What the Game Cost Us

I had mistaken myself for the prize my father wanted to show off. Now I understood: he had been counting on me to keep us afloat.

“That five thousand dollars,” I said. My throat felt scraped raw. “Where did he get it?”

Mom dragged her sleeve across her wet cheeks. “He borrowed against the SUV. Trent Miller told him the premium package would get you three Division I offers before summer ended. He made it sound certain.”

“Marcus figured a scholarship could cover college,” she went on. “Then we might still have enough credit to keep up with the mortgage. He put what we had left on this weekend.”

The kitchen seemed to tilt beneath me.

I took out my phone and called Dad again. When he picked up, I switched to speaker and laid it on the island.

It rang. Once. Again. Then again.

The fourth ring stopped.

“Marcus?” Mom leaned toward the phone, her voice catching.

“Dad?” I said.

For a while, nobody answered. Traffic hissed somewhere on his end. Beneath it came a steady click, click, click, like a warning from the car.

At last, he said my name.

I barely recognized his voice. The forceful certainty I knew was gone. What came through sounded worn down to nothing.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“In the parking lot,” he said. “Still in the SUV.”

Renee moved closer. “Did you get to Miller?”

Dad breathed out shakily. “He was inside the arena lobby, arranging his sign-up table and greeting parents like he had nothing to worry about.”

Mom’s hand tightened around the edge of the counter. “Please tell me you didn’t lay a hand on him.”

“I tried to get the money back,” Dad said. His voice broke. “I grabbed his shirt and shoved him against the wall. Security rushed in.”

He paused, then continued. “Miller didn’t even seem frightened. He looked irritated. He pulled a folder from his briefcase and gave it to the guard.”

I stared at my phone. “What did the papers say?”

“The contract,” he replied, so quietly I nearly missed it. “Eight pages. I signed it Tuesday.”

The kitchen went still.

“It says the payment is a nonrefundable consulting retainer,” Dad said. “And it says they don’t promise any athletic results.”

“The guard called the police,” he continued. “An officer read the contract and said this was a civil dispute. Then he told me to get off the property.”

His breath hitched. “He said I could be arrested for trespassing and assault if I stayed.”

No one spoke. The clicking from the SUV kept coming through the speaker, regular as a timer running down.

“The money’s gone,” Dad said. “If I miss the payment on the fifteenth, the lender can take the SUV.”

His voice sank. “I lost it, Elena. I’ve lost everything.”

Mom covered her mouth. Tears slipped down her face, but she made no sound.

I looked at the phone. The anger I’d carried since the day before had drained away. In its place was a heavy ache for the man alone in that parking lot.

“Put the key in, Dad,” I said.

“I don’t know how I can face you,” he said. The words cracked as he spoke.

“Forget that,” I told him. “I’m not going to the showcase. I don’t care about that money right now. Come home, and we’ll deal with this as a family.”

For several seconds, all I heard was traffic and the small, steady clicks.

Then the SUV’s engine rumbled to life through the phone.

“I’m on my way,” Dad said.

The call ended. I stood in the quiet, looking at the dark screen in my hand.

Mom reached over and squeezed my arm. The gesture carried a thank-you she couldn’t say aloud.

For the first time, the truth was out between us. We had almost nothing, and a long way to climb, but perhaps the worst part had passed.

Then the doorbell rang.

Its sudden, sharp chime made all three of us flinch.

Renee went to answer. Coach Wilson stood outside in his gray school polo, a manila folder tucked under one arm. His expression was serious.

I stepped into the entryway. “Coach, what brings you here?”

He glanced past me toward Mom. “Is Marcus home, Elena?”

“No,” she said, her voice unsteady. “He’s coming back from Atlanta.”

Coach Wilson rubbed the back of his neck before stepping inside. He shut the door, then looked at me with a mix of concern and frustration.

“I told you I’d sent your film to four Division I programs,” he said. “Two contacted me this morning. They weren’t asking about your play. They wanted to know about a message from Miller’s agency that arrived last night.”

My chest tightened. “What message?”

He opened the folder and took out a printed email. Then he placed it in my hands.

My name was at the top, followed by my statistics and a link to my highlight reel. The agency’s name appeared with them. Coach Wilson tapped the page, drawing my attention to what it meant: Miller had sent my information to college programs under his agency’s banner.