Young-Love

CHAPTER 4: ZURI'S POV II

“f**k the subway.”

“Z... language,” my pops muttered without even glancing at me, eyes still glued to that wrinkled-a*s MTA map like it was gonna reveal some secret treasure route outta poverty.

But nah, I said what I said.

Fuck. The. Subway.

This place? Straight-up smell like hot piss, disappointment, and rat s**t with a side of old sweat. You ever seen two raccoons fight over a crusty-a*s slice of dollar pizza while a dude with no shirt on plays the harmonica off-beat like he summoning demons? That’s today.

And these seats? Sticky. Not like gum sticky—mystery sticky.

“Yo, who raised y’all?” I mumbled under my breath, eyein’ the dude who just left his trash like this train his mama’s kitchen.

Train screeched into the station, and the doors flung open like they hated us. I looked around—same vibe, same broke faces, all of us stacked in like sardines on our way to God-knows-what. No smiles. Just survival.

“Queensbridge royalty, huh?” I scoffed, watching some old lady clutch her purse tighter when I stepped in. “Yeah... real royal.”

Meanwhile, them rich folks? Probably cruisin’ down 5th Ave with their chauffeurs, sippin’ imported sparkling water, postin’ dumb s**t like ‘grind mode’ on i********: while the rest of us out here grindin’ for real. They get traffic escorts. We get MetroCard errors.

I looked at my pops.

Cracked leather jacket, sneakers talkin’ to the sidewalk, eyes tired as hell... but still standin’.

Man, that’s my hero.

Nah, for real.

This dude? He ain’t never had s**t but still gave me everything. Yeah, he wild. Yeah, he messy. But he’s mine. He the reason I’m even on this train.

And today?

I’ma make him proud.

Today ain’t no regular day. It’s tryout day.

Queens High. That scholarship. That W. That golden fuckin’ ticket out this broke-a*s cycle.

I ain’t just hoopin’ for fun. This ain’t no rec league. This is survival. This is me shootin’ for food, for a future. This is me puttin’ all them late nights on the concrete court to work.

I’ma pull up like I own the court.

Crossover? Deadly.

Jumper? Clean.

Defense? Yo, they ain’t ready.

I ain’t just tryna make the team. I’m tryna be the name on the wall, the headline, the buzz. You feel me?

After that? WNBA, easy. I got the fire. Got the story. They gon’ eat that s**t up.

And my pops? He won’t ever touch another eviction notice. We movin’ outta that dusty apartment. No more heatin’ the crib with the oven. No more hot water arguments. Nah.

We out. Mansion. Backyard pool. Chef. Game room. Imported marble floors—f**k it, make the floors gold.

Whole neighbourhood gon’ be like “Yo, that’s Zuri Youngblood’s pops.”

I glanced at the floor of the train. Gum stains and old water marks stared back at me.

One day... one day I’ma tell this story on a podcast or somethin’. And people gon’ be like “Damn, she really came from that.”

The train shook as we pulled out the station. I grabbed the rail, chin up.

Queens High... get ready. Zuri Youngblood’s steppin’ in loud.

We pulled up to Queens High and my pops legit went speechless for a sec.

He stepped out the cab, neck craned back, starin’ at the building like it was the damn Empire State. Glass everywhere. That clean brickwork. Looked like some movie set where rich kids get lost and somehow find their real selves in the music room.

“Yo... this s**t huge,” he finally muttered, eyes wide.

I smirked, tossed my bag over my shoulder. “Yeah... ’bout to make this school my bitch.”

He didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t hit me with the usual “language” crap this time. Just nodded, real slow, and gave me a hard pat on the back like he was sending me into battle.

“Make me proud, Z,” he said, voice low.

I turned to face him. “Always do.”

“Remember the spin move I taught you. The fake-out too. That lil’ elbow flick—just enough to throw 'em off balance.”

I grinned. “Yeah, yeah, I remember. I been finessin’ that since middle school.”

He stepped back, proud as hell, eyes glintin’. But then—buzz buzz—his phone started goin’ off in his pocket.

He fumbled with it, checked the caller ID, then glanced at me real quick.

“Ayo... one sec,” he said, already walkin’ off toward the other side of the parking lot. “Gotta take this.”

I watched him go, the way he gripped that phone all tight, how his jaw locked up as soon as he put it to his ear. I couldn’t hear nothin', but his whole vibe shifted. No more chill dad energy. This was serious. His free hand started movin’ while he talked—like he was tryna explain somethin' fast.

I narrowed my eyes.

Somethin’ wasn’t right.

Couple minutes later, he came joggin’ back over like he ain’t just had a whole crisis behind the dumpster.

“What was that?” I asked, brows raised.

He gave me a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothin’. Just work. They need me.”

I squinted. “Work? You don’t got no job.”

He scratched the back of his head. “I got one. Started while you were in juvie.”

I stared at him.

Cap.

Big cap.

But I didn’t push—just yet.

“You sure this job don’t end with cuffs?”

He laughed, but it sounded hollow. “Nah, nah. Just some delivery s**t, nothin’ crazy.”

I didn’t buy it, but I let it slide. For now.

He stuck out his fist. I bumped mine into his. Then we did our secret handshake—left tap, right tap, elbow bump, two finger salute. Only us. Only Youngbloods.

“Stay safe,” I said.

He nodded. “Will do. Go kill it in there, Z. I’ll come scoop you after.”

As he turned to walk off, I watched him for a beat longer. That call... it wasn’t no Uber Eats type gig. That was business. Street business, I know cause he doesn’t want me to get involved in such again let alone just hearing about them.

My stomach twisted.

But I tucked that feelin’ deep.

I had a court to dominate.

Queens High was about to know exactly who Zuri Youngblood was.

###

The second I stepped into the gym, it hit me—this wasn’t some rickety neighbourhood rec center with flickering lights and leaky roofs. Nah. This was a whole arena. Hardwood floors so clean you could see your reflection in 'em. Bleachers stacked high like a movie set. Even the air smelled different—like polished ambition and sweat dreams.

I paused at the entrance, taking it all in. Girls were already warming up, stretching, layup lines in motion. Some looked just like me—hoodies, taped-up kicks, hunger in their eyes. A few were on the bench, eyes closed, whispering prayers like they needed divine intervention to make the team.

Then—

"Tiana?!" I shouted, eyes lockin’ on a familiar face mid-dribble.

She turned, her braids swinging as she grinned wide. “Zuri?! What’s good, baby girl?!”

We rushed toward each other like we hadn’t just been separated by five whole years and a lifetime of change. We hugged, all tight and messy.

“Damn, girl,” I said, pulling back to scan her. “You look like money.”

Tiana chuckled. “Please. This whole fit came from my cousin’s closet.”

I raised a brow. “Wait, what you even doin’ here? I thought y’all made it out the hood. Rich and chillin’ somewhere in Jersey?”

She shrugged. “Things changed. Parents split. Had to hustle all over again. Figured this was my shot too.”

I nodded slow, heart sinking a little. “Damn... I ain’t know.”

Before I could say more, I heard it—that sound. Low. Dry. Sharp like it carried weight.

“Ahem.”

I didn’t even have to turn to know who it was.

“Nigga we ain’t kids no more,” I said, straightening up. “I grew up. You can’t bully me no more.”

I spun around, and there he was.

Traevon Banks.

Same eyes. Same smirk. Just taller. Built like a full-grown man now, with arms and everything.

“Tr-Trae?” I stammered. “Um... nigga, is that you?

His grin widened. “In the flesh.”

My brain was short-circuitin’. This was the same boy who used to dunk Oreos in orange juice just to gross me out. The one who chased me around the projects with worms in his hand. But now? Now this dude had cheekbones. A jawline. Skin that looked like it glowed.

Tiana appeared beside us again and rolled her eyes. “Ay... Z, stop crushin’ on my bro. I’m deadass.”

“I’m not—! Psh, nah,” I said, heat creepin’ up my neck.

“Uh-huh,” she smirked.

I turned away. “He’s still a bully. Ain’t no way I’m crushin’ on him.”

Trae crossed his arms, that cocky lean setting in. “A’ight, so you wanna miss out some of the next Kobe Bryant?”

I scoffed. “Boy, please. You more of a Steph Curry type.”

“Oh, so you mean I’m good looking.” he smirked.

“No, you not—you gon’ need a pretty wife, to look good.”

Without thinking, he mumbled, “Seems you’ll have to marry me then.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Ugh—you two get a room!” Tiana scoffed.

Tweet!

Coach’s whistle cut through the gym like lightnin’.

Tryouts were starting.

I looked up at him. He looked down at me. Then just like that, the moment passed, for some reason my heart rate was increasin’—not from nervousness on the court, but it was about how Trae made me feel somethin’ I didn’t want to feel.

“Let’s get this bag,” I muttered.

“A’ight then,” Trae replied.

Game time.

###

The gym was dead silent after the last whistle blew. Everyone was pacing, breathing heavy, eyes darting like we was waitin’ for a verdict in court.

Almost a hundred kids had shown up, but only ten spots—five for the girls, five for the boys. You could feel the tension cracklin’ in the air like live wires.

Coaches stepped in with clipboards.

“Boys on the left, girls on the right,” one of them called out.

“This is it,” Tiana whispered. “Moment of truth.”

I crossed my fingers tight, heart poundin’ in my ears.

“The following five girls have made it for the Queens High basketball scholarship,” Coach said, voice loud and clear.

“In fifth place, we have... Tiana Ba—”

Tiana’s scream was so loud, it made me jump. She ran up and hugged me, tears spillin’ from her eyes.

I barely heard the next names.

“In second place for the boys category... Traevon Banks!”

Another scream. This one deeper, raw. I turned to see Trae fist-pumpin’ the air, teammates swarmin’ him.

This was it, my hands were sweatin'. Legs twitchy, the odds were too low now. One last slot but I needed to hear my name get called out—or it was bye-bye scholarship.

“And in first place... scoring 1,089 points overall in the girls’ category and doubles as the MVP for today... Zuri Youngblood.”

Everything paused.

I blinked.

Did he just—?

Cheers exploded around me. Tiana grabbed my shoulders, screamin’. Trae came runnin’, arms open like he was five again.

We crashed into each other in the center of the gym, laughin’, hollerin’, jumpin’ like kids back in the day. Like we was right back in the projects, playin’ on that busted rim with no net.

This wasn’t just a win.

This was a comeback.

This was family.

Tryouts had run longer than expected. By the time everything wrapped, the sun was dipping low behind the buildings. We had signed the scholarship forms, got some fancy documents, and each of us held a certificate that felt like a golden ticket out the mud.

We were still buzzin’ as we walked toward the lot, tryin’ to top each other’s best moment from the court.

“That no-look pass though?” Trae bragged.

“Man, that spin move I hit? I felt like Lisa Leslie,” I said.

Tiana bumped my shoulder. “Y’all saw when I sank that three at the buzzer? Don’t play with me.”

We were laughin’ and wildin’ until Tiana pointed ahead. “It’s Dad.”

Their pops was waitin’ in a black Nissan, engine runnin’.

Trae turned to me. “Yo, Z, you need a ride?”

I shook my head. “Nah. Pops is comin’ to scoop me. Said he’d be here.”

“Cool, cool,” he nodded. “A’ight catch you later, Z.”

We all hugged one last time—tight, warm, like we knew today meant somethin’ bigger. Then they climbed into their car, and I stood by the gate, lettin’ the moment breathe.

Minutes passed. Then more. I checked my phone. Nothin’.

Then from up the street, I saw a beat-up Honda slide into view. I knew that car. And I knew the two faces inside.

Uncle Roscoe. And Kiki.

My smile dropped. My gut sank.

Roscoe Mitchells wasn’t just anybody. He was Pops’ day one. Grew up in the projects together. Barely made it outta high school. g**g life had chewed them up and spit ‘em out scarred but loyal.

Roscoe was the kinda guy that only showed up when the streets had sumn’ to say. Whenever Roscoe came to get me, it meant one thing: My dad was in trouble.

“Let me guess,” I muttered as they walked up. “Cops got him again?”

Roscoe didn’t smile. Didn’t joke back. Just pulled me into a hug.

“I told him today to stay safe,” I said, voice low. “He never listens to me.”

Roscoe finally spoke. “I’ll explain everything, baby girl. First get in the car, dear.”