Coach Delacroix didn’t look up right away when Caine stepped into the office.
The walls were covered in framed team photos and laminated articles, a few of them yellowing at the corners. Photos of boys who’d come through this program, some who went on to play in college, others who got swallowed by the city.
Caine dropped into the hard plastic chair across from the desk without waiting to be asked. He slouched low, one leg stretched out in front of him, arms crossed.
Delacroix finally looked up from his clipboard, gave a short nod. “Close the door.”
Caine kicked it shut behind him with the heel of his sneaker.
“You know why you’re here,” Delacroix said, setting the clipboard aside and folding his hands in front of him.
Caine gave a tired shrug. “What, for yelling at some freshman who didn’t know his route?”
Delacroix’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t be a smartass.”
“I’m not. I’m just saying.”
Delacroix leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his voice even. “Caine, you’ve got talent. Raw talent. Some of the best mechanics I’ve seen at your age. The way you read the field, the way you keep your eyes up under pressure—it’s real. You know that.”
Caine blinked slowly. He didn’t say anything.
“But I’m gonna be real with you,” Delacroix continued. “Talent don’t mean shit if your head’s not in it. And right now? Your head’s nowhere.”
Caine sat up a little straighter, but his arms stayed crossed tight over his chest. “You don’t know what I got going on.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” Delacroix nodded slowly. “But I know you’re late to practice, I know you’re skipping lifts, and I know I watched you blow up on a teammate like you were trying to fight your own reflection. And all of your teachers say you’ve been nodding off in class. Again.”
Caine exhaled sharply through his nose. “Man, y’all act like all I gotta do is wake up and throw a football.”
Delacroix raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that your job? Quarterback?”
“You think that’s all my job is?” Caine snapped, his voice rising. “You think I don’t go home to bills on the table? That I don’t got people in my face every day asking me for shit I don’t have?”
Delacroix didn’t interrupt.
“You think I get to go home and study film?” Caine shook his head. “I’m watching Camila while Mireya works a shift. I’m trying to scrape up money for formula, gas, groceries, whatever the hell else. And I still show up. Every day. I show up.”
The office was quiet for a moment, just the soft hum of the fan in the corner.
Delacroix rubbed his jaw. “You think you’re the only one that’s ever had to grow up fast?”
Caine didn’t respond.
“I’ve coached kids sleeping in cars. Kids taking the bus two hours to school. Kids raising siblings, working two jobs, and still showing up because football was their only shot. You’re not the first to have a hard life, and you won’t be the last.”
Caine’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t say anything.
Delacroix stood and walked over to the small bulletin board behind his desk. He pulled down a photo—a grainy printout of a former quarterback in a Tulane jersey. He set it down in front of Caine.
“Know him?”
Caine nodded. “Lamar. He was a senior when I was in eighth grade.”
Delacroix nodded. “Lamar had a mom who got sick his junior year. Real sick. He had to pick up shifts at the corner store just to keep food on the table. Still showed up. Still made time for film. Still put up two thousand passing yards and twelve rushing touchdowns that season. Got a partial ride to Tulane. You think it was easy for him?”
Caine stared at the photo, his throat tightening.
“Spring game’s in two weeks,” Delacroix said. “Scouts’ll be there. I need to know what version of you is showing up.”
Caine glanced up. “You threatening to bench me?”
Delacroix shrugged. “I’m saying if you’re not ready, I’m giving your reps to someone who is.”
Caine stood up slowly, grabbing the straps of his backpack. “If you had a better option at quarterback, Coach, you would’ve already benched me.”
Delacroix didn’t flinch. “Don’t get too comfortable in that jersey, Caine. Nobody’s irreplaceable.”
Caine paused at the door, jaw clenched, heartbeat hammering in his chest. He didn’t look back.
But when the door clicked shut behind him, Delacroix watched it for a long time. Because he’d seen that look before—on other boys who thought the world would always give them more time.
~~~
The house was still. Not the kind of stillness that came with peace—but the kind that felt like something was trying not to break.
Caine stepped through the front door, dropping his backpack by the couch like always, his body worn down from school and practice. His shirt stuck to his back with sweat, and his cleats, slung over one shoulder, still had a crust of dry turf and dirt clinging to the bottoms.
He was halfway down the hall when he heard it—a quiet, sharp inhale. Then a sniffle.
He slowed his steps, peering into the kitchen.
Sara was at the sink, her back to him, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, the other wiping at her cheek.
Caine leaned against the doorframe. “Ma?”
She turned fast, too fast, and forced a small smile. “Hey, baby.”
He didn’t move. Just looked at her, taking in the way her shoulders were pulled tight, the red in her eyes, the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
“¿Está bien?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said too quickly, brushing at her face again like she could erase the tears if she moved fast enough. “You hungry? I was gonna heat up that stew from last night.”
He pulled out a chair and sat, his elbows on the table. “Nah, I already ate.”
Sara moved to the stove anyway, fiddling with a spoon that didn’t need stirring. Her back was to him again.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I said I’m fine, Caine.”
He didn’t let it go. “So, you crying over onions now?”
She froze. Just for a second. Then exhaled and set the spoon down.
“It’s the same thing it always is.” Her voice was quieter now, the fight starting to drain. “Money.”
Caine frowned. “I thought you were picking up extra hours this week.”
She rubbed her arms, still not looking at him. “They cut my hours.”
“Why?”
Sara gave a bitter little laugh and turned, leaning back against the counter with her arms folded. “Probably ‘cause I wouldn’t fuck my manager.”
Caine’s face twisted. “What?”
The word hit him like a slap, more from the raw way she said it than the actual meaning.
Her eyes flicked to him and softened instantly. “Hey—don’t do that. I shouldn’t’ve said that. I’m just tired. Don’t worry about it, okay?”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then—“You always say that.”
“Porque es verdad.”
“No, it ain’t.” His voice was low but steady. “You cry when you think no one’s home. You eat less so we can eat more. You come home smelling like bleach and feet and still ask how my day was like that’s normal. That’s not fine.”
She didn’t answer. Just stared at him, lips pressed together.
“I got it,” he added, already pushing back from the table.
“Caine—”
But he was gone down the hall.
In his room, he dropped to his knees by the bed, pulling up the loose board with fingers that knew exactly where to pry.
The cash wasn’t much—not compared to what he would have if he wasn’t providing for Mireya and Camilla, too—but it was enough. Enough to take the edge off. Enough to make her stop crying.
He counted out a few bills, hesitating for a second before adding more.
Then he replaced the board, stood up, and walked back to the kitchen.
Sara was still by the counter, arms folded like she was holding herself together.
Caine set the money on the table.
She looked at it like it was something foreign, something that didn’t belong in her kitchen.
“Where’d you get this?”
“I did some work at that job site off Claiborne,” he said without flinching. “Weekend shifts.”
Her eyes didn’t leave him.
She wasn’t stupid.
“You sure?”
He held her gaze but didn’t say anything.
She let out a breath through her nose, then slowly reached for the money, folding it into her hand without a word.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
They sat there in silence for a while. Caine’s fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the table. Sara stared down at the cash in her palm, her thumb running across the top bill like she was trying to smooth it out.
After a moment, her eyes flicked up. “When am I gonna see Camila?”
Caine looked up, blinking.
“You never bring her around,” she continued, voice even. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s complicated. Mireya’s mom don’t really want her coming over here.”
Sara scoffed. “Well… I mean, you did get her daughter pregnant at sixteen.”
Caine cracked a smile. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
She smiled too, just faintly, then reached out and touched his hand.
“Let me talk to her,” she said. “Mamá a mamá.”
Caine hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Alright. But don’t you mean abuela a abuela?”
Sara laughed softly then squeezed his hand gently.
“Te amo, mijo,” she said. “I know you’re trying. I see it—even when you’re doing it all wrong.”
Caine swallowed hard, the words catching him off guard.
“Y yo a ti, Ma.”
She smiled again, eyes glistening but stronger now. “That’s all I need to hear.”
The house was still. But this time, it felt like breathing room. Even if just for tonight.
~~~
The clatter of cutlery and low hum of the dishwasher filled the Landry home. It was a modest place in Mid-City—worn hardwood floors, baby toys tucked into corners, and half-colored pages of Paw Patrol characters stuck to the fridge with magnets that barely held. The last hints of sunset painted the blinds in soft orange streaks.
Quentin sat at the small dining table, helping his daughter scoop mashed potatoes onto her plastic plate with a steady hand. She grinned, proud of her own success, before immediately using her fingers to mash them even flatter.
Ashley arched a brow at the mess and sighed. “You’re not even gonna stop her?”
Quentin chuckled. “It’s a sensory thing. She’s learning.”
“She’s learning how to ruin a load of laundry,” Ashley muttered, but there was a smile in her voice.
Their daughter let out a happy squeal, clapping her tiny hands together, mashed potato glue and all. Quentin grabbed a napkin and started wiping her down as Ashley leaned back with her water glass, eyeing her husband across the table.
“So…” she said casually, “when are you going to apply for a job at one of the better schools?”
Quentin paused. “Here we go.”
Ashley gave him a look. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are.”
She sat up straighter. “Quentin, I’m not asking you to stop teaching. I would never. But you could be doing the same thing somewhere safer. Somewhere with AC that actually works and kids who aren’t dodging cops on their walk home.”
He folded the napkin and leaned back in his chair. “You think they need me at those schools?”
“They all need you,” she said gently. “But the ones uptown don’t keep me up at night wondering if you’re going to walk out of the school building and get caught in something.”
Quentin ran a hand over his beard, thoughtful.
“I just… I want to be where it matters, Ash,” he said finally. “Where a kid like Caine might hear something and actually take it in. Where I’m not just grading essays—I’m showing up for someone who doesn’t always have people doing that.”
Ashley looked at him for a long time. “That’s why I married you,” she murmured. “Because you give a damn.”
She smiled, then added, “Still doesn’t make the late nights or the pit in my stomach any easier.”
He nodded, standing. “I know.”
Ashley glanced at the corner by the pantry. “Can you take the trash out before it starts smelling like death in here?”
Quentin grabbed the bag from the bin and tied it off with a sigh. “Yes, ma’am.”
The porch light buzzed overhead as Quentin stepped out into the night. The temperature had dropped a little, the air thick with the scent of damp pavement and honeysuckle.
He stood on the porch for a second, eyes sweeping the quiet street.
Old habits.
Just a glance around. One foot still inside the door. His hand lingered on the knob.
Then he stepped out fully, walking the short path to the trash can at the side of the house.
The street was mostly dark. A few porch lights flickered down the block. Someone’s TV echoed faintly through an open window, and a neighbor’s dog gave a lazy bark before settling again.
He lifted the lid of the garbage can, dropped in the bag, and closed it softly.
Click.
Quentin’s spine went rigid.
He turned, heart thudding in his chest, eyes searching the yard.
A second passed. Then another.
A gray blur darted out from behind a bush—a cat, spooked by its own shadow, bounding across the yard and disappearing into the dark.
Quentin let out a long breath, one hand pressed to his chest.
“Damn cat,” he muttered, shaking his head.
He lingered another second, just watching the stillness. Something about the city always felt too quiet when it wasn’t loud.
Then he turned and headed back inside, the porch light still flickering above.
