Chosen By a Baller 2: Playin’ For Keeps (Chosen By a Baller: Playin’ For Keeps #1)

Kyrie Maddox

The facility was packed, music knocking through the speakers, cleats scraping turf, the air thick with sweat and cologne.

Drills were hitting—routes sharp, timing clean. Everything was clicking how it was supposed to, and I was feeling good. Real good.

Thomas snapped the ball back, and I took off, cutting left before planting and breaking into my route. The ball hit my hands right on time. I tucked it, turned upfield, and pushed through contact before jogging it out.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Coach barked.

I tossed the ball back, rolling my shoulders as I reset, already locked in. This was my space. Out here, everything made sense. The game ain’t lie, ain’t switch up—you either execute or you don’t.

Simple.

We rotated into scrimmage, offense versus defense.

I stayed on offense, helmet off, pads shifting while sweat dragged down my chest. The corner lined up across from me, talking, but I barely heard him.

The ball snapped, and I exploded off the line, gave a stutter, and cut inside. He reached and missed.

Easy.

“Yo, Maddox!” I ignored it, jogging back, grabbing the play call. “Yeah, your girl is fine as hell.”

My grip tightened on my gloves. It was Jamal’s ass. I ain’t turn, and I ain’t react. Just lined back up like I ain’t hear him.

“Saw her at that party and,” he added, louder now. “Shorty looked real lonely.”

That’s when it clicked. He was doing the same shit after I already told him—first at practice, then again at that party—to stay the fuck away from her.

And he was still talking. Aight. I turned and swung.

My fist connected with his jaw clean, snapping his head to the side before his body even caught up. He stumbled back, but I was already on him, grabbing his jersey and driving him straight into the padded wall. Hard. He tried to swing back, but I ducked and hit him again. Then again.

No talking, just hands.

His back hit the wall, and I kept going, each hit landing heavy until his knees buckled, and he dropped. The whole facility went quiet except for the sound of him trying to catch his breath.

I stood over him, chest slowly rising, looking down at him like he finally understood.

“Told you.”

That was all I gave him.

He tried to push himself up, but I shoved him back down with my foot, not hard enough to injure him, but enough to remind him where he was.

Coach’s whistle cut through everything.

“YO! MADDOX, WHAT THE HELL—”

Hands grabbed at me, pulling me back, but I wasn’t fighting it. I stepped away on my own, dragging a hand over my mouth like I ain’t just handled that.

Jamal stayed on the ground for a second, then rolled to his side, coughing; pride fucked up more than anything.

He ain’t say nothing, though. Good.

Coach stepped in front of me, pissed. “What is wrong with you?!”

I shrugged one shoulder, breathing steadily. “He straight.”

“That ain’t the point—”

I walked past him before he could keep going, grabbing my towel and dragging it over my face.

Conversation over.

Thomas jogged up beside me, eyes wide. “Yo… you wild as hell.”

I took a long pull from my water, not even looking at him. “He knew better.”

Thomas glanced back at Jamal, then back at me

“Yeah. He did.”

I stayed there for a second, staring out at the turf, jaw tight.

Because it wasn’t about practice. It wasn’t about talking. It was about a nigga getting told—twice—and still thinking shit was sweet.

And I don’t repeat myself.

Practice wrapped up, and my knuckles were still throbbing when I pushed through the locker room doors and stepped out into the cool evening air.

The adrenaline from the fight was starting to wear off, leaving behind a dull ache in my right hand and a sharper one in my chest—the kind that had nothing to do with physical pain.

I’d fucked up. Not by beating Jamal's ass.

That muthafucka had it coming. But by losing control like that in front of the whole team, in front of Coach.

That wasn't me. I didn't let people get under my skin like that.

I didn't let emotions dictate my moves. But when he'd stood there, talking about Sianni like she was just another piece of ass he was trying to get at, something in me had snapped.

The parking lot was mostly empty now. Most of the guys had cleared out while I was still in Coach’s office, getting my ass chewed. Fifteen-minute lecture about professionalism, about being a leader, and about how I was better than this.

He wasn’t wrong, but he also hadn’t heard what Jamal said.

I pulled my phone out of my gym bag as I walked toward my car, my eyes dropping to the screen.

Three missed calls, all from Sianni.

And a text.

Call me when you get this.

My jaw tightened a little. That was unusual. Not enough to have me tripping, but enough to catch my attention. She knew I had practice. Knew I wouldn’t answer my phone while I was on the field, so for her to call back-to-back like that?

Yeah. It stood out. I saw her name and lifted the phone to my ear as I reached my car.

It rang three times.

“Pick up,” I muttered under my breath, leaning against the driver’s door.

It went to voicemail. I pulled the phone away, staring at the screen for a second before ending the call.

“Damn.”

Maybe her phone died. Maybe she got caught up doing something. Maybe she just wanted to tell me something and figured it could wait.

Still… something about it felt off. Not panic, just that quiet irritation that comes when I can’t get a read on things.

I unlocked my car and tossed my bag onto the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel. My hand throbbed when I flexed my fingers, the skin across my knuckles already starting to swell, but it was worth it.

The look on Jamal’s face when I connected that third hit? Yeah. That alone was worth it.

I started the engine and pulled out, my mind still half on that phone call and half on the road.

I tried calling her again, but there was still no answer.

“Fuck,” I muttered, dropping the phone into the cup holder.

The drive home usually took about twenty minutes, but I found myself pushing it, sliding through traffic a little more aggressively than usual. Not rushing for any reason I could name, just moving. Trying to shake that feeling sitting low in my chest.

The streets started looking more familiar as I got closer to my neighborhood. Quiet and clean. The kind of place where nothing really happened.

That’s why it stood out. Headlights pulled up behind me. They’d been there longer than I realized. I slowed just a little, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, and the car slowed too.

Same distance and everything, but then again, it could be nothing. It could be someone heading the same way.

I turned onto my street, and they followed. My grip tightened on the steering wheel, and my jaw clenched as I watched them in the mirror.

Aight. I nodded as I pulled into my driveway with my hand hovering near the garage door opener.

The car rolled in behind me, slow and deliberate as my hand froze. The headlights shut off, and the car's outline faded into the darkness.

It was a black Charger with tinted windows. I knew that car.

My chest tightened, adrenaline rushing through me again, sharp and immediate. I put the car in park but didn’t kill the engine. My eyes locked on the rearview mirror.

The driver’s door opened, and Jamal stepped out.

“You got me fucked up,” I muttered, my voice low, already pushing my door open.

He moved slowly, with control, as if he had all the time in the world. And that’s when I noticed it—his right hand tucked behind his back.

Every instinct I had told me to throw the car in reverse and get the fuck out of there.

But this was my house. My space. I turned off the engine and stepped out.

“The fuck you doing here, Jamal?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just kept walking toward me, steady, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“You think you can put your hands on me like that?” he asked finally, his voice tight. “In front of everyone? Embarrass me like that?”

“You embarrassed yourself,” I shot back, stepping toward him. “Should’ve kept your mouth closed.”

“That bitch—”

“Watch your fucking mouth.”

The words came out rough and low, serving more as a warning than anything else.

Then, I saw it. The gun.

He brought it from behind his back in one smooth motion, the metal catching my porch light. Glock, maybe. I couldn’t really tell.

But that shit didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that it was pointed right at my chest.

Everything slowed down, and my heartbeat thumped so loudly I could hear it in my ears. Every muscle in my body tensed, prepared to move, ready to act.

But I stayed still.

“Jamal…” I kept my hands where he could see them, voice steady even with my pulse jumping. “Put the gun down. This ain’t what you want.”

“Nawl.” He shook his head, eyes wild in a way that told me he was too far gone to hear shit. “This is exactly what I want. You think you better than me? Think you can fuck me up and just walk away?”

“I think you need to calm the fuck down and think.” I took a slow breath. “You pull that trigger, your life is over. You know that, right? Everything you worked for—”

“Everything I worked for?” He laughed, but it sounded cracked, empty. “You took that from me today. My respect. My reputation. Made me look like a bitch in front of everybody.”

“You did that when you kept playing with me.”

“Your girl.” He spat the words. “That fake-ass arrangement y’all got ain’t fooling nobody, Kyrie. I know what it is. Everybody knows.”

My blood went cold.

“The fuck you just say?”

“You heard me.” He stepped closer, gun still fixed on me. “You think people stupid? We see through that fake-ass relationship. She getting paid to play wifey, and you getting your image cleaned up. Business. So, stop standing there acting like you really got some claim on her.”

A slow, dangerous kind of heat crept up my spine.

He ain’t know shit. He was guessing, talking, and reaching. But the fact that he was even close enough to the truth to say that shit out loud made my stomach turn.