Chapter 10
TEN
CALEB
Game day always starts the same.
With nerves.
By the time I’m halfway through my protein bar, my stomach’s already doing somersaults.
The air in the locker room smells like sweat and cheap detergent, and the guys are louder than usual, someone’s blasting E-40, and another’s yelling about missed calls from the last practice game. Everyone’s hyped.
Except me.
I’m sitting on the bench, tapping my heel against the tile, trying to breathe through the pressure building behind my ribs.
Coach said to relax. That it’s just another match.
But it’s not.
Not when my dad’s in the stands.
Not when Miguel said he’d be there too.
Not when it feels like the whole world’s waiting for me to prove I belong here.
I pull my phone from my locker and check it for maybe the tenth time. A text from Miguel from twenty minutes ago:
Miguel
You got this, baby. Don’t overthink it. Just play.
I breathe out a small laugh. The guy could calm me down with three words.
Caleb
You’re coming?
Miguel
Wouldn’t miss it for the world.
That helps.
Sort of.
But it also means I’ll have to see him and my dad in the same room for the first time in months.
Yeah. No pressure.
The gym’s already packed when we run out for warm-ups. The sound hits like a wave, shoes squeaking, cheers bouncing off the high rafters, and the pep band clanging from the upper bleachers. UCSC vs. UC Davis.
It’s not a rivalry game, but the energy’s there anyway.
I dribble, stretch, shoot, and try to lose myself in the rhythm of the music. Miguel’s text keeps replaying in my head. Just play.
I can do that. I can.
When the whistle blows and the teams line up, I scan the bleachers. And there—right near midcourt—I see my dad first.
Tuesday night lights glare off the court, and every sound feels too sharp: the squeak of shoes, the ball slapping the hardwood, and the whistle slicing through it all.
The game starts hard and fast. UC Davis plays like they’ve got something to prove.
We’re holding our own—barely—but I can feel my focus slipping every time I glance toward the bleachers.
Dad’s in his casual lawyer uniform, which is to say jeans that probably cost too much, a UCSC hoodie over a button-down, and that serious, fixed expression he wears even at events that are supposed to be fun.
He’s standing, clapping, but it’s measured.
He’s proud—I know that—but there’s a kind of expectation in the way he watches me that always makes my chest tight.
Then my gaze shifts left.
Miguel.
He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, a baseball cap pulled low, a smirk just barely visible when he catches me looking.
He’s not shouting or waving. Miguel just watches, calm, steady.
Proud. Like he already knows I’m doing enough.
Like I don’t have to earn it. He mouths something across the court.
Breathe.
And just like that, the noise around me fades.
I nod once.
Then the ref tosses the ball into the air, and the game starts.
The first quarter’s clean. I’m in control, light on my feet, and working defense hard. The crowd’s a blur of motion and noise, and I’m running on autopilot, just how Coach drilled us.
But every time I make a shot, I catch my dad’s face. That tiny frown of concentration. That unspoken you could’ve done better. It’s stupid. I’m not a kid anymore, not some scrawny ten-year-old trying to earn his approval.
But it still digs in deep.
By the second quarter, we’re down eight points. I get subbed back in and immediately feel Anderson’s irritation radiating from across the court. He’s been on edge all night, missed two free throws, and blamed everyone but himself.
Coach is pacing, barking strategies. I drink my Gatorade and nod when I’m supposed to, but my brain’s still split between two sets of eyes in the crowd.
One that expects.
One that believes.
And I don’t know which one’s harder to face. Expectation is easier to let down. It’s when someone believes in you and you disappoint them that it hits the hardest when you fail.
The third quarter is rough. I miss two free throws back-to-back. The bench groans. Coach yells something I barely hear. My pulse is hammering, my palms slick. I can’t get a grip on the ball.
When I glance at the bleachers again, Miguel’s still there, steady, arms folded, head tilted slightly like he’s trying to remind me that none of this defines me.
Dad’s clapping, but he’s talking to someone next to him. Probably pointing out what I should’ve done differently.
The noise swells again, the floor vibrating under my sneakers. I catch the ball, pivot, and see an opening at the three-point line. The crowd rises.
I take the shot.
It hits the rim—hard—and bounces out.
Fuck!
Whistle. Timeout.
I curse under my breath, dragging my hands over my face.
Coach’s voice fades in and out like static. I nod and say, “Yeah, got it,” but my head’s not in it anymore.
I’m not even mad at missing the shot. I’m mad at myself for caring so much about who saw it.
When the quarter ends, I catch a glimpse of Miguel standing near the tunnel, talking to one of the ushers. He must feel my eyes because he glances over and gives me a look that says, “You’re fine. Don’t spiral.”
But the game’s slipping anyway.
Fourth quarter. One minute left.
Coach’s voice booms from the sideline. “Let’s go, Burton! Set it up!”
I dribble up the court, heart hammering. There’s a break in the defense, and for a second, I see it—open space, a perfect shot.
The ball leaves my hands clean.
It arcs high.
And clangs off the rim.
The crowd groans.
Anderson mutters, “Nice one, Burton,” under his breath as we sprint back on defense.
By the time the final buzzer hits, UC Davis takes it 72–64.
We lose.
The sound of the other team cheering feels like salt on a raw wound.
The locker room’s chaos afterward with the guys slamming lockers, swearing, and the air thick with frustration. Anderson’s pacing like a caged animal, ranting to anyone who’ll listen.
Coach gives his post-game speech about focus and teamwork, then storms out.
As soon as the door closes, Anderson picks up where he left off.
“Fucking embarrassing,” he mutters. “Half of you played like you’ve never touched a ball in your life.”
Look who’s fucking talking.
I ignore him, peel my sweat-soaked jersey off, and sit hard on the bench. My phone buzzes in my bag. I pull it out.
Dad
Tough loss. We’ll talk after the game. I’m waiting by the car.
Of course he is.
Another buzz follows almost instantly.
Miguel
You did so good, baby.
I can’t wait to show you how a star athlete gets treated after a game.
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
That stupid grin sticks to my face—relief cutting through all the noise for one small, golden second.
Until I hear it.
“Burton, the fuck!” Anderson’s voice cuts through and makes me lunge forward. “I didn’t know you sucked dick. Dude, I’ve showered next to you.”
My head jerks up.
He’s standing behind me, face twisted in this mix of disgust and performative shock. Loud enough for everyone to hear. Loud enough to make sure I can’t ignore it.
For a second, I just stare. My stomach drops, but something else—anger, sharp and familiar—rises right behind it. But it’s his eyes that give him away. Almost like he’s hurt.
It’s all an act. Someone’s still in the closet too, it seems.
I take a breath. Stand up.
This isn’t how I pictured “coming out” to the team. But maybe it’s time.
“You fuckheads know there are bigger problems in the world than men who kiss other men, right?” I say, loud and clear, meeting every pair of wide eyes in the room. “Or are you all Neanderthals whose frontal lobes never developed?”
The room goes still.
I’m gonna fucking puke.
“So yeah,” I keep going, voice steady even though my pulse is thundering, “I’m bi. And I just so happen to be in a relationship with a man.”
I pause and look Anderson dead in the eye. “And you’re definitely not my type, so you and your dick can chill.”
A few guys choke on their laughter, trying to hide it. Anderson’s ears go red.
“Yeah, okay,” he sneers, glancing around at his buddies for backup. “Fucking queer.”
Asshole.
“Yeah,” I say, my tone going stone cold, “and you don’t really fit my big, thick cock with piercings criteria. So you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
That gets the reaction I was going for.
Half the locker room bursts into laughter and a chorus of “Ohh shit!” echoes off the tile.
I slam my locker shut, grab my bag, and walk out before Anderson can spit something else out. My pulse is still hammering, and I feel like throwing up, but it had to happen.
The hallway’s quieter. The adrenaline starts to fade, replaced by exhaustion. My phone buzzes again—probably Miguel checking if I survived the game. But when I look down, it’s my dad.
Dad
Outside. Need to talk.
Fantastic.
He’s waiting by his car, arms crossed, posture perfect even when he’s annoyed. His breath fogs in the cool night air.
“Hey,” I say, stopping a few feet away. “You didn’t have to wait—”
“Of course I did.” His voice is calm but clipped. “You played hard out there. Just… not your best night.”
Here we go.
“I know,” I mutter. “It happens.”
He nods slowly, studying me. “You’re off lately. Something on your mind?”
The words are heavy with subtext. He doesn’t know what happened in the locker room, but he’s circling it. Maybe he thinks the coach ripped into me for my missed shot.
I swallow hard, trying to gauge how much truth he can handle.
“Just a lot with classes,” I say. “And the team’s been tense. Therapy’s been—”
He holds up a hand.
We never talk about therapy.
“Hmm.” He leans against the car, eyes narrowing slightly. “You know, focus is everything, Caleb. Distractions, especially emotional ones, can cost you your edge. And from what I saw tonight, you’re distracted.”
My stomach knots. “Dad—”
“I’m not criticizing,” he interrupts, even though he is. “I’m just saying, whatever’s pulling your attention off the court, you need to rein it in. You have a real shot this year. Scouts are always looking.”
“Yeah. I know.” Playing professionally isn’t really on the agenda, but to him it is.
He sighs, then places a hand on my shoulder, too firm to feel comforting. “You’re talented, son. Don’t waste it chasing things that could get complicated.”
Complicated.
He doesn’t say who or what he means, but I know.
I know exactly what he’s trying not to say.
“I’m not wasting anything,” I reply, meeting his gaze, shrugging his hand off. “I’m just living my life.”
Trying to, at least. But you wouldn’t know that.
He hesitates. “You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because you smile at your phone more than you talk to me lately,” he says, half teasing, half probing. “And whoever she is… she’s got your head somewhere else.”
She.
There’s a beat of silence. I can hear the hum of the parking lot lights and the muffled chatter from inside the gym. “I gotta go, and I’m sure you want to get back to Celeste. Give her a kiss for me and tell her I miss her.” Changing the subject in hopes that he drops it.
“I will, but you should call her too.” He sighs, then reaches out to pull me into a forced hug. “The next game is an away game, right? I probably won’t be able to make that. Play hard, kid… You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”
Sure I do.
By the time I wave Dad off, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Miguel
How was talking to Dad? I know it can get rough when he “talks” to you about your performance. The game wasn’t great, but it wasn’t only you. Some of your teammates suck ass.
Caleb
Yeah. “Rough” is one word for it.
Coach didn’t yell. Oh, and Anderson kinda found out about us.
Miguel
What happened?
Caleb
He read your text. Shouted it across the locker room.
The whole fucking team knows now.
Miguel
Fuck. You good?
Caleb
Not really. I told them off, but I have a feeling it’s gonna be a whole fucking thing. He looked a little butthurt, if you know what I mean.
I can almost see his smile in the pause before the next message.
Miguel
You want to come home with me tonight?
Caleb
Yeah.
But not just for the “star athlete” treatment.
Miguel
No?
Caleb
I want to sleep.
With you next to me.
Miguel
Done. Be there in five. Don’t move.
True to his word, five minutes later, he pulls up into the empty spot where Dad’s car was. “Hey,” he says.
There’s chatter behind me from the guys leaving the gym, probably to head back to the dorms or out to eat.
Shit I don’t care about.
“Hey.” I watch him get out and walk around the tailgate to stop at the passenger door. Leaning against it, I take him in. Miguel still has on his work clothes. He probably came here straight from the job site he was working at.
He pushes off the truck, stepping closer. “You played good.”
I huff out a small laugh. “We lost.”
“So? You still looked good doing it.”
I roll my eyes, but my chest loosens a little. “You don’t have to—”
“I’m not saying it to make you feel better.” His voice softens. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”
I swallow hard. “My dad said the same thing. Only with… notes.”
He hums quietly. “Yeah. Sounds like him.”
I look down at my shoes. “I know he means well. It’s just—he’s never really known what to do with me when I’m not perfect.”
Miguel’s hand finds mine, thumb brushing slowly over my knuckles. “You don’t have to be perfect for me. Or for anyone.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
We stand there for a moment, just breathing. The lot’s almost empty now. A few players walk by, giving me quick nods, pretending not to notice the guy holding my hand. With the exception of Anderson, who pretends to dry heave.
Swear to God he’s a fucking child.
Ignore him.
Focus on Miggy.
“I thought you might not come tonight,” I admit.
He grins a little, then looks over my shoulder, raising his brow. “And miss watching my pretty boy play? Not a chance.”
The words hit low in my chest. I look up at him, the sting behind my eyes sharp and sudden. “You shouldn’t call me that here.”
He shrugs. “Then tell me not to.”
I don’t.
Instead, I step closer until I can feel the heat radiating off him.
He smells like rain, weed, and citrus… and him. And for a second, everything goes still. The loss, the noise, the expectations—they all blur out.
“It’s weird,” I say quietly. “When I’m with you, I actually believe I could be more than what he sees.”
Miguel leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead. “That’s because you already are.”
I close my eyes. “You really think so?”
“I don’t think, baby. I know.”
I feel… warm inside. Like everything is going to be okay.
Until his voice breaks through and ruins it.
“Bro, come on! We don’t need to see you queers making out.”
I let out a breath, and that’s when I feel Miguel’s demeanor shift from partner to protector.
“The fuck did he just say?”
Oh, shit.