Bright lights and digital explosions flashed across Richaun's face. The rest of his room was soaked in darkness, the monitor his only source of light. A chime from his phone made him forget his round of Warzone for a second. He set his controller down, checking the message from "Cuz", finding a link to a video clip with the attached message "this lil nigga talkin crazy".
Richaun's face was already curling into a snarl based on the preview—a close of up Tyrese Samuel's face. He clicked play, cranking up the volume as he listened to Ty's words.
'… loud and clear. I don't give a fuck about a pampered, lazy, propped up piece of shit who's been sitting on his ass doing nothing since last year.'
Richaun couldn't help but laugh, a sharp grin spreading across his face. He rolled back the video, listening to it again, confirming Ty was talking about him. He didn't know if Ty's balls were too big for his own good, or if his brain was missing.
He searched for the tournament results, though already knew what he'd find. The Dominguez Dons had won and were now on a collision course with the South Miami Cobras. Perfect. Those Dons were in for a rude awakening.
But calling him out like that? Lazy and pampered? Propped up?! Who the fuck did Tyrese Samuels think he was? If anybody was propped up, it was Ty. That little bitch was the number one? Not just CB but out of ALL defensive players in the nation? Bullshit. What had he done to earn that? A tiny worthless school like Dominguez gets one taste of success and they suddenly think they're hot shit? Reality hit hard, and it was gonna hit the Dons hardest of all.
Richaun switched back to his messages, replying to Cuz: "need a session".
An answer came quickly. "pick you up soon cuz".
Richaun got up, switching off his console, he started packing his bag, only needing a few things—cleats, mouthguard, gloves, and a ball.
His footsteps echoed as he ventured down the stairs, expansive, dark, and empty halls and rooms spread out before him. He was sure others were home, but with how big the house was they could spend all day without running into each other.
He slammed the heavy front door behind him, automatic lights flicking on, lighting up the Howard's section of their cul-de-sac. Stones crunched underfoot as he crossed the garden to the long driveway, ignoring the carved out, mosaic path.
In the heart of winter, the nights were finally getting cold in Miami, though in only a black tank top and a pair of baggy sweats, Richaun didn't seem to feel it, even if his breath fogged up before him as he waited for his ride.
Scrolling through his phone, scrolled away the minutes. Thumping music filled the quiet street well before the car pulled into view.
The blacked out Hellcat rolled through the street, circling around before coming to a stop in front of Richaun. Even with the heavily tinted windows still up, the heavy trap beats and vocals of Future came through clearly. Nobody ever accused Richaun's cousins of having more than basic taste.
With a mechanical whirr, the passenger side window lowered, revealing two near-identical figures. Both faces were the same—flat noses sitting between two spread out eyes gave them a bit of a dopey look, but that was just a cover on otherwise sleek faces; looking deeper into those golden-brown eyes revealed a predatory edge; gold flashed in their grins, but neither carried the shark-like teeth Richaun's did.
Distinctions could be made between the twins in a few ways. Both had the same hair style, low fades leading into a mess of twists on top, though each twin came with a different colour. Dewayne had silver hair, and Jamal's was gold—which he liked to say meant he was the number one twin, even if he came out a couple of minutes after his older brother.
They dressed similarly, both wearing an all black pullover hoodie repping the University of Miami—both were Hurricanes—with matching sweatpants. However, Jamal accessorised with a gold chain and watch. In favour of jewellery, tattoos altered Dewayne's fit, inked along most of his torso, all Richaun could see of his artwork at the moment were the letters G.O.A.T. across the knuckles of his right hand, and a large cross along his neck.
'Whaddup, Cuz?' Richaun said, leaning down to dap up Dewayne first, then reaching in to do the same with Jamal over in the driver's seat.
'Was good, nigga?' they responded.
Dewayne looked him up and down. 'Ain't you cold in that shit, Cuz?'
Jamal thumped his brother's chest. 'This nigga ain't ever cold. You know he got that fire burnin' him up inside. But hurry up and get in, and close that window, bro. Just 'cause he ain't get cold don't mean I ain't gon' freeze my balls off here.'
Richaun yanked open the back door, dumping his bag inside before hopping in after it. He leaned through the opening in the middle of the front seat, putting himself more on his older cousins' level. 'Let's go. Gon' be a long one.'
'You see that video huh?' Jamal asked, his grin reflected in the rear-view mirror. The engine roared as he gunned it, peeling out of the street with a squeal of spinning tires, leaving a thin trail of smoke in their wake.
'Y'all high school niggas is crazy now,' Dewayne said. 'Playin' in Vegas, gettin' on TV an' shit, gettin' interviewed an' shit. We ain't even been interviewed like that before.'
'Shit I'd like to be interviewed by that sexy little snowbunny. You see the way she was lookin' at that lil nigga?' Jamal laughed. 'How much you wanna bet he hit that shit after the cameras was off?'
Dewayne bust out laughing. 'Yo! Shiiit. If that was me I woulda tapped that.'
'When you beat that lil nigga, cuz, I bet she'll let you hit.'
Richaun stayed quiet. They certainly talked enough for him. He loved his big cousins, but they could never see the important picture. They were good ballers—he'd been watching, and learning from them for as long as he could remember—but they had so much wasted potential. They focused on the wrong things. Which is why they'd both be lucky to get drafted.
'All I know is he's been talking too much shit 'cause a bunch of pussy-ass niggas been lettin' him get away with it. Not me though.'
'Yeeaaah, damn right, Cuz.' Dewayne twisted around in his seat, dapping Richaun up again.
'You been watchin' the games?' Jamal asked.
'Shit, man, them games been wild. You seen that tall-ass white nigga? Who he playing for … some country-ass middle-of-nowhere fuckin' team.'
Richaun shrugged. 'There's nobody impressive.'
'Not even this lil nigga callin' you out?' Jamal asked.
'Hah. Nah, he ain't shit. Imma dog walk him, just you watch.'
'Hell yeah, Cuz.'
Richaun's focus homed back in on Tyrese Samuels as the drive continued. Quiet, peaceful streets were briefly disturbed by the roar of the engine and the deep thrum of the speaker's enhanced bass as the trio flew by.
Soon they came to a small facility draped in shadow. The parking lot was empty, and not another sound could be heard after the Howards got out of the car and shut it off. Richaun pulled his gloves on, strapping them tight as his older cousins lead the way to the door.
'Yo, you got the key, D?' Jamal asked after patting down his own pockets.
'Yeah I got chu lil bro.' Dewayne stepped up to the door and swiped a card over the electric lock. With a beep the door popped open. Dewayne held it open for the others, grinning. 'Bitches first.'
'Fuck you, nigga,' Jamal said, shoving him aside as he entered.
Richaun shook his head. As he followed Jamal he muttered: 'Dumbass.'
Walking further in, their footsteps echoed from deeper within the darkness. Jamal led the way with a practised confidence, fingers feathering along the wall as a guideline as he turned through the corridors. He came to a light switch, flicking it on with a solid thud.
Bright lights shone through a wide doorway and illumined a football field, one that looked as if it'd been squished in on itself. It was narrow, with barriers acting as the sidelines, but it would work for what they needed that night.
The arena had been defunct, whatever worthless team it belonged to run out of town a long time ago, when the Howards bought the place. Now it was their own private training facility. Some 'Canes used it in their off-season, the Cobras did too, but it was always theirs. Richaun had worked out here with his big cousins more than any other place. It was funny in an ironic way. Richaun would bet the twins will end up in a place just like it after college.
'You prolly ain't even need to get warmed up, huh, Cuz?' Jamal asked.
Richaun shook his head. 'Let me get my shit on and I'm good.'
The older boys chuckled. Their "lil cuz" was a freak for sure, with his weird teeth and internal furnace, but he was always entertaining. Whilst Richaun got his cleats on, the twins warmed up, stretching out their legs, then tossing the ball back and forth until he was ready.
'Yo, Dewayne, go get that pull-band thing,' Jamal said.
'Why the fuck I gotta get it? Why don't you get it?'
Richaun stood, stomping his cleats to ensure they were on tight. 'Where is it?'
Smirking, the twins pointed back to the door they came through. 'Right, way down the hall, then it'll say on the left. Oh and get the Jugs, too.'
Richaun flipped them off as he departed. A quick jog to the storage, followed by sorting through the various pieces of equipment before getting both the throwing machine and an elastic band, he bundled it all together and brought it back.
Jamal got to work setting up the machine, whilst Dewayne took the band, draping it around Richaun's waist. 'Yah, nigga, yah!'
Richaun leaned into his stance, then burst ahead, the band tightening around him as Dewayne held on tight, trying to drag him back even as he ran forward. He grit his teeth, pulling Dewayne along behind him as he trudged through the turf, eventually making a lap up and down the field.
Once they were back to their starting position, Jamal swapped places with Dewayne, and went on his own ride as Richaun won the extensive game of tug-of-war, dragging his other cousin across the field and back as well.
After that, both twins grabbed one end of the band, grinning at Richaun. 'Let's get it, Cuz.'
'You want it bad, don't chu, nigga? Take it then. C'mon. You can't let nobody stop you.'
Richaun turned away from them, shaking out his legs before he set down in a sprinter's stance. He lunged forward, teeth grinding as he almost fell on his face. He caught himself, crawling on all fours to build up his momentum as the twins dug their heels in, trying to yank him back. He pulled against them, straightening, body straining as he slowly inched forward, the twins cheering him on.
Sweat covered Richaun's body by the time he returned to the starting point. He rested on his hands and knees for a moment, catching his breath. The twins freed him from the band, but they didn't give him a moment's respite.
'Get up, nigga. You gon' dog-walk somebody, ain't ya? You ain't dog-walking nobody like that. C'mon, show me a dog walk, nigga.'
Not a dog walk, but a bear crawl was next. Richaun clawed his way up the field, tearing through the turf as he hurried along as fast he could. Which, inevitably was quite slow as Jamal and Dewayne took turns pressing on his shoulders, meeting him head-on and shoving him back.
He snarled in their grinning faces as they looked down at him. Golden brown eyes turned deep black, faces morphed to Ty's, grins no longer shone, but were sharp reflections of his own. Muscles and veins bulged along his neck, shoulders, forearms, and throughout his legs as he pushed harder, almost knocking Dewayne over.
'Yeah! That's that fire right there!' Jamal cheered, following along beside them. 'Just like that, nigga. He tryin' to take everything from you, nigga. You gon' let him?'
'Hell nah!' Dewayne said, straining as he skidded back. 'Nobody takin' shit from you, Cuz. You ain't a nobody, you gon' be number one!'
Richaun crawled up and down the field until his feet slipped out from under him and he collapsed. The twins still didn't let him stay down, not even to catch his breath.
'Get up, nigga, get up!'
They pulled him back to his feet. His only reprieve was when they retrieved the band again and looped it around his waist. They let the ends lay on the ground splayed out to his sides, then each stood on one with Richaun between them.
'These other niggas think they got bunnies,' Jamal said, leaning close to Richaun's ear. 'They ain't got shit! You gon' let 'em jump higher than you?'
'You gon' let 'em jump over you and send you to the back of the rankings? Dewayne asked, shouting in his other ear. 'Hell nah, Cuz!'
He jumped, reaching up towards the ceiling, stretching out as far as he could. The band snapped taut and yanked him back down. He sprung back up, trying to reach higher, trying to snap free of the band entirely.
Over and over he leapt into the air, reaching for the stars. He could see Tyrese and Kentavious up there, flying about. Both number one while he was forgotten on the ground. Number two was just the first loser; he wasn't a loser.
He jumped without pause, bouncing up and down like he was manic. The twins watched him closely, letting him sprint through these rapid jumps for a minute before they stopped him, holding his shoulders down, thumping his chest. Those thumps didn't help his burning lungs suck in more air, but he had no air with which to form words to make a complaint.
His legs wobbled as they sat him down on the grass. 'That was good shit, Cuz,' Dewayne said.
'You can jump over all those niggas. Ain't no-one gon' stop you,' Jamal said. They pat his shoulders firmly. Jamal nodded towards Richaun's bag. 'Go get his mouthguard.'
Dewayne was about to complain, but thought better of it, flipping Jamal off before going and grabbing Richaun's bag, bringing it back to him. 'Put your mouthguard in, Cuz.'
'We only just started,' Jamal said.
Richaun's teeth clamped around his specially made mouthguard, sinking into it. His tongue felt at the rubber object; it always took some time to get used to the feeling. The twins escorted him to one end-zone, then lined up opposite him.
Jamal gestured over his own shoulder. 'Drills simple. Get to the other end. We gon' stop you, though.'
Richaun eyed them. The twins were skinny, but though they had a wiry strength about them, they weren't an unmanageable weight. Still, they were tall—both standing slightly taller than he at six feet two inches (180 cm)—and long with six-six wingspans (198 cm), and fast. Plus, with his need of a mouthguard, he knew they weren't about to play nice. Based on his childhood, Richaun didn't think the twins knew the meaning of gentle.
He cracked his neck. 'Ready?'
'Whenever you are, Cuz.'
'You think you big now, nigga? Let's see.'
They'd barely finished talking before Richaun darted for the gap between them. Two hands smacked into his chest, one more hitting his throat, as they shoved him back. He stumbled but kept his feet, dodging aside as they followed, unrelenting in their pursuit.
He pushed through, snarling again. He slapped hands away, gripping wrists and shoving them aside, even burrowed his head against them, leaning his shoulders into their midsections, anything to gain even an inch of ground. It wasn't only once that he copped a whack to the throat. His nose was mushed, his face slapped, head shoved aside, his hair even got pulled at one point. But he persevered, never surrendering.
Richaun fought more like a wild tiger than Elliot Wall or anyone from Neville had. He was ferocious, swiping, slashing. Even his footwork on his cuts was more feral. Not a graceful dance of any kind, but like a beast on the prowl, hunting down their prey.
His progress was slow going, taking three steps forward, then being pushed back two, but if the twins were unrelenting, so was he. They were strong, but he had to be stronger. They were good, but he had to be great. He was making it to the league. NFL not some bullshit arena league. Not just the NFL, but he was gonna be number one. Number one pick, number one WR, number one GOAT. He HAD to be number one.
When he reached the opposite end-zone, the twins moved away, and he fell to the ground now that the barrier he'd been so desperately pushing against was suddenly pulled out from under him. He panted hard, and the twins finally let him.
They both left him be as they moved over to the throwing machine, double-checking it was set up correctly. Once they were sure it was, they called Richaun over.
He pushed himself up, jogging over even as his body called for more rest. Jamal manned the machine, ball at the ready, whilst Dewayne stepped out and met Richaun. 'Ready for some one-on-one, Cuz?'
Richaun answered by settling into his stance. The twins laughed, and Jamal started the snap-count. 'Aye, blue-forty-two. Set. Set-hut!'
Richaun shot forward, and Dewayne latched onto him, snagging his tank top with no shame, clinging to it constantly as Richaun tried to shake loose. The fabric nearly tore as he swatted Dewayne's hands aside, cutting into his deep Cross as Jamal had called for with their colour code. The ball fired into the air, but even with a dive Richaun fell short.
He growled as he stood, dusting himself off. 'Aye nice hold, nigga. You know your ass can't guard shit.'
'Hold?' Dewayne said, playing. 'I ain't hold shit. You see anything, lil bro?'
Jamal had the smuggest look on his face as he stared at Richaun. 'Nah, I ain't see shit. That was clean. Yo ass got locked up, nigga.'
'Oh yeah? 'Ight, I see how it is. You niggas wanna play prison? Bet.' Richaun pulled his top off, tossing it aside as he walked back to his mark. The twins snickered, switching places.
Jamal was already pushing and prodding at Richaun before Dewayne had given the signal. 'What's the matter, nigga? You gettin' mad? You ain't think them other niggas gon' play dirty? You know they gon' get the calls. Them D-B's always nasty as fuck, always gettin' away with EVERYTHING.'
'Green-nineteen. Hut!'
Richaun pushed through Jamal, though it was a slow way to start his route. He could hear the machine whirring, the feeder ticking forward ever so slightly; he had little time to waste. But Jamal grabbed onto him, even without a shirt to hold onto, he was happy sinking nails into Richaun's arms if that's what it took to cling to his sweat-slickened skin.
Richaun rushed forward, then cut out, shoving Jamal off, nails raking through his skin. He turned into the Out route and lunged, but again fell short of the ball. He punched the ground, exploding back up. 'AGAIN!' he demanded.
The twins kept switching out after every attempt, and the longer the drill went on, the more blatant their cheating became. Richaun kept his complaints to himself after the first instance. He struggled through, and managed to reel in a few catches. The twins were good, but they were WRs, not DBs, and their defence was much more lacking then their offence, even if it was still a stalwart, dirty wall.
If Richaun could keep his feet, and prevent his older cousins from dragging him down, he could get to the ball no matter the route. Eventually he built a rhythm were he had consecutive catches no matter the match-up. Then came another round against Jamal.
'You think you hot shit just 'cause a few catches, huh, nigga?' Jamal said.
Richaun grinned around his mouthguard. Dewayne placed the ball in the feeder and Richaun burst forward, shoving back Jamal's press. He was too slippery to hold, weaving up the field, he shimmied out then shot across on a Post route.
As he turned the corner, Jamal tried to cut across in front of him. An elbow slammed into Richaun's face, rocking him. A sharp ache throbbed from his nose and spread throughout his face as he stumbled but kept his feet. He heard the ball fire out of the machine and looked around, spotting the blurry object flying towards them. Jamal snatched one of Richaun's arms, pulling it back, but Richaun lunged with the other, clamping his fingers around the ball as he fell to the ground, securing the catch.
Jamal stopped by Richaun's side. 'Shit, you good, nigga?'
'Yo Cuz, you good?' Dewayne jogged over.
Richaun popped back up to his feet, grinning even as blood flowed from his nose. He spat out his mouthguard, tongue already running over his teeth, making sure they were all still there. 'Yo Jamal. You hit like a bitch.'
The three howled with laughter, Jamal putting Richaun in a headlock. Richaun couldn't help but grin, blood staining his teeth. Nobody could stand against him. He knew he was the one. His tongue reached out, swiping up his own blood.
The twins took Richaun back home, swerving through the empty streets, windows down despite the cold air, blasting Young Thug from their speakers.
Richaun sat in the back, remnants of dried, cracked blood still clinging to his upper lip. The twins were rapping along. He wasn't paying attention. His focus had been drawn back to his phone as he rewatched Ty's interview on repeat.
It didn't matter if Ty was a number one—it was a falsehood. Even so, somehow the rest of the world had been fooled by his antics. If they thought he was legit, all the better for Richaun once he beat the brakes off Ty. A stepping stone, that's all Ty was. A way to showcase Richaun was truly number one. Then there'd only be another speedbump in his path to the other false idol.
If anyone's destiny led them to Kentavious Rice Junior and the Longhorns, it was Richaun's. He was the real number one, all others were fake. But he didn't mind using them to show the world the truth. Forget Paul Pierce, Richaun Howard was THE Truth.