What the Game Cost Us

A breath let go on the other end of the call, then I heard the scrape and snap of a seat belt. Mom was already in the SUV.

“Your dad’s coming back for you,” she said. “We’ll go right to the hotel in Atlanta. We’re only a couple hours behind.”

“I’m staying here, Mom.”

“Isaiah.” Her voice took on the hard, practiced firmness she used when I was little and wouldn’t eat what she’d put on my plate. “Don’t make this worse. You’re giving up an opportunity.”

“I told you no.”

She spoke more quietly, as if she’d turned away from the phone. Dad was probably beside her, hands locked around the wheel. “He’s furious, Isaiah.”

“So am I,” I replied, loud enough that she couldn’t pretend otherwise.

“You can’t handle this in front of everybody. You humiliated him in front of Coach Wilson. In front of the team.”

“Because I made my own choice where people could see? You two make choices about my future behind closed doors. Jordan has to live with them. We all do.”

The line went still. Beneath the silence came the soft, repeated rumble of tires on pavement.

“That’s unfair,” she murmured at last.

“Did you get money from Aunt Renee?” I asked. I turned my eyes toward Renee while I waited.

Mom didn’t respond.

“Mom?”

“I did,” she answered, quick and quiet.

“How much?”

“That’s not something you need to worry about.”

“It’s money for me. How can I not worry about it?” My fingers tightened around the phone.

“It’s for your future. You don’t see how close you are.”

“Close to what? Being noticed? Coach Wilson already knows my game. He’s got a whole file on me.”

“You’re close to real recruiting, Isaiah. A full scholarship.”

“Then why does it take more money every month just to keep chasing it? Why are we tearing ourselves apart to prove I’m worth something?”

She had nothing to say. Her breath came thin and hurried through the speaker, but no answer followed.

I brought the phone down and pressed the red icon. The call ended, and the room seemed to fill with all the quiet that had been waiting outside it.

Renee watched me, pride and sorrow both visible in her face. “That took nerve,” she said gently.

I sank into the couch and rubbed my palm over my eyes. “I’m worn out. That’s not the same thing.”

“From the outside, it can look pretty similar.” She rose and went to the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open. “But what if they’re right?” she called over its low hum.

“Right about what?”

“What if this weekend matters? Maybe the Michigan State scout is there, looking for a player just like you. What if you miss your chance because you’re here with me?”

I watched the ceiling fan turn in its slow circles. “Then I miss it.”

“You can say that just like that?”

“If getting that chance means Jordan loses his summer, Dad loses his pride, and Mom has to ask you for money she can’t repay, then I have to ask whether that chance is worth all of it.”

Renee returned with a plate of apple slices and placed it on the table. “You make that sound like something people put on a poster.”

“I just came up with it,” I said, and a tired little smile made it onto my face.

She laughed, warm and real, and for a moment the strain eased. I was just a teenager on my aunt’s couch on a Friday night, not the investment at the center of a family coming apart.

It faded fast.

Thirty minutes after I’d ended the call, steps hurried along the outside hallway. I knew that stride. It was quick, deliberate, and impossible to mistake.

I stopped with a piece of apple in my hand. Renee turned toward the entrance, her expression closing off.

The pounding on the door wasn’t a neighbor’s careful knock. A palm hit the wood with enough force to make the hinges shudder. One blow, then two more, each heavier.

My stomach dropped. The SUV was back.

The last thud was still fading when Renee turned the deadbolt. She opened the door only a crack, one shoulder set against it and one foot braced behind her.

Dad didn’t shove his way in with a sudden burst of force. He leaned forward, putting his weight behind the door as if the space beyond it already belonged to him. It swung open wider, and Renee stepped back half a pace. Her face stayed blank; her arms folded across her chest.

Marcus crossed onto the entryway’s hardwood. He still had on the navy tournament windbreaker, and the left pocket drooped around his stopwatch and keys. His chest rose and fell hard. I couldn’t tell whether the stairs or his anger had done that.

He didn’t even glance at Renee. His eyes went past her and found me at the edge of the linen sofa.

“Get your bag,” he ordered. He wasn’t yelling. That low, trembling note in his voice was worse—the sound he used when he thought there was no question who had the final say.

I stayed seated and pressed both hands to my knees, trying to steady them. “I’m not going, Dad.”