HE CAN'T GIVE UP

Alonso kicked off his shoes by the door, wincing as the sole of the left one nearly came loose. The air inside was thick with the smell of garlic and simmering beans, but beneath it lingered a weariness he had grown used to.

"You're late again," his mother said softly from the kitchen, her voice heavy with exhaustion. She stood over the stove, her hair pulled back into a loose bun, the lines on her face deeper under the dim yellow light.

"How many times have I told you not to stay out after dark?"

Alonso hesitated, the words caught in his throat.

He could still feel the ball at his feet, the rush of scoring, the echo of his voice shouting Goooool! But he knew his mother wouldn't understand that feeling—not when there were more pressing things to worry about.

Bills. Food. His father's aching back when he came home late from the docks.

"I was just... practicing," he murmured, lowering his head.

A sigh slipped from his mother's lips. "Practicing won't fill your stomach, mijo." Her tone softened as she turned to look at him. "I know you love football, but—"

"It's not just a game, Mama," Alonso cut in, his voice quiet but fierce. "I'm going to play for Athletic one day. I'll make things better. For all of us."

A tense silence filled the small kitchen, broken only by the bubbling pot on the stove.

"Alonso," a sharper voice came from the hallway. "Stop it."

Alonso turned to look and saw his sister.

His older sister, Lucia, leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. At fifteen, she had their mother's sharp eyes and their father's stubbornness.

She didn't like to see Alonso put in too much effort into the football game because there was no extra money for that. She was afraid to see him get injured since their parents struggled to take care of them.

Schoolbooks were clutched against her side—always studying, always serious.

"You need to grow up," she said, her words cutting through the warmth of his dream.

"Mama and Papa break their backs daily to keep us afloat. You think kicking a ball is going to change that?"

Alonso's hands curled into fists at his sides. "I'm not giving up."

"You're being selfish," Lucia snapped, pushing off the doorframe.

"They can't afford football boots or academy fees. You know that. The least you could do is focus on school—get good grades and a real job someday. That is the best you can do for yourself Alonso".

Her voice dropped lower, but the frustration still burned. "That's how you help this family." She walked out with Alonso and his mum because she was worried about what Alonso couldn't understand, which made her feel very bad. He felt a prick behind his eyes but blinked it away.

She didn't understand. None of them did. When he played, the world felt bigger—full of possibilities. Without football, what was he supposed to hope for?

"I'm not quitting," Alonso said, his voice trembling but firm.

Lucia shook her head, her face tight with anger—or maybe worry.

"One day, you'll have to face reality." With that, she turned and walked toward their shared bedroom, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

Alonso stood there, the weight of her words pressing against his chest. In the quiet that followed, he glanced at his mother, hoping for some sign of encouragement. But her shoulders were heavy with a burden he couldn't yet fully understand.

His mother was confused and didn't know what to say to both of them. "Wash your hands," she said quietly, turning back to the stove. His dream burned bright inside him—but so did the gnawing fear that maybe, just maybe, his sister was right.

And yet, as he walked to the sink, Alonso knew one thing for certain.

He wasn't ready to give up—not yet.