the window. For a split second, he caught sight of Melo’s sedan parked at the corner, headlights off. Melo’s face was calm but locked in, a phone to his ear.Somewhere on the other end of that call, Nasir was getting the news.Melo watched the Durango peel off, tires squealing as Rome floored it through the intersection.He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, just leaned back in the driver’s seat and let the chaos in the distance play out in his mirrors. Sirens were already winding up somewhere deeper in Brooklyn, but they weren’t here yet.He slid his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering for a second before he tapped Nasir’s contact. The line clicked twice before a voice picked up.“They’re good,” Melo said low, eyes still locked on the street where the park sat hidden behind the row of brick buildings. “But trouble just put a name to itself.”A pause. He could hear Nasir’s breathing on the other end—measured, patient, dangerous.“Who?”“Kash,” Melo replied. “Ran his mouth. Took it too far. Maine cracked him. DeWitt boys jumped, shots fired. They aim sloppily, but it’s heat. Feels like the kind that don’t cool off quickly.”Another pause, longer this time.Then Nasir’s voice, calm enough to make Melo grip the wheel a little tighter.“Keep him close. If Kash’s people don’t make a move, someone else will. And Melo—”“Yeah?”“Make sure my son understands… some storms don’t give you time to open an umbrella.”
