Hello World, what a year to jump back on/in and breathe life back into one of my faves. How I've missed this...

Here's a short one before a long one...

As always, enjoy x

Monday 1st May 2017, 7.08am, Ravenswood Houses, South Jamaica, Queens

The first day of spring was supposed to bring with it an end to April showers, cherry blossoms, and the chance to wear something pastel. Instead it brought a fruitless door-to-door canvas in a Queens housing project in the torrential rain and worse news than her husband's heavy-handed telephonic meddling.

"Hey Carter. I'm giving you my best material here…" Fusco interrupted her thoughts.

"Sorry. You won't believe what he did."

"I would. 'Cause I know him. And I know you're gonna be complaining about the same thing for a long time coming." That was enough to make her crack a smile. "Guess what? Benchmark Recovery Centre has a new outpatient." She drew a blank. "Noguerra. They sent the old Cap'n to rehab 'cause of that stunt the best boy pulled."

It was supposed to make her happy – John was over the moon at his victory – but instead it made her mad. "How much more…? How many ti…?"

He elbowed her on the way to apartment 706. "You know what they say, 'til death and all that."

"Yeah…and all that."

The 6 was missing from the green door. "What'chu you want?"

"We're Detectives Carter and Fusco, here about the shooting last night. Can we come in and talk?"

"Nah, I ain't seen nothing and I know my rights…" Slam.

6.30pm, Cece's House, Waverly, South Carolina

"Percocets, molly, Percocets. Percocets, molly, Percocets. Rep the set, gotta rep the set…"

For a parent who had seen her only son through fourteen years of Football all the way to a Division I school, CeCe should've seen it coming. Reggie wasn't as eager about her coming along to his games anymore, and hadn't been in months. Her mother remarked that she hadn't seen him on the field in the televised game against the Georgia Bulldogs last week, but she wrote it off as bad editing. Reggie had been spending more time at home lately, vegging out on his bed to music she would rather not hear. Cece should've seen it coming but that didn't make the letter any easier to read or its words any easier to swallow.

In accordance with NCAA compliance guidance, Aid based in any degree on athletics ability cannot be awarded in excess of one academic year; the decision of whether a student-athlete is awarded institutional financial aid is made on a year-by-year or term-by-term basis, depending on the regulations of the institution.

All financial aid, whether academic, athletic, needs-based, or otherwise, is granted on the discretion of the University of South Carolina.

It is with regret that the University of South Carolina seeks to inform you of non-renewal of the financial aid for Reginald DuChamp in the form of an athletic scholarship in the academic year 2017-2018…

"Percocets, molly, Percocets. Percocets, molly, Percocets. Rep the set, gotta rep the s…"

Reggie was startled by his headphones being snatched off his head replacing Future's voice with his mom's. "What the hell is this?" Reggie couldn't play dumb about the letter or its contents when guilt was written all over his face. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Uhhh…"

"Uhhh?" She repeated. "Uhhh, what, Reggie? Damn!"

Reggie thought fast on the same feet he couldn't connect with his brain these days. If he was ever college cattle, his rump was expired meat and the coach was more than ready to cut the fat. The best offense is defense, he remembered. So in true fashion, he lived up to his name and blamed his absent father. "It was all good 'til he showed up. If he never came to the game, or the scrimmage, or Summerville, I'd still be on the team."

CeCe couldn't believe what she was hearing. Actually, she could, because the voice of the father was coming through their son and he didn't even know it. Years of lies, confusion, empty words, broken promises, pillow talk, and deflection came to mind. "You think so?" She asked incredulously, hoping he was joking.

"Well, yeah." Poor naïve Reggie.

"You know what I think? I think we don't have money for you to strut around campus like a damn peacock, messing up the one good thing you got going for you, Reggie." The rising inflections of her voice hit him where it hurt, and her insinuation that catching a ball and running were his only strong points sucker-punched him.

"The one good thing?" Despite his low performance and rampant promiscuity, he was a decent student.

"You know what I mean, the best thing. You wanted to go pro. You wanted to be the next T.O. How the hell is that s'posed to happen if you can't keep your ass on a college team?"

Whether it was her clapping between syllables, her raised voice, or his bruised ego talking, all Reggie could think was The best offense is defense. "I. Didn't. Let. Him. In." His scattato delivery did was intended. It stung. In fact, it stung them both; the disrespect from mother to son combined with the full force of 21 years on Big Reggie's emo-sexual merry-go-round and the painful realisation she had raised him to act just like his father, carried her hot slap across his face. And it stung. It stung like humiliation. It stung like failure. He caught her heat and anger and it induced blinding tears. CeCe held her stinging right hand to her chest, cradled it with the left to stop it from shaking. She could hear her breath flying through her nostrils. Reggie's double entendre wasn't lost on her, it gave her ammunition. And it was true. This time, she'd taken him on the merry-go-round with her and they both fell off; discarded on the wet and muddy fairground.

She cleared her throat in an attempt to regain her composure, something she learnt from her mother Cammelia. "I can't afford USC and the mortgage at the same damn time. You gotta transfer."

Reggie shook his head instinctively because SC State was Not. An. Option. He could not walk the grounds of the same campus where his father was the coach of a football team he couldn't play on. A good coach if the scrimmage was anything to go by. "I can't."

"Reggie. I can't afford it." She snapped him out of his delusion. "It's over."

Four months later, Monday 18th September 2017, 1.35pm, Matero Apartment Complex, Roosevelt Island, East River, Manhattan, New York

Harold had grown pastier during the summer, due to his meticulous and sustained work on the latest upgrade to The Machine. Being indoors for 18 hours a day had given him great clarity; the crimson-haired beauty would never be his, Sameen Shaw was seldom wrong (though he would never voice that out loud) and he sorely missed the company, conversation and scent of a certain brunette.

"Roses?" Zoe looked down at the pink and cream bouquet, he was the first adult visitor she'd had in six months who didn't work in healthcare.

"Cammelias, you'd be deceived but fortunately they don't have thorns."

"Good afternoon to you too, Harold."

"Where are my manners? It's a pleasure to see you, Ms. Morgan."

She blushed and didn't know why. "If you call me Zoe, you can join us for lunch."