The California sun hit different than Chicago sun.
I stepped off the plane at LAX and immediately understood why people moved out here. It was 7 PM and still felt like a perfect spring day - warm but not humid, with a breeze that smelled like ocean instead of exhaust and garbage.
A driver was waiting for me at baggage claim holding a sign that read "Jakari Williams - Malibu Prep Academy." Dude looked like he could've been a movie star himself - perfectly tanned, wearing a polo shirt that probably cost more than my entire outfit.
"Mr. Williams? I'm Brad, your driver. Welcome to Los Angeles."
Even the driver was too friendly. In Chicago, cab drivers barely grunted at you.
The ride to Malibu was like watching a movie. We drove through Beverly Hills, past mansions that looked like palaces, then up the Pacific Coast Highway with the ocean stretching out forever on one side and mountains on the other.
"First time in California?" Brad asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
"First time anywhere, really."
"You're gonna love it here. Weather's perfect year-round. And Malibu Prep? That's a special place. You play football?"
"Yeah."
"Well, you picked the right school for it. They may not win much, but they've got facilities that make some colleges jealous."
Twenty minutes later, we pulled through wrought-iron gates with "MALIBU PREPARATORY ACADEMY" written in gold letters. The campus looked like something from a brochure - perfectly manicured lawns, Spanish-style buildings with red tile roofs, and palm trees everywhere.
Students were walking around in khakis and polo shirts, looking like they'd stepped out of a catalog. I was suddenly very aware of my jeans and Chicago Bulls t-shirt.
"Your dormitory is Castellano Hall," Brad said as we pulled up to a three-story building that looked more like a resort than a dorm. "Room 237. Your roommate should already be there."
A man in a suit was waiting by the entrance - tall, white, probably in his fifties, with graying hair and the kind of smile that politicians use.
"Jakari! Welcome to Malibu Prep. I'm Dean Morrison." His handshake was firm, but his hands were soft like he'd never done manual labor in his life. "We're thrilled to have you here. Your academic transcripts and athletic achievements are quite impressive."
"Thank you, sir."
"Let's get you settled in your room, then I'll give you a tour of campus. Classes start Monday, but I know Coach Rivera is eager to meet you."
We took an elevator to the second floor. The hallways were wider than the ones at my old school, with actual artwork on the walls instead of motivational posters about staying drug-free.
"Here we are. Room 237."
Dean Morrison knocked, then opened the door to reveal a room that was bigger than my bedroom back at my grandparents' house. Two beds, two desks, a mini-fridge, and a view of the ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows.
A blonde kid was sitting at one of the desks, hunched over what looked like homework. He looked up when we walked in.
"Ah, perfect. Jakari Williams, meet your roommate, Cameron Preston."
Cameron stood up and extended his hand. He was about my height but probably twenty pounds lighter, with the kind of build that said he'd never had to fight for anything in his life.
"Hey, nice to meet you," Cameron said. His voice had that California surfer accent I'd only heard in movies. "I left you the bed by the window. Figured you might want the view."
"Thanks, man. I appreciate that."
Dean Morrison clapped his hands together. "Excellent. Cameron, would you mind showing Jakari around campus after dinner? Help him get oriented?"
"Of course."
"Wonderful. Jakari, dinner is served in the dining hall from 5 to 8 PM. Breakfast is 6:30 to 9, lunch is 11:30 to 2. Your class schedule will be delivered tomorrow morning." He headed for the door. "Oh, and Coach Rivera wants to see you at 8 AM sharp. The athletic center is building C."
After he left, I started unpacking my two suitcases while Cameron went back to his homework.
"So you're from Chicago?" he asked without looking up.
"South Side, yeah."
"That's cool. I've never been to Chicago. I'm from Newport Beach - about an hour south of here."
I had no idea where Newport Beach was, but from the way he said it, I assumed it was another rich area.
"What position do you play?" I asked.
"Quarterback. You?"
"Wide receiver. Sometimes other stuff when they need me."
Cameron finally looked up from his books. "Other stuff?"
"Defense, special teams, running back sometimes. Wherever Coach thinks I can help."
"Oh, interesting. Most guys here specialize in one position. The whole program is pretty structured - position coaches, specific training regimens, all that."
I finished unpacking and sat on my bed. Everything I owned fit in two suitcases, while Cameron's side of the room looked like he'd moved an entire bedroom. Multiple laptops, a gaming setup, clothes for every possible occasion, and what looked like professional football equipment.
"You been playing quarterback long?" I asked.
"Since I was seven. My dad played at Stanford, so he's been coaching me since I could hold a ball. Private QB coach since middle school, camps every summer, the whole deal."
That explained the confidence in his voice when he talked about football. Dude had been groomed for this his entire life.
"What about you? When'd you start playing?"
"Middle school, really. Played everything before that - basketball, baseball, track, soccer for a minute."
"Soccer too? Damn, you're like a super athlete."
I thought about Marcus and his soccer dreams, wondered how his first practice with that club had gone. Made a mental note to check the group chat later.
"Not really. Just grew up playing whatever was available."
My phone buzzed. Text from Maya: Water broke. Heading to the hospital. It's time.
My heart started racing. Tayshawn's daughter was about to be born, and I was three thousand miles away.
"Everything okay?" Cameron asked.
"Yeah, just... a friend back home is having a baby. I'm supposed to be the godfather."
"That's heavy. How old are you guys?"
"Seventeen."
Cameron's eyes got wide. "Seventeen? Wow. That's... wow."
I could see him trying to process that. Probably couldn't imagine anyone he knew having a baby at seventeen.
"Different worlds, I guess," I said.
"Yeah, definitely." He went back to his homework. "Want to get some dinner? I can show you around campus after."
The dining hall looked like something from Harry Potter. High ceilings, long wooden tables, actual chandeliers. And the food was insane - they had a sushi station, a grill, a salad bar, pasta made to order, and about ten other options.
I filled my plate with grilled chicken, rice, and vegetables while Cameron got some kind of quinoa bowl.
"So what's the football team like?" I asked as we found a table.
"Talented but inconsistent. We've got great individual players, but we don't really play as a unit, you know? Everyone's focused on their own stats for college recruiting."
"What's your record been like?"
"Last three years we've gone 4-6, 3-7, and 5-5. We should be better with the talent we have, but..." He shrugged. "Coach Rivera is trying to change the culture, but it's hard when most guys are just thinking about their highlight reels."
That was different from Chicago, where winning was everything. Individual stats mattered, but not if the team was losing.
After dinner, Cameron gave me the tour. The campus was unreal - a library that looked like a cathedral, science labs with equipment I didn't recognize, an arts center with a full theater, and tennis courts that looked like Wimbledon.
But the athletic facilities were what really blew my mind.
The football field had better grass than Soldier Field. The weight room was bigger than my old school's gym, with machines I'd never seen before. There was a separate building just for training - cold tubs, hot tubs, massage tables, and some kind of altitude simulation chamber.
"This is where we train?" I asked, still trying to process it all.
"Pretty sweet, right? My dad says it's better than what he had at Stanford in the 90s."
"How much does it cost to go here?"
"Tuition is like sixty grand a year. But most of the football players are on scholarship. Are you?"
"Full ride. Academic and athletic."
"Nice. Yeah, they don't give those out to just anybody."
We ended up on a balcony overlooking the ocean. The sun was setting, painting the sky orange and pink, and I could hear waves crashing on the beach below.
"Not bad for a school, huh?" Cameron said.
"It's unreal. Like something from a movie."
"You'll get used to it. By November, you'll be complaining about having to walk to class in the rain."
"It rains here?"
"Sometimes. Not like Chicago though, I bet."
I checked my phone. No updates from Maya yet, but the group chat had been active.
Better Men
Dre: First day at the gym. Almost threw up after 20 minutes on the treadmill. I'm out of shape as hell
Rico: Coach Martinez has me working with the 12-year-olds tomorrow. Gonna teach them how to turn two
Marcus: Soccer practice kicked my ass but it felt good to be back on the field
I typed back: Just got to campus. This place is insane. Y'all would not believe the facilities here
Marcus: Take some pictures bro
Dre: Don't let all that fancy shit go to your head
Rico: Show them California kids what Chicago made
Me: Always. Love y'all
"Everything good back home?" Cameron asked.
"Yeah, just checking in with my boys. We made a pact to keep each other accountable while I'm out here."
"That's cool that you guys stay in touch. Most of my friends from middle school, we just... drifted apart when we went to different high schools."
I couldn't imagine drifting apart from Dre, Rico, and Marcus. They weren't just friends - they were family.
"You got family?" I asked.
"Yeah, parents and a younger sister. Dad's a lawyer, mom's a real estate agent. Pretty standard Orange County family."
"They come to your games?"
"Every single one. Sometimes it's annoying, honestly. My dad films everything and breaks down my mechanics afterward." Cameron laughed. "What about you?"
"Mom's in the hospital back home. Dad's... away for a while. Living with my grandparents right now."
I could see Cameron processing that, trying to figure out what "away" meant without asking directly.
"That's tough, man. I'm sorry."
"It is what it is. Just gives me more motivation to make something happen here."
We stood there for a while, watching the waves. This was my life now. Ocean views, unlimited resources, teammates who'd been training since they were kids.
My phone buzzed again. This time it was Grandma Janet: Maya had the baby! 6 pounds, 3 ounces. Healthy baby girl. She's beautiful, Jakari. Maya named her Tayanna - after Tayshawn.
I stared at the message, feeling a mix of emotions I couldn't even name. Joy that the baby was healthy. Sadness that I wasn't there. Pride that Maya honored Tay's memory. And determination to make sure this little girl never wanted for anything.
"Good news?" Cameron asked.
"The best. My goddaughter was just born."
"Congratulations, man. That's huge."
I looked out at the California sunset, thinking about a little girl in a Chicago hospital who would never know her father but would always know she had someone in her corner.
Tayanna. Tay's daughter. My goddaughter.
One more reason to make this work.
The next morning, I was up at 6 AM even though I didn't need to be. Old habits from years of morning workouts.
Cameron was still asleep, so I quietly got dressed and headed to the dining hall for breakfast. The campus was peaceful in the early morning - just a few joggers and maintenance workers moving around.
I filled up on eggs, bacon, and oatmeal, then made my way to Building C to find Coach Rivera's office.
The athletic center was even more impressive in the daylight. Trophy cases lined the hallways, filled with championships from every sport imaginable. Most of the football trophies were from the 90s and early 2000s though.
Coach Rivera's office was easy to find - there was a plaque on the door that read "Head Football Coach - Miguel Rivera - 2019-Present."
I knocked at exactly 8 AM.
"Come in."
Coach Rivera was not what I expected. He was probably in his late thirties, Hispanic, built like he could still play. His office was covered with whiteboards showing different offensive formations.
"Jakari Williams. Sit down." His handshake was firm but brief, his eyes studying me like I was a problem he needed to solve. "Let's get something straight from the jump - I didn't ask for you."
That caught me off guard. "Sir?"
"The administration brought you here. Told me we needed to 'diversify our recruiting' and 'tap into different talent pools.'" He made air quotes with obvious irritation. "What I need is players who can execute at this level, not charity cases."
I felt my jaw tighten but kept my mouth shut.
"I watched your film. Your stats look good on paper, but that's Chicago public school competition. Half those defenders couldn't start JV here." He pulled up a video on his computer and turned the screen toward me. "This is what I saw."
The highlights played, but his commentary was different than I expected.
"You're what I call an 'above the rim' artist. You can jump, you can make spectacular catches, you can wow people with athletics. But can you run precise routes? Can you read coverage? Can you handle the mental side of the game at this level?"
"I think so, Coach."
"You think so?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Son, thinking and knowing are two different things. Out here, these kids have been running the same route concepts since they were twelve. They understand leverage, they know how to find soft spots in coverage, they can make adjustments on the fly."
He paused the video on a highlight catch.
"This play here - you made a great catch, but look at your route. You're running to the spot instead of running to get open. Against better competition, that doesn't work."
I wanted to defend myself but realized he might have a point.
"What I'm going to do is start you as a wide receiver - period. No special packages, no wildcat, no moving you around to different positions. You're going to learn how to be a true receiver at this level before you earn anything else."
"Yes sir."
"You'll be working with Coach Martinez, our receivers coach. He's going to break down everything you think you know and rebuild it the right way. Route running, hand placement, release techniques, everything."
Coach Rivera stood up and walked to one of his whiteboards.
"Let me be clear about something else. I don't care about your background, your story, or whatever sob story brought you here. The only thing that matters is whether you can help this team win football games. Everything else is noise."
"Understood."
"You want to earn respect here? You want to earn playing time? You do it the same way everyone else does - by proving it every single day in practice. No shortcuts, no special treatment because you're the new kid from the hood."
He walked back to his desk and sat down.
"Practice starts Monday at 3 PM. You'll be fitted for equipment this afternoon, and you'll meet the receivers. Show me you belong here, Williams. Don't just tell me."
"I will, Coach."
"We'll see. Anything else?"
As I left his office, I felt a mix of anger and determination burning in my chest. Coach Rivera had basically called me a project, questioned whether I belonged here, and made it clear I'd have to earn every single opportunity.
Good. I'd been earning everything my whole life.
But I also understood what he was really saying. He was right about one thing - this wasn't Chicago public school football anymore. These kids had been training at an elite level since they were young. I was going to have to prove I could compete at their level, not just rely on raw athleticism.
As I walked back toward the dorm, I thought about what he'd called me - an "above the rim artist." Part of me was insulted, but another part recognized there might be some truth to it.
I'd always been able to make the spectacular play, but could I make the routine ones consistently? Could I run every route with precision? Could I read defenses like these coaches expected?
Time to find out