What the Game Cost Us

Renee raised her eyes from the tablet. “Morning. There are eggs in the fridge.”

“I’m not hungry,” I said, propping myself against the counter.

I took my phone from my pocket. The team chat had erupted: snapshots of the Atlanta arena, complaints about the officials, guesses about which college assistants might be watching from the upper seats.

Dread rolled through me, thick as nausea. What if Dad had been right? What if, by refusing to go, I’d slammed shut the only chance I would ever have? I was sixteen, and I’d just pushed my own father away. I didn’t know how any of this was supposed to work.

Renee studied my expression, then lowered her tablet to the counter. “You’re caught in a what-if spiral.”

“I don’t know whether I did the right thing,” I said. My throat felt tight. “Dad made it sound like I’d be nobody if I wasn’t in that gym today.”

“Then we’ll separate the facts from the feelings,” Renee said, tapping the granite with one finger. “Your dad is reacting out of fear, and you’re carrying guilt. Let’s ask somebody who knows the process.”

“Who?”

“Call Coach Wilson.”

I paused. “It’s Saturday. He’s probably home with his family.”

“He’s a high school coach during playoff season,” she replied, dryly. “He’s probably watching film in his basement. Call.”

I dialed. After three rings, Coach Wilson picked up. Sneakers squealed somewhere nearby, followed by the hollow bounce of basketballs. He was at the school gym already.

“Isaiah,” he said cautiously. “You all right? Has your dad settled down?”

“I’m at Aunt Renee’s. Coach, I need you to be straight with me—not just as my coach, but as someone who understands recruiting. If I miss Atlanta, does that ruin things? Is Dad right? Do I have to play in those premium events to get a scholarship?”

He gave a long sigh. The ball sounds grew faint as he moved, then stopped when a door closed.

“Listen, Isaiah. Youth sports has become a billion-dollar business that feeds on parents’ fear. They tell families that unless they spend two thousand dollars every weekend to play in front of certain scouts, their kid won’t be seen. That’s not true.”

I shut my eyes and held the phone tighter to my ear.

“Will scouts be in Atlanta today? Sure,” Coach continued. “Most are filling out mid-major rosters or following players who’ve been nationally ranked since eighth grade. If you can play, people find you. And you can play. I sent your league film to four Division I programs. Two told me they’re coming to next week’s regional playoff to watch you in person.”

My breath caught. “Dad said you told him we needed more exposure.”

“He asked me how to move things along faster,” Coach Wilson said, his voice firming. “I told him about three top-level, invite-only summer camps that can make a difference. I did not tell him to enter you in paid tournaments every weekend. I warned him not to do that.”

He stopped for a moment. When he spoke again, his pace had slowed, and something uncertain edged into his voice. “Isaiah, did your dad only pay Atlanta’s regular team fee, or did he purchase an evaluation package?”

I knit my brow and glanced at Renee. “I don’t know what that means.”

“The Atlanta event has a guy named Trent Miller,” Coach said, disgust plain in his voice. “He also calls himself a recruiting consultant. He charges desperate parents extra and promises he’ll make sure particular college scouts watch their kid and get a custom evaluation. It’s a con. Those scouts don’t answer to him. Sometimes he sends them a PDF they never even open. I warned your father about Miller three months ago.”

A cold weight settled low in my stomach.

I thanked Coach Wilson and ended the call. The kitchen had gone quiet, but not in the way it had after an argument ended. It felt more like the pause before a storm hit.

“What did he tell you?” Renee asked, watching me closely.

“Aunt Renee,” I said, taking my time, “how much did Mom borrow from you on Tuesday?”

Renee shifted on her stool, frowning. “Eight hundred dollars. She said it was for the hotel deposit and gas for the SUV.”

Those numbers didn’t fit.

Eight hundred was a lot to scrape together, but it couldn’t be the reason the whole family was coming apart. It didn’t account for the car repairs they’d put off, the credit-card bill pushed to its limit on Dad’s desk, or Jordan’s science camp being canceled.

Before I could ask anything else, my phone shuddered in my hand.

Mom had texted once, then again, then several more times in quick succession. The device buzzed hard against my palm.

I opened the messages.

Isaiah, please tell me your father went back to Renee’s.

He never came home last night.

He isn’t picking up his phone.

Isaiah, answer me, please.

I stared at the screen as the pieces came together. This was bigger and uglier than a father pushing his son too hard about basketball. Marcus was missing, and suddenly the whole situation felt like something far beyond a fight over the game.