As he finished, the gym lights flickered. The air turned cold. The old, torn sheet on the table next to him fluttered and lifted into the air, as if an invisible hand was holding it. Then, slowly, it tore itself in half down the middle.

The sheets were always the same: a grid of dreams. Columns for names, rows for points, tiny boxes for substitutions and timeouts. To the players shrieking on the court, it was just bureaucracy. To Don Tino, it was the truest story of the game.

The referee stopped the clock. Don Tino looked at his sheet. Next to Valeria’s name, a new cross had bloomed.

He rubbed it with his thumb. It didn't smudge. Pencil marks don't appear on their own.

Don Tino smiled and handed her the fresh, clean sheet. “Here. The true story.”