The damp chill of the early morning settled into Caine’s bones as he sat on the cracked concrete steps of the Rosas’ house. The air smelled faintly of damp grass and wood smoke, and the faint pink of the sunrise peeked over the rooftops, painting the narrow street in muted light. The house behind him, a faded white shotgun with peeling paint and sagging gutters, was quiet for once. Even the usual chaos inside seemed to have taken a break, the muffled sounds of Mireya’s mother moving around in the kitchen the only sign of life.
Caine pulled the hood of his sweatshirt tighter around his head and stared out at the empty street. A stray cat darted under a rusted truck parked along the curb, and somewhere down the block, a crow cawed lazily, as if reluctant to start the day. He pressed his elbows against his knees, his hands clasped in front of him, his gaze distant.
This wasn’t where he wanted to be. Not here, sitting on these steps, watching the sun rise over a neighborhood he’d rather leave behind. He wanted to be in a world where his name was written in bold letters on college scout reports, where coaches called his phone and talked about full rides. Football was supposed to be his way out, his chance to rewrite the story he was born into.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the images play in his mind: the roar of the crowd at Friday night games, the sharp whistle of his coach, the weight of the football snug against his palms. He thought about the newspaper clippings from last season, where his name showed up in box scores. The dream was there, close enough to taste—college, scholarships, maybe even a shot at the NFL if he worked hard enough. But dreams didn’t feel so solid when you woke up to reality.
A small cry from inside broke his thoughts. He turned his head slightly, listening as Camila’s soft, tired whimper drifted through the cracked window beside the door. Mireya’s gentle voice followed, soothing her, the sound muffled but tender. His chest tightened.
She didn’t know—couldn’t know—the lengths he went to for her. Camila only knew him as the one who carried her on his shoulders, who kissed her forehead before bed, who tried to keep the weight of the world out of her small, happy bubble. But Caine knew the truth: everything he did, every decision he made, came with a cost.
The door creaked open behind him, and Mireya stepped out, her tired eyes softening when they met his. She wore an oversized sweatshirt, her hair pulled into a messy bun. “You been out here all night?” she asked, her voice low to avoid waking the rest of the house.
“Yeah, couldn’t sleep,” Caine replied, his voice rough from the chill.
Mireya leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “You should come inside. It’s cold.”
He shook his head, his gaze drifting back to the quiet street. “I’m straight. Just thinking.”
“About what?” she pressed gently.
“Todo,” he said, letting the word hang in the air. “Camila. You. Football. Vida. How I’m supposed to make this shit work.”
Mireya sighed and stepped closer, lowering herself onto the steps beside him. She tucked her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them. “You’re doing what you can, babe. No one can ask more than that.”
“That’s the fucking problem,” he muttered, his voice sharp with frustration. “What I’m doing ain’t enough. Not for her. Not for you.”
She placed a hand on his arm, her touch soft but steady. “You love her. You’re here for her. That counts for something.”
Caine turned to look at her, his expression unreadable. “Love don’t buy diapers, Mireya. It don’t put food on the table.”
Her lips parted as if to argue, but she stopped herself, the weight of his words settling between them. They sat in silence for a while, the early light casting long shadows on the cracked pavement.
“I just…” Caine exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. “I don’t want her growing up thinking this is all there is. That this is all she deserves.”
Mireya nodded slowly, her eyes softening. “Then you keep going. Keep fighting. For her.”
Caine didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The sun was higher now, the soft pinks giving way to a blazing gold. “I don’t know how much fight I got left. I’m already drowning trying to juggle everything,” he admitted quietly.
“You’ll find it,” Mireya said, her voice steady. “You always do.”
He wanted to believe her. For Camila’s sake, he had to. But as the sounds of the neighborhood waking up grew louder, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was running out of time to prove it.
~~~
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the practice field as the team worked through their drills. The air was sticky, the late-afternoon heat clinging to their skin and making the turf shimmer in the distance. Coach Eric Delacroix’s sharp whistle rang out, cutting through the chatter and the sound of cleats pounding against the ground.Caine sprinted toward the field, the playcard on his wristband flopping around as he tried to adjust it, sweat already forming on his brow. He’d overslept, again. Skipping his last class to catch a nap had seemed like a good idea at the time—until he’d opened his eyes and realized he was late for practice. Now, his heart pounded, the weight of what was coming pressing down on him harder than the New Orleans humidity.
As soon as his cleats hit the edge of the turf, every head turned. The drills slowed, and whispers spread through the team. Coach Delacroix, standing near the sideline with a clipboard in one hand and his signature whistle in the other, spotted him instantly.
“Well, look who decided to show up!” Delacroix’s booming voice froze the field. “Mr. Guerra, practice starts at 3:45, not 3:40, not 4. But here it is 4:21 and you’re just running out on my God damn field!”
Caine dropped his bag by the bench, his jaw tightening as he avoided Delacroix’s glare. He pulled on his helmet, trying to hide the flush creeping up his neck.
“You think this is some backyard game, Guerra?” Delacroix stormed toward him, his clipboard slapping against his thigh. “You think you can roll in here whenever you feel like it? Let me remind you, son, this isn’t just your team. You’ve got a squad out here busting their asses for you, waiting for the quarterback to show up!”
The word leader hit harder than any tackle. Caine could feel the eyes of his teammates on him, a mix of disappointment and relief that they weren’t the ones in trouble.
“I overslept, Coach,” Caine muttered, his voice barely audible over the thudding of his own heartbeat.
“Overslept?” Delacroix’s tone dripped with disbelief. “How do you oversleep for an afterschool practice, son? If you’re standing in front of me, that means you’ve been here all day. If you’ve been here all day, how in the world do you oversleep? Forget all of that. You’re the quarterback, Guerra! You’re supposed to set the standard! Not show them how to slack off. Scouts ain’t coming here to see another diva quarterback!”
Caine bit down on the retort sitting on the edge of his tongue. What was he supposed to say? That he’d spent the last few nights at Mireya’s trying to help with Camila, that his body felt like it hadn’t rested in weeks? None of that would matter to Delacroix—or the scouts.
“You want to be a leader? Then act like it!” Delacroix barked. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a sharp edge. “You want to blow your shot at doing something with this game? Keep this up, and you’ll be lucky to play intramurals.”
Caine’s chest tightened. He could feel the weight of the team’s stares, the silent judgment. His grip on his helmet strap tightened as he nodded. “Got it, Coach.”
Delacroix pointed toward the far end of the field. “Sleds. Now. You’re not throwing a damn ball until I say so.”
“Got it, Coach,” Caine repeated, his voice louder this time.
As Caine jogged to the sleds, the team slowly resumed their drills, the tension in the air still palpable. He grabbed the cold metal bars and drove forward, the sled cutting into the turf with every strained step. The sun beat down on him, sweat soaking his practice jersey as he pushed harder, faster, trying to drown out the humiliation burning in his chest.
He thought about the scouts Delacroix kept mentioning, the ones who’d shown up last year to watch him lead the team to a comeback win. Back then, it all felt like destiny—like football would be his golden ticket out of the East. But now, every late practice, every missed throw, every second of Delacroix’s yelling seemed to chip away at that dream.
“Push, Guerra!” Delacroix shouted from the sideline. “You think scholarships come with nap breaks? You’ve got the talent, but talent won’t save you if you can’t show up!”
Caine gritted his teeth and pushed harder, the sled inching forward. His legs burned, and his chest heaved with every breath, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He didn’t just have his future riding on this—he had Camila’s, too.
By the time Delacroix finally called him off, his legs felt like jelly, and his arms trembled with exhaustion. He dropped onto the bench, pulling his helmet off and wiping the sweat from his face. The team kept glancing his way, their unease written all over their faces. He was supposed to be their leader, the one they could count on. And today, he’d let them down.
Delacroix walked past, his voice low but pointed. “Figure it out, Guerra. You’re the most important player on this team, but that won’t mean a damn thing if you don’t act like it.”
Caine nodded stiffly, staring down at the ground.
~~~
The locker room was nearly empty by the time Caine finished lacing up his sneakers, his legs still sore from pushing sleds. Most of the team had already left, their laughter and chatter echoing faintly down the hall as they headed home. Caine took his time, dragging his duffel bag onto his shoulder before stepping out into the fading afternoon light.In the parking lot, a sleek black Mustang gleamed under the setting sun, its tinted windows and custom rims practically glowing. Leaning against the driver’s side door was Jordan Taylor, his grin as wide and easy as Caine remembered. Jordan was dressed casually in designer sneakers, a crisp polo, and a chain that caught the light every time he shifted.
“Ay, my guy! Caine!” Jordan called, his voice full of swagger. “You running this bitch for real now, huh?”
Caine approached slowly, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His lips pressed into a tight smile. “Something like that. Fuck you doing in the city? Thought you weren’t coming back to this bitch after you went out to Texas.”
Jordan laughed, tapping the hood of his car. “Season’s over, man. Came home to kick it for a bit, see the fam, you know. Figured I’d swing by, check on my old stomping grounds. Remind myself how far I’ve come.”
Caine’s jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. “Looks like they got you set up real nice.”
Jordan shrugged, the kind of modesty that wasn’t really modest. “Yeah, you could say that. College life’s a whole different vibe, man. Team’s got all this gear—custom sweats, new cleats every few weeks. Meals catered after practice, too. And the dorms? Man, we don’t even stay in the regular ones. Athletes get their own shit—private bathrooms, flat-screens in the lounge. You’d love it.”
Caine nodded, forcing a smile. “Damn, son.”
“Damn?” Jordan let out a laugh. “Man, it’s next level. You know how it is—wake up, hit practice, go to class, then it’s all about chilling after that. Parties every weekend. Everybody knows you on campus, too. Professors don’t give you a hard time as long as you show up enough. Plus, the girls, bro…” He shook his head, grinning like he was letting Caine in on some big secret. “Let’s just say, they make it real easy to stay motivated.”
Caine’s grip on his duffel bag tightened. The way Jordan talked made it all sound effortless, like success was just handed to him. Meanwhile, Caine was scraping by, trying to keep his head above water, one missed alarm away from losing everything.
“What about the team?” Caine asked, his voice steady despite the knot in his chest. “What’s it like playing college ball?”
Jordan’s grin widened. “Man, it’s a grind, but it’s worth it. You’re out there under those lights, and it feels like you’re on top of the world. Scouts come to every game, so you know you’re always being watched. Coach say I’ve got a shot to go pro if I keep putting in the work.” He glanced at Caine, his eyes gleaming. “You stick with it, man, you’ll get there. I mean, you’ve got the arm for it.”
Caine nodded again, his throat tight. He wanted to say something—anything—but he didn’t trust himself to keep his voice steady. The sleek Mustang, the expensive clothes, the casual way Jordan talked about his life like it was all laid out perfectly in front of him—it all felt like a slap in the face.
“Anyway,” Jordan continued, pushing off the car, “I should get going. Got some people to see while I’m in town. Keep doing your thing, though, lil’ bro.”
He slid into the Mustang, the leather seats creaking slightly as the engine roared to life. Caine stepped back, watching as Jordan pulled out of the lot, the car’s taillights glowing like embers against the dimming sky.
As the Mustang disappeared down the street, Caine stood frozen, his hands clenched into fists. He didn’t say anything, but inside, the anger bubbled up, hot and bitter. Jordan’s life felt like a cruel reminder of everything Caine wanted but couldn’t reach—a life that seemed so far out of reach it might as well have been another world.
With a sharp exhale, he turned and started the walk home, the fading sunlight casting long shadows over the pavement. The tightness in his chest lingered with every step.