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She dropped the tablet on the vanity and put her hand on her hip. “Listen, this is the busy season for me. I’m tryna get this money. Sleep is for lazy bitches,” she said, snatchin’ up her tablet.

“Now, do you want to commit to Celine? New York Fashion Week. February twelfth and thirteenth. One fashion show, one shoot. It’s a seven-figure deal. Easy money. What, Juvie? Yes or no?” she snapped.

I leaned against the vanity. “Yeah. What else?”

She scrolled through her tablet again, pulled up something else, and squealed. When she turned the tablet around, I saw why.

“Nike, five years, twenty-two million per year, with the option to extend your contract,” she said, turning the tablet toward me to highlight the number.

I grabbed the tablet and looked at the number on the screen. “Fuck. Nike doin’ it like that? How the fuck you negotiate this shit?”

She dropped into a chair and grinned. “I told you… Mercer Sports does everything better. When I make you money, I make more. Ima make sure we both stay rich.” She crossed her legs and leaned back in the seat. “So, is that a yes or a no?”

“Hell yeah! You ain’t playin’,” I said, still starin’ at the screen.

“Oh, the last one is somethin’ different, but you said community outreach. There are so many under-funded or owner-operated youth sports programs across the DMV—Little League baseball, football, all of it. I compiled a list that Nike would love to donate to. They just need you to show up, be yourself, and engage.”

I shook my head, thinkin’. “Shit, I can make my own donations for that. I don’t want them to feel like I don’t give a fuck. You know I ain’t built to be sellin’ kids lies and shit.”

“That’s a part of your contract. I made sure I put that in there. I made it clear how important it is for you to give back, and who you wanted to do it for. If you wanna donate some of your own money, cool. But Nike knows, and I know how much this means to you. Take the free shit, alright.”

“You got it. Just give me the dates I need to show up, and I’ll be there.”

The door flew open, and the creative director came in with another watch for me to put on.

“Mr. Ross, this is the last one,” he said.

Juicy grabbed her tablet and followed him out. “I’ll step outside.”

I stood in the mirror, starin’ at my reflection, thinkin’ about what my life would be when I was finally fuckin’ free. Yusef called a fuckin’ meeting, and Ni was comin’ to the shoot today. She claimed it was for a public appearance since the blog shit, but Juicy had already handled it. I was sick of these mufuckas, but they had me by the balls. They kept reminding a nigga about what was owed. The only reason I was goin’ to that meeting was ’cause of those pictures Yusef sent and how foul Ni had been movin’. Bitch had the nerve to send my Granny some flowers. When I asked her why, she danced around my question. That was her fuckin’ daddy in her ear. I snapped the watch on my wrist, and my phone buzzed on the counter. When I saw the name on the screen, I frowned before I opened the message.

Ni: I’ll be there in 15 minutes.

I ain’t even respond to that shit; just dropped my phone on the vanity and walked out.

Back on set, the first person I saw was Juicy. She had her phone glued to her ear, pacin’ back and forth. She looked mad as hell.

“Tion… I know it ain’t your fault this time. But you need to stay the hell away from hoes, okay? Your PR team is on it. Your team is in the playoffs, and you cannot afford a scandal right now.”

She hung up on whoever Tion was and shoved her phone inside her purse. I walked up beside her, and she sighed.

“Promise me that I won’t have to handle any back-to-back scandals for you. This young nigga is driving me insane. Can’t keep his dick in his pants, can’t make it to meetings on time, and can’t stop fighting on the field. He just can’t do shit right!” she fussed.

“Damn. Remind me not to piss you off.”

She rolled her eyes, already pullin’ out her tablet. Her eyes looked tired, but she was still movin’ like it was nothin’. I shook it off and walked on set so they could hurry and take these pictures.

“Mr. Ross, sit in that chair, please.”

I dropped into the chair, and the whole room had their eyes on me, even Juicy. Havin’ this many people look at me was cool when I was ballin’, but takin’ a bunch of pictures of me was somethin’ different.

“Okay, look to your left. Relax your shoulders… That’s it,” the photographer said.

He moved around, turnin’ camera angles. When I looked up, I saw another camera above me.

“Can someone blot Mr. Ross’ head? It’s a little shiny on camera,” the director asked.

Sav grabbed the towel off the table and walked onto the set, holdin’ back a laugh. She wiped my head, and then she finally broke and cracked up laughin’.