The road trip moved fast the way they always did, measured less by cities and more by hotel wake-up calls, team buses, film sessions, and the changing rhythm of arena lights.
Three cities in five days. Three different moods.
Three versions of Malik Rowan that only the people around him ever really noticed.
Chicago came first.
Another win against them, an important win. Close enough to stay tense until the final minute, but controlled enough that Cade never looked rushed.
Twenty-three points.
Eleven assists.
Late in the fourth, when the game tightened and the crowd started believing the home team had momentum, he slowed everything down.
Called a set, waited. Then he buried a pull-up three over a defender who had spent most of the night talking too much. By the time the buzzer sounded, his teammates were loud, the locker room lighter, and Cannen had already texted:
See? Emotional coaching works.
Cade ignored that message entirely.
Riley's came next through Raychell's phone. A picture of her recital dress hanging from a door.
Don't forget Friday.
He sent back:
Not forgetting.
Milwaukee felt harder, the legs of it were heavier. The game rougher for them, but it ended in another win. Ugly, physical, the kind where nobody cared how it looked by the fourth quarter.
Cade took a shoulder in the lane, hit the floor once hard enough to hear the bench react, got up without complaint, and answered two possessions later with a steal that turned into an assist. Afterward in the locker room, somebody celebrated too loudly. Someone else argued over dinner orders.
He sat with an ice pack against one knee, staring at his phone while Riley's voice note played.
"Grandma says flowers have to match my costume. I think pink wins."
He listened twice before answering.
Pink definitely wins.
Cleveland was different before it even started. Heavy from warm-ups. Shots short, the energy was off. The kind of game where every mistake felt louder than usual.
They lost by six. Not a blowout and not embarrassing. Just frustrating enough to stay under his skin because he knew exactly where it slipped.
A late turnover.
A missed switch.
Two possessions where leadership meant making the right read and he knew he had forced one instead. The locker room afterward stayed quieter than usual.
Nobody angry, just disappointed in that particular professional way where everybody replayed their own mistakes privately. Cade sat longer than normal after media ended, jersey changed, bag packed, still staring at nothing for a minute before his brother's text came through:
You still landing by four?
Then another immediately after:
Ry already asked twice.
He exhaled and checked the time. Enough margin if the flight stayed clean.
Barely.
The plane ride home stayed quiet. Most of the team slept, others watched film, but Cade did neither.
YOU ARE READING
me & tomfoolery
RandomA book of nothingness and everything at the same time. Welcome to my mf thoughts.
