The rec center lights buzzed overhead, throwing dirty yellow circles across the patchy grass. Dirt showed through where too many cleats had chewed the field bare. Guys shouted in Spanish, English, Creole, Portuguese different voices bouncing off each other, mixing into one hum of noise. Music thumped from a speaker on the bleachers.
Erick lingered at the fence, half turned to leave.
"Yo!"
Rafa spotted him, grin wide. "No fucking way. You actually showed."
Erick shifted, muttered, "Don't even know why I'm here."
Rafa hooked his arm and dragged him toward midfield. "Seven v seven, my boy's in."
Erick froze. "Wait—what? I don't even have cleats." He glanced down at his ragged sneakers.
"You got feet," Rafa said. "That's enough. Yo, anyone got extras?"
A man with a knee brace on the sideline unstrapped his boots. "I'm done. Let the kid run."
Erick caught them, stomach tight. Still hot, damp from sweat. He shoved them on. Too small, biting at his toes, but there was no way out now.
"Yo, this is Erick," Rafa said. "First night."
A couple nods. One guy with a Dominican accent clapped him on the back. "Don' worry, rookie. Jus' keep the ball movin'."
The game kicked off with a shout. "Ball in!"
Chaos. The ball zipped, feet clattered, shoulders crashed. Erick jogged in circles, already out of breath. When it rolled toward him the first time, he flinched, sticking out his leg too late. It bounced off him like a brick.
"Don't be scared, man!" someone with a thick Haitian accent barked. "Ball don' bite!"
Heat crawled up Erick's face. He tried to focus, but every time the ball came near, his chest locked. He couldn't stop seeing Marcus, Coach, everyone who laughed.
The next touch, he panicked again, kicked it straight out of bounds.
"Shit!" one guy yelled.Another shouted, "Breathe, rookie! Look first!"
Rafa jogged past him, smirking. "Relax, fatass. Just pass."
Erick's lungs burned. He felt huge, slow, like his body wasn't his. But then finally a soft roll came his way. He tapped it back simple, nothing fancy.
"Good ball, Erick!" Gold Tooth shouted.
Just two words. But they cracked through the noise like a flare. Erick's chest jolted with something he hadn't felt in months.
The high didn't last. A stocky defender plowed into him, knocked him face-first into the dirt. His elbow ripped open, grit sticking to the skin. Laughter barked from the sideline. Erick bit back the urge to stay down, pushed up slow.
"You okay?" a guy with a Brazilian accent asked. "No fall down so easy, bro. Stay strong."
"Yeah," Erick muttered, even though his ribs screamed.
He kept running. Every mistake burned. A heavy touch here. A lazy pass straight to the other team. Legs dragging like weights. Sometimes he wanted to duck away from the ball, let it pass him, but then he'd hear it:
"C'mon, Erick, go!""Don' be shy, hermano!""There you go, better!"
Different voices, different accents, but all telling him the same thing: don't hide.
Near the end, he actually strung two passes together. Nothing special. Just one-two, in and out. But it worked. Nobody laughed. Someone even yelled, "Good, Erick, good!"
By the final shout, his shirt was soaked, lungs burning, feet blistering in the too-tight boots. His body begged to quit.
But he hadn't quit.
Rafa slapped his back. "Not bad. You stayed in it."
--
The game fizzled out the way park games always did no whistle, no score. Just bodies slowing down, guys peeling off to the benches, a few stretching, others already digging in their bags for smokes or water.
Erick unlaced the cleats, ready to hand them back, but the man with the knee brace shook his head."Keep 'em, kid. You need more than me." His accent dragged the words, thick and certain.
Erick blinked. "You serious?"
The man smirked, crooked teeth flashing. "Serious. Jus' don't let 'em collect dust." He clapped Erick's shoulder and limped toward the street.
Erick sat on the bench staring at the boots. Scuffed, reeking of turf, a size too small—but they were his. The first thing that felt like it belonged.
--
By the time he got back to the foster house, the place was quiet. TV dark, kids knocked out. He showered, hissing when the water hit his scraped elbow, then dropped onto his mattress. The cleats sat on the floor by his door.
Every part of him ached. His legs throbbed, lungs raw, feet on fire.
But inside, something different burned.
Not because he played well he hadn't. He'd been slow, scared of the ball half the time, clumsy the rest.
But he'd stayed. He'd tried. And now he had proof sitting on the floor beside him.
The fan clinked overhead. Erick grinned through the ache.
Tomorrow didn't feel impossible.