The other guys were Giordan Johnson-Mella, the starting point guard for the Dallas Stallions, and Ivan Ruiz, the star pitcher for the Dallas Lonestars. Ivan was pretty candid about his life. He’d come out as gay at the end of his rookie year and done a lot to help fight stigma against LGBT+ youth in Dominican sporting communities. And recently Giordan opened up about his brother’s battle with PTSD after serving in Afghanistan. Both Ivan and Giordan were in their midtwenties, much younger than I was, but I respected that they used their platforms and their money to help others. Since Alba had reminded me of the things I’d prioritized before taking over for my father at Ganas, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this time away from the obligations in New York was the moment to go back to that.

“I keep thinking that teaming up with some Dominican guys and doing something for communities that need it could be good for me.” Even as I said it, I felt fired up. It had been too long since I’d done anything that felt bigger than myself.

“It’ll be good for you to do something that’s your own.” Cecilia’s opinion mattered to me, and the fact that she approved without hesitation told me I was on the right track. “I’ll get you that contact information ASAP,” she said, before heading out to a meeting. I sat in my car for a moment considering what it would be like to do work I was proud of, and for more than how much money it made us.

Just from the time I’d been in Dallas I’d noticed that there was a big homeless population. Only a block or so from Sturm’s, where one could buy a vending machine full of Moët & Chandon, I’d walked by a park that had at least fifteen people sleeping on benches or on the ground in makeshift tents. And though most people didn’t have the resources to actually do something to address the situation, I did.

I stepped out of my car feeling more excited at this possibility than I had been at any time about Valle Mar. I grabbed what I’d brought for Alba from the cup holder and made my way to the building.

The moment I pushed through the glass doors my phone rang and I saw my father’s number. I thought of letting it go to voicemail, but he’d just keep calling and it wouldn’t hurt to encourage him to stay off Cecilia’s back as she worked to finalize things with Valle Mar.

“Theodoro Anibal.” My father had a gift for making a person feel like they were being arraigned for treason just by saying their name.

“Dad,” I answered briskly as I waved to the receptionist.