6 months ago:
Shit’s stupid like a rapper tryna rap about struggles he never had. That was how Malik felt about all this, the situation he was in, and that situation being visiting a fortune teller. He was with Charlotte, as usual, who had bugged him to come here, said she wanted to see how her future would be like everyone did not already know where Charlotte would end up in–in a penthouse married to the love of her life, billions in her bank account.
But he still went with her, and he paid, as he always did. He stood outside, bored as fuck, as he waited for Charlotte to be done. 30 minutues later, she was out. “How did it go?” He asked, knowing he really didn’t care.
At his question, Charlotte had pursed her lips and had thatCharlotte Blackwell look—the one where her chin tilted just slightly and her eyes gleamed like she knew something you didn’t. Like she always knew something you didn’t. "“You should try it too.” She told him, her voice strange.
It was quick, Malik’s response, there was no thought to it nor was there a hint of hesitation, as he said, “Nah.” What a fun simple word that is, truthfully, Malik thinks, the world should use it more. Imagine how far society would improve, if people used that beautiful word, ‘nah’.
“Malik!” She huffed.
“Charlotte!” He responded, “You my homegirl and all but that’s shit gay as f*ck.” She narrowed her eyes at him in that way she always did when she was pretending to be pissed, though the corner of her lip twitched like it wanted to smile. “Seriously. Just go in. She already said she’d do you next.” “She said she’d do me?” Malik raised an eyebrow, flashing a grin.
“Grow up,” Charlotte muttered, rolling her eyes. “Just… go in. I think it’ll help.”
“With what?”
“I don’t know,” she said, and for a moment, her tone shifted. It wasn’t sarcastic, or teasing. It was quiet. Honest. “You’ve been off lately.”
He didn’t respond right away. Just stared at her. She met his gaze, and there was something in her eyes that made him feel—exposed. Like she could see right through him.
After a beat, he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked inside.
The fortune teller’s shop smelled like incense and old wood. The air was heavy, like it had a weight to it. Curtains separated the front from the back, and behind them sat a woman dressed in layered shawls, her hands adorned with rings that clinked when she gestured for him to sit.
He dropped down into the chair across from her, slouching like he always did when he felt uncomfortable but didn’t want to show it.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him. Eyes sharp. Quiet. Calculating.
“You don’t believe in any of this,” she finally said.
“Nope.” He said, popping the p.
“Then why are you here?”
He shrugged. “Bored.”
She smiled like she knew he was lying. Like she knew something he didn’t.
Then she picked up a deck of tarot cards.
“Fine,” he said, sighing. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Give me your palm.” Malik gave the fortune teller a weird look. “I need to read your palm to see your future.”
“So those weird crystal ball right there for naught?” He arched his brow.
“Crystal balls are for show,” she said. “Palms are for truth.”
Malik rolled his eyes but let her do her thing. Her fingers were cold. Her grip, firm.
She traced the lines slowly, muttering things he couldn’t quite catch. Then—she stopped.
Her eyes locked on his.
“Alright,” she said, voice low. “You’ll be powerful. Feared. A name people whisper more than they say.”
His lip twitched. “Cool.”
“You’ll get everything you want. Money. Status. Influence.”
“Even better,” he said,
“Your dad will be proud, you’re good athlete, you know that right?”
Malik smirked, “Practice makes perfect.”
“Practice.” She pursed her lips, “Right.” He frowned at that. She continued, “But it won’t be enough. Your life will be filled with regrets, mistakes that can never be undone and you’ll realize all that you did was for naught."
Silence.
Then—
“Damn,” he muttered, dusting off his pants. “Guess I better enjoy the money, huh?”
He walked out.
Charlotte was waiting outside, leaning against the wall. When she saw his face, she raised an eyebrow.
“How was it?”
He gave her a lazy smile. “Well… at least I’ll be rich.”
“Aren’t you already rich?”
“Guess, I’ll be richer.”
They both laughed at that. Then she paused, looked at him, and grinned, “Hanging out with you, it’s so fun, I don’t why I even bother with anyone else.”
“Careful, Char. Might start thinking the rumors of you trying to get me to bed is true.” Charlotte wrinkled her nose in disgust at that.
“Ewww. Besides, getting you to bed would be easy, I wouldn’t have to even sweet talk you, you’re easy, anyone can get in bed with you.”
“Not you.”" He pointed out, “You’re not my type.”
She huffed, “Please, you don’t have a type, you fucked Mrs.Winter”
He arched a brow, “Fair point. I think her husband hates me.”
Charlotte let out a snort. “Think? Malik, he chased you out the country club with a golf club. How your dad didn’t find out, amuses me.”
"It’s cause you keep all my secrets well, right? That’s why we even friends, you know stuff. Also, it’s not my fault Caleb was bad at keeping his wife entertained.”
“You’re a pig, I don’t see how girls still like you.”
“I would show you the reason, but I’m sure that’s what you’re waiting for.” He joked and Charlotte made puking sounds. He rolled his eyes, as he unlocked his car, “Get in. I’m driving you home.”
Charlotte climbed in, still fake gagging under her breath as she slammed the door shut behind her.
“God, you’re foul,” she muttered, adjusting the seatbelt. “Like genuinely, you make me sick.”
“Thank God.” He rolled his eyes as he started the car. They pulled onto the street, the soft hum of the engine filling the silence between them. The night stretched out ahead—quiet, scattered lights from passing cars, distant sirens, the occasional flash of neon from late-night diners and corner stores. Familiar streets. Familiar silence.
Malik tapped his fingers against the steering wheel absently, jaw flexing once, like he was chewing on a thought. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t bring up the fortune teller. Didn’t mention the weird weight still sitting in his chest.
Charlotte glanced at him. “You’re quieter than usual. She scare you or something?”
He snorted. “Please. What’s she gonna do? Curse me?”
“She might’ve,” she said with a smirk. “Probably cursed you to finally feel things.”
“That’d be cruel,” he said, voice low.
Charlotte looked out the window again, sensing the shift in his tone but choosing not to push it. Not now. Not yet.
“You hungry?” he asked suddenly.
She blinked. “What?”
“I said you hungry. I’m thinking of stopping by Dino’s. I want fries.”
Charlotte squinted at him. “Didn’t you say you were cutting carbs?”
“I lie,” he replied.
She sighed. “You’re buying.”
“Obviously you never pay for shyt with your broke @ss,” he said, turning the wheel.
2 years ago at the Johnson resident
Practice had finished early, much to the glee of the rest of his teammates. The sun was still high but starting to dip, casting long gold shadows across the empty field. Most of the guys had already jogged off toward the locker rooms, shouting plans for the weekend, smacking helmets together, laughing too loud. Malik had stayed behind.
He tended to do that often.
He adjusted the grip on the ball, dropped back, and threw it toward the corner of the end zone where no one stood. A perfect spiral. It hit the grass and bounced, landing just shy of the pylon.
Not good enough.
Not to him.
Not to his father.
“Don’t let your arm get lazy.”
“Reset your feet before you throw.”
“Again.”
“Again.”
“Again.”
His dad wasn’t even here, but Malik could still hear him, like the voice had taken up permanent residence in the back of his skull. He jogged across the field, picked up the ball, and reset. Snap. Drop. Read. Throw.
Bullseye. He was about to go again, to do more, when he heard his phone go off and he walked towards his bag to see her had received a text from Isaac. Malik wiped the sweat from his brow as he reached into his duffel, tugged out his flip phone. The screen was slightly scratched, the back held on with a fading sticker of Iverson mid-crossover. One new message.
[Isaac]: Are you home? I’ll bring drinks. Keir and Cam coming too, is that okay?
Malik cracked a half-smile and thumbed his reply, still breathing heavy.
Malik: Yeah, pull up at like 5 though.
Perfect timing. His folks would be on the road by then, along with Jordan having a sleepover with her favorite duo. Thus, in other words, the house was his. He let out a low whistle, grabbed his ball again and spun it in his palm. That familiar weight. The kind of control he could count on. Unlike the rest of his life, the ball always did what he wanted, when he wanted. Before going to the locker rooms and showering, then driving to his house.
20 minutes later, while Malik was in the pool, they had arrived. “Who are you all and why you breaking into my house?” He teased.
Keir was the first to roll her eyes. She was standing by the sliding glass door, still in the process of kicking off her sandals, one hand gripping her diet coke, the other hanging loosely by her side. . Isaac brought up the rear, arms full, Sprite, a couple bottles of something dark in a brown paper bag, and a plastic bag full of snacks that had clearly been picked last minute at the gas station.
“Your spare key’s still under the fake rock,” Keir said, settling into one of the patio chairs. “Which, by the way, is the most obvious hiding spot in the history of hiding spots.”
“Worked for you, didn’t it?” Malik pushed off from the pool wall, water cascading down his shoulders. The chlorine stung his eyes just enough to make him squint, but it felt good to be weightless for a while. No pressure from his cleats against turf, no phantom voice echoing in his ears.
“I brought options,” Isaac said, stepping onto the patio. “But you got more, right?”
Malik’s lips tugged into a grin so wide it nearly split his face. He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head, mock-offended.
“Who do you think I am, bro?” he asked, before hoisting himself out of the pool, water dripping down his chest as he walked barefoot across the hot pavement, disappearing into the house. Moments later, he returned with a small crate-like tray full of clinking bottles—rum, tequila, some dark liquor he didn’t even know the name of—and a dusty old can of mango nectar.
“My father’s secret stash,” Malik said proudly, setting it down on the patio table. “Are we going to play the game we did at Rider’s?” Then, as if, remembering that the girls were still there, Malik had turned to them. “You guys cool with it? You don’t have to play if you don’t, I’m sure you can find something else to entertain the two of you.”
@raviola
