Alex woke up the morning after their return from Regionals to the smell of his favorite breakfast—scrambled eggs with chorizo and fresh tortillas. His mother had clearly been up early, and he could hear her humming in the kitchen, something she only did when she was particularly happy.
"Buenos días, mijo," she called as he stumbled into the kitchen, still processing the reality that the championship trophy was actually sitting on their mantelpiece. "Sit, sit. I made your favorite."
"Mom, you didn't have to—"
"My son is a Regional Champion," she interrupted, setting a plate in front of him that was loaded with enough food for three people. "I can make him a proper breakfast."
Alex ate while his mother bustled around the kitchen with unusual energy. She kept glancing at him with a barely contained excitement that reminded him of Christmas mornings when he was younger.
"Mom, what's going on? You're acting weird."
"Weird? I can't be happy for my son?" But her smile was too wide, and she kept fidgeting with her hands in a way that meant she was hiding something.
"Seriously, what—"
"Finish your breakfast first," she said firmly. "Then we talk."
Twenty minutes later, Alex found himself sitting on the living room couch while his mother disappeared into her bedroom. He could hear her moving things around, muttering to herself in Spanish the way she did when she was nervous.
"Okay," she said, returning with a large cardboard box that she set carefully on the coffee table. "I've been planning this for months, but I wanted to wait for the right moment."
Alex stared at the box, which was unmarked except for what looked like shipping labels from an online retailer. "Mom, what is this?"
"You remember when you first started with this airsoft, and I didn't understand? I thought it was just playing with toy guns, maybe a phase you'd grow out of." She sat down beside him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "But then I saw how hard you worked, how dedicated you became. I saw you make friends, gain confidence, find something you were passionate about."
"Mom—"
"Let me finish," she said, holding up a hand. "I started researching, trying to understand what you were doing. I talked to Pete at that shop, I asked Tony Rodriguez questions, I even watched videos online about competitive airsoft."
Alex felt his throat tighten. His mother had been working double shifts to support them both, and in her spare time she'd been learning about his hobby just to understand him better.
"I learned that the equipment matters, especially at the level you're competing at now. And I learned that good pistols—sidearms, they call them—cost around three hundred dollars each for the quality ones."
Alex's eyes widened as understanding began to dawn.
"I've been saving," she continued, her voice soft but proud. "A little bit from each paycheck, sometimes skipping lunch at work, putting aside money whenever I could. Because I wanted to give you something that would help you succeed, something that showed I believe in what you're doing."
She gestured toward the box. "Open it."
With trembling hands, Alex lifted the cardboard flaps. Inside, nestled in protective foam, were two pristine airsoft pistols that made his breath catch. Even he could tell these were high-end models—the kind of sidearms he'd seen professional competitors using at Regionals.
"Tokyo Marui Hi-Capa 5.1s," his mother said, reading from a piece of paper she'd pulled from her pocket. "Pete said these were the best for competitive shooting. Gas blowback, metal construction, upgradeable for precision work. Whatever that means."
Alex carefully lifted one of the pistols, feeling the solid weight and quality construction. These weren't just expensive—they were exactly what he would have chosen himself if money had been no object. The kind of sidearms that could make a real difference in tactical scenarios.
"Mom, these must have cost—"
"Six hundred dollars," she said matter-of-factly. "Plus shipping and the holsters and extra magazines Pete recommended. It took me four months to save up, but seeing you win that championship yesterday..." She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "It was worth every penny."
Alex set the pistol down carefully and turned to face his mother fully. "Mom, I can't accept these. Six hundred dollars is—"
"Is an investment in my son's future," she interrupted firmly. "You think I don't see how this has changed you? Six months ago, you came home from school every day looking defeated. Now you come home talking about training schedules and team strategies. You have friends who respect you, mentors who believe in you, goals that excite you."
She reached over and took his hands in hers. "Mijo, I would spend six thousand dollars if it meant keeping that light in your eyes. This airsoft, this competition—it's not just a hobby for you. It's who you're becoming."
Alex felt tears threatening and didn't try to stop them. "Mom, I—"
"Besides," she said, her tone lightening, "Pete told me that National Champions sometimes get college scholarships. Engineering programs that want students with precision skills and teamwork experience. So really, this is an investment in your education."
Alex laughed despite the tears, recognizing his mother's practical logic. She'd found a way to justify the expense by connecting it to his future, but he could see the truth in her eyes—she'd done this simply because she loved him and believed in him.
"There's one more thing," she said, reaching into the box and pulling out a small envelope. "I had these engraved."
Alex opened the envelope to find two small metal plates, each about the size of a dog tag. The first read: "A. Rivera - Regional Champion." The second: "Para mi hijo - Love, Mama."
"Pete said you could attach these to the pistols somehow. I wanted you to carry a reminder that your family believes in you, no matter how big the competition gets."
Alex couldn't speak. He pulled his mother into a hug that conveyed everything he couldn't put into words—gratitude, love, and the overwhelming realization that he was incredibly lucky to have someone who supported his dreams so completely.
"Thank you," he finally managed. "Not just for the pistols, but for everything. For believing in me when I didn't believe in myself."
"That's what mothers do, mijo. We see who our children can become, even when they can't see it themselves."
Alex's phone buzzed with a text from Marcus: *Team meeting in an hour. Rodriguez wants to see everyone's current loadout before we start Nationals prep. Bring everything you've got.*
"I have to go," Alex said, carefully repacking the pistols. "Team meeting to start preparing for Nationals."
"Nationals," his mother repeated, shaking her head in wonder. "My son is going to compete for a National Championship. Six months ago, I was worried about you making friends, and now..."
"Now I have the best teammates in the world and a mother who spent four months saving up to buy me six-hundred-dollar pistols," Alex finished. "I'm the luckiest guy alive."
An hour later, Alex walked into Rodriguez's training facility carrying a gear bag that felt significantly heavier than usual. His teammates were already assembled, their equipment laid out for inspection, and Rodriguez was examining each item with the critical eye of a professional.
"Alex," Rodriguez called, "let's see what you're working with for Nationals prep."
Alex began unpacking his gear—the VSR-10 that had carried him to Regional victory, his tactical vest and accessories, magazines and maintenance equipment. Finally, he pulled out the two pistol cases.
"New sidearms?" Maya asked, looking impressed.
Alex opened the cases, revealing the pristine Hi-Capas. The reaction from his teammates was immediate and appreciative—these were clearly professional-grade weapons that belonged at the highest levels of competition.
"Tokyo Marui Hi-Capa 5.1s," Rodriguez said, picking up one of the pistols and examining it with expert eyes. "Excellent choice. These are what I'd recommend for National-level competition. Where did you—" He stopped, noticing the small engraved plate attached to the grip. "Your mother?"
"She's been saving up for four months," Alex said, his voice carrying a mixture of pride and emotion. "Wanted to surprise me after Regionals."
Rodriguez set the pistol down carefully, his expression thoughtful. "Your mother understands something that many people don't—that proper equipment is an investment in potential. These pistols will serve you well at Nationals."
"Speaking of which," Marcus interjected, "what exactly are we looking at for National-level competition?"
Rodriguez's expression grew serious. "Gentlemen and lady, Regional Champions was an achievement. But Nationals will test everything you think you know about competitive airsoft. The precision challenges will require shots out to 500 meters under field conditions. The tactical scenarios will involve multiple phases, adaptive opposition, and psychological pressure designed to break teams."
He gestured toward their assembled equipment. "What got you to Regionals won't be enough for Nationals. We have six months to transform you from Regional Champions into legitimate contenders for a National title. That means upgrading equipment, advancing techniques, and pushing every aspect of your performance to levels you've never achieved."
Alex looked down at his new pistols, thinking about his mother's sacrifice and belief in his potential. Regional Champion had been beyond his wildest dreams six months ago. National Champion seemed almost impossibly ambitious.
But as he looked around at his teammates—Maya already planning advanced tactical scenarios, Marcus calculating training schedules, Jake researching equipment upgrades—Alex felt the familiar surge of determination that had carried him this far.
His mother had invested six hundred dollars and four months of sacrifice in his potential. Rodriguez was offering to guide him to the highest levels of competitive shooting. His teammates were ready to push themselves beyond every previous limit.
National Champions. It had a nice ring to it.