The bus ride home was silent.
My mom kept her hand on mine the entire time, but she didn't say a word. Neither did I.What could we say?
I kept replaying the assistant coach's words over and over.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.Twenty-five thousand.
It wasn't just a number. It was an impossible wall, one built from every unpaid bill, every late notice, every empty fridge.
When we got home, my dad was sitting outside on a plastic chair, smoking.
He looked up when he saw us, the lines on his face deepening.
"How did it go?" he asked, voice low.
My mom didn't answer. She just handed him the crumpled flyer, the same one I had found like a miracle just a few days ago.
I went inside, dropped my backpack in the corner, and sat down at the kitchen table.My chest felt hollow. My legs shook with anger I couldn't aim at anyone.
After a while, they came in too.
My dad sat across from me, elbows on the table, cigarette dangling from his fingers.
He stared at me for a long time before he spoke.
"You played well?"
I nodded.
"And they still want money," he said, more to himself than to me.
I didn't know what to say.
My mom leaned against the counter, arms crossed, her face tight.
"They said it's a donation," she said, voice sharp with sarcasm. "A 'show of commitment.'"
My dad barked out a laugh. It wasn't a happy sound.
"Commitment," he muttered. "Sure."
We sat there, the three of us, in the tiny kitchen, the walls closing in.
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. The fridge rattled every few minutes, like it was gasping for breath.
Finally, my mom spoke.
"We could... ask for a loan," she said carefully. "Maybe—"
My dad cut her off with a look.
"You know what happens with those loans," he said.
I knew too.
Everyone knew someone who had gone to the small-time lenders around here.The ones who charged interest rates so high you could never pay them back.The ones who sent men to your door with baseball bats if you missed a payment.
I swallowed hard.
"But..." I started, my voice cracking. "This is my chance. Maybe my only chance."
The words felt selfish the second they left my mouth.
I saw it in my parents' faces.The exhaustion. The fear. The unspoken truth:We could barely afford food next month. How were we supposed to come up with twenty-five thousand dollars?
My mom came over and knelt beside me.
She cupped my face in her hands, her palms rough from years of scrubbing other people's floors.
"You have a gift, Skinny," she whispered. "A light inside you. And that light deserves a chance."
Her eyes shimmered, but she didn't cry. My mom didn't cry easily.
"We'll find a way," she said.
My dad stood up so fast his chair screeched against the floor.
He paced the small room, running a hand through his thinning hair.
"I can ask around," he muttered. "Maybe get extra shifts. Maybe sell the car."
The "car" was a battered '88 Fiat that barely started on good days.Selling it might get us a few hundred dollars at best.
It wouldn't even scratch the surface.
"I could talk to Martín," my mom said suddenly. "He works with that loan office downtown. Maybe he could... arrange something."
My dad's face turned red.
"I don't want those vultures in my house," he snapped.
"Then what do we do?" she shot back. "Tell our son to give up? Let him rot here like the rest of us?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
I lowered my head, staring at the worn linoleum floor.
A single crack ran from the fridge to the table, like a scar cutting the room in half.
Finally, my dad spoke, voice raw.
"Tomorrow," he said. "I'll go with Carla. We'll see Martín."
He looked at me then, and his eyes weren't angry—they were tired.So, so tired.
"We'll figure something out," he said. "For you."
I didn't know what to say.I wanted to hug them.I wanted to scream that it wasn't fair.I wanted to promise them it would all be worth it.
Instead, I just nodded.
Because what could I promise?
That a coach who asked for bribes would make me a star?
That this was really my shot and not just another trick?
That we wouldn't end up worse than we already were?
That night, I lay in bed listening to my parents whisper in the kitchen.
I couldn't make out the words, but I knew the tone.Desperation. Fear. Hope clinging on by its fingernails.
I pressed the flyer against my chest like a lifeline.
I wanted to believe.
I needed to believe.
Because if I didn't...
Then all of this—the dreams, the sacrifices, the pain—meant nothing.
And I wasn't ready to let go.
Not yet.
[End of Chapter 3]