The rumble of a bus engine echoed down the street, followed by the sharp hiss of brakes. Tyrone glanced out the window just in time to see a black charter bus stop in front of the house.
"Showtime," he muttered.
Before he even reached the door, it burst open.
"Yo, Compton mansion, open up!" shouted Ector, stepping in like he owned the place. "Man, I can smell real food. I didn't even know that was possible in LA!"
Behind him came the rest of the team – Jesus, Novak, Grigori, Aliir, and Jean-Batiste – all talking, joking, and bumping into each other like a traveling circus. Coach Daniel followed last, holding a can of iced coffee and already looking tired.
"Boys," he said calmly, "remember – this is someone's home. Let's try to make it to dinner without breaking anything."
"Coach," said Novak, grinning, "I only break ankles."
"Yeah," muttered Grigori, ducking under the doorway, "and the floorboards."
They entered the living room, and the teenage chaos immediately clashed with the domestic chaos of a family with too many children. The twins, Tyrell and Tyrese, froze mid-argument, about the NBA 2K this time. Tristan, still humming Despicable Me songs, blinked up at them like they were aliens. Fourteen-year-old Sienna peeked out from the kitchen, while Seobhan rubbed her eyes and clutched her bunny tighter.
And then Mrs. Mason walked in.
Everybody stopped.
The 7'1" AD instinctively straightened his posture. JB froze mid-step, ducking his massive frame so he wouldn't hit the ceiling fan. Even Grigori, who normally looked like he could stare down a tank, blinked twice and said under his breath, "Your mother… is majestic."
"Good evening, boys," she said kindly. "You must be Tyrone's teammates."
"Yes, ma'am," said Ector, smiling wide – and then immediately, his mouth betrayed him. "Okay, I gotta ask… how did this happen? There's no way your ugly ass–" he pointed at Tyrone, "--came from this person. Like, genetics don't work that way."
Tyrone buried his face in his hands. Jesus elbowed him. "Yeah, for real. If I had a mom that beautiful, I'd never leave home. Ma'am, I mean that respectfully – but if I ever married your daughter, you'd be happy with me, right?"
Tyrone froze. "What did you just say?"
"I said if, bro. If! Hipotético."
"You'll be hypothetical too if you keep talking."
Grigori leaned toward Novak and whispered, "In Russia, this is when the stabbing begins."
Ector elbowed Tyrone, "Nah, for real, man – your dad must've been a magician. What did he do to bag such a fine specimen?"
Daniel couldn't hold it in anymore. He turned to Mrs. Mason. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I swear I try to discipline them. But they're… a work in progress."
Mrs. Mason laughed softly. "It's fine, Coach. Boys will be boys."
"Exactly," said Novak. "And, ma'am, just to confirm – adoption isn't off the table, right?"
"Peach boy!" Tyrone growled.
"Alright, alright! I'm just asking."
Dinner was like everything this team does, noisy. The table was packed: chicken, mac and cheese, collard greens, cornbread – and six very different accents trying to ask for salt at once. JB sat at the corner, carefully cutting food into precise squares. Ector ate like he was competing for a prize. Novak debated with Jesus about whether Dallas or Denver was the better team. Grigori sat upright, analyzing everything like a general planning a battle. AD ever polite was entertaining little Seobhan.
Sienna brought out another tray, and Jesus grinned.
"There she is. The real MVP. Tyrone, you didn't tell us your sister could cook."
"She didn't cook," Sienna said flatly. "Mom did."
"Even better – family talent. I'm telling you, if we're ever related–"
"Jesus," Tyrone warned.
"What? I'm just sayin'–"
"You'll be a ghost."
By dessert, the tension had melted into easy laughter. Tristan proudly showed Grigori his crayon drawing of a giant minion. Grigori nodded seriously. "It is beautiful. Did you draw your older brother?"
Ector nearly fell off his chair. "Bruh, now I can see the resemblance."
That sent the whole table roaring again.
The laughter still hung in the air when Ector's phone started to ring.
He glanced at the screen and frowned. Then let it ring out. A few seconds later, it rang again. And again.
"Who's that?" asked Daniel, setting down his fork.
"My mum," Ector said. "She buggin'. The hell she want right now?"
"Boy," Daniel said, voice low but firm, "pick it up. It's your mother."
Ector groaned, leaning back in his chair. "Maaan…" But he listened. He swiped the screen and brought the phone to his ear.
"Yeah, Mum, what happened?"
A pause. His face went still.
"Calm down, calm down, just tell me what happened," he said, his voice tightening. Then came muffled sobs from the speaker – raw, panicked.
Ector's expression changed in an instant. He stood up so fast the chair behind him screeched.
"What you mean you can't find Paris?" His voice cracked, loud, the humor gone. "What the fuck you mean you can't find him?"
The room froze. Every laugh, every whisper, every clink of cutlery – gone.
Ector pressed a hand to his forehead, listening, pacing a step. "Okay, okay… just – stay home, I'll figure somethin', alright?"
He ended the call, dropped the phone onto the table, and exhaled like he'd just been punched.
Nobody moved. Not Tyrone, not Daniel, not even the twins in the corner.
Ector swallowed hard. "My little brother," he said quietly. "Paris. My mum can't find him. It's the second day already…"