Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
CALEB
The UCSD gym smells like floor polish, sweat, and popcorn, the place hums before the game.
It’s all nerves and noise. We’ve been on the bus since dawn, cramped and stiff, and by the time we hit the court for warm-ups, the crowd’s already thick.
It’s a rivalry game—California schools always bring that extra edge.
Not to mention NorCal vs. SoCal.
I’m lacing up my sneakers when I spot him.
Lower section, near the UCSC bench.
Miguel.
He’s in a black hoodie, sleeves shoved to his elbows, forearms flexing as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. He’s not cheering, not waving like an excited boyfriend would do, just watching. Eyes locked on me.
My stomach flips. My grip on the ball tightens and I take a deep breath. He came!
“Burton, you good?” Martin asks, smirking.
“Yeah,” I mutter, forcing a stretch, shaking out my hands. “Just… dialed in.”
The ref’s whistle cuts through the hum, the ball is tossed high, and we’re off.
The first quarter is messy—both teams trading fouls and sloppy turnovers.
I drive the lane early, get blocked, and then steal the ball back on the next play, pushing the fast break.
My legs burn, but it’s a good burn. Every dribble, every pivot, grounds me.
Looking over to where he’s sitting, catching the hungry look in his eye, has me shaking myself back into the game’s focus. I kinda like that he came.
Okay, more than kinda.
Midway through the second quarter, I find my groove. Three-pointer, clean. Then another—off a screen, nothing but net. The bench erupts, and I glance over at him. Miguel’s up on his feet now, with that half-smile on his face that says, “That’s my boy.”
Every move, every point, feels like it’s for him. I want him to be proud of me.
The game’s tight all the way through. By halftime, we’re down by four, and Coach is pacing, barking orders. Sweat drips from my hairline into my eyes, stinging, but I barely feel it.
Third quarter, I’m locked in. The UCSD defense doubles me hard, and I break through it with a crossover that makes their guard stumble. The crowd goes wild. I feed Anderson under the rim, he dunks, and the noise explodes around us.
Miguel’s standing, arms crossed, with a slow nod. He mouths, “You got this, baby.”
Fourth quarter’s chaos. We trade baskets. The score flips back and forth. The crowd’s deafening, but I tune it out—the squeak of shoes, the slam of the ball, and the breath in my lungs.
Thirty seconds left. Tie game.
Coach calls timeout.
We huddle up, breathing hard. “Ball goes to Burton,” Coach says. “You make the shot, we go home winners.”
Pressure weighs heavy, but I nod. I’ve done this before.
Inbound pass—three seconds left.
I fake left and spin right. Defender bites.
One step back.
Release.
The ball arcs high into the lights, spinning slowly, everything else muted—the crowd, sound, and thought—until it drops clean through the net.
Buzzer.
The noise is instant—the shouting, the mascot losing his shit, teammates tackling me, pounding my back. But through it all, I see him.
Miguel.
Standing.
Smiling.
Clapping slowly, like he already knew I’d do it.
By the time we’re back in the locker room, my phone’s buzzing nonstop. Notifications from social media, texts, and a voicemail from my dad, but only one catches my eye.
Miguel.
I unlock the screen, raise the phone to my ear and hit play on the voice message he sent. His voice fills the space between the clanging lockers and the hiss of the showers.
“Oh, my pretty, pretty boy. I’m gonna make such a mess of you tonight. Mmm, just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you makes me hard. Meet me in the room after you’re done.”
The message ends with a low groan and a laugh I can feel in my chest. He already knows where to find me. He always does. What he didn’t do is tell me he’d be coming.
My pulse spikes. I grab my bag, shove my uniform in, and try not to grin too wide when Martin says, “Damn, where’s the fire, Burton?”
“Nowhere,” I lie, heart racing. “Just wanna shower in my room.”
The hotel’s only a few blocks away, the night thick and warm, the air humming with that leftover electricity from the court. My pulse still hasn’t slowed—not from the game, not from the look Miguel gave me when I hit that last three-pointer.
I walk fast, bag slung over my shoulder, hoodie half-zipped and damp with sweat.
Every streetlight feels too bright, every shadow too deep.
The team asked if I wanted to go out for drinks to celebrate, but I told them I was crashing early.
Couldn’t have faced them with the sound of his voice still playing in my head.
“Oh, my pretty, pretty boy. I’m gonna make such a mess of you…”
Jesus.
I should’ve deleted it after the first listen.
But I didn’t, so I replayed it. Twice. Okay, maybe three times on the walk back.
His voice, low, rough and sure, sank under my skin until I could feel his breath against my ear, the way his hands would hold me there, making me take every filthy word like a blessing.
My legs eat up the distance. I take the stairs two at a time, breath catching hard by the third flight. The weight in my stomach builds. Every muscle vibrates with the same tension that lives in my shoulders right before a free throw.
When I reach the door, the keycard shakes in my hand. I stop for half a second, dragging in a breath that doesn’t help. The hallway feels too quiet, the sound of my pulse too loud in my ears.
I swipe the card.
The lock clicks and the sound might as well be a starter’s whistle.
Miguel’s leaning against the window, one arm propped on the frame, city lights spilling over him in soft gold and electric blue. He looks unreal in a dark shirt clinging to his chest, sleeves shoved to his elbows, his throat flexing when he swallows.
The corner of his mouth curls, slow and knowing, like he’s been waiting all his life.
“Close the door, baby,” he says softly.
His voice drags across my skin, low and rough enough to make me shiver.
I don’t even realize I’ve obeyed until the soft click of the latch sounds behind me.
He doesn’t move. Just watches. Eyes tracing over me, hungry and patient all at once.
“Come here.”
It’s not a request.
And I do.
My bag hits the carpet. My shoes too. The space between us disappears like it was never there—my chest pressed to his before I can even take another breath. His hands slide up my back, warm and solid, like he’s anchoring me.
“Hi,” I whisper, my voice breaking on it.
Miguel’s smile shifts, smaller, softer and then his mouth is on mine, tasting me like we’ve been apart longer than a few days.
His eyes hold mine, dark and intense, as his hands roam freely, tracing the curve of my spine. I can feel his heart beating against my chest, a steady, hungry rhythm that matches my own.
“You played so well tonight, Caleb,” he murmurs, voice low enough to settle under my skin. ”I always knew you were special. But watching you out there…”
His lips brush the shell of my ear. I stop breathing. “You know how proud I am of you, right?”
I nod. My throat feels tight.
His hands slide down, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world.
“You’re so fucking sexy, Caleb,” he growls, his fingers digging into my flesh. “My superstar. Fuck, I want to watch you come undone for me. I want to hear you scream my name.”
I want nothing more than for him to make me scream it.
He steps back, and for a second I don’t understand why. His hands stay on me as he guides me toward the bed. My knees hit the mattress harder than I expect. I sit.
My legs are already shaking.
Miguel kneels in front of me. Not touching. Just looking.
“Such strong thighs,” he murmurs.
The first kiss makes me jolt. The second makes me squirm.
“Fuck… they’re like steel.”
His fingers trace upward, slow enough that I feel every inch of it. My breath turns shallow.
His hands press my knees apart and he settles between them. I feel his breath through the fabric of my shorts before I feel anything else.
He looks up at me. Smiling.
“You want this, don’t you?”
I nod. I don’t trust my voice.
“You want me to make you feel good, baby?”
“Yes,” I manage. “Miguel… I need you.”
He chuckles softly. “You’ll get me. But first, let’s get you nice and ready, huh?”
His hands slide up to my hips, hooking into the waistband of my shorts and boxers. He pulls them down slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. When I’m bare before him, he leans in, his tongue flicking out to lick a slow path up my shaft.
“Oh, Fuuuck...” I groan, my head falling back.
“Shh, baby,” he soothes, his hands gripping my hips tightly. “I’ve got you. I’m going to make you feel so good.”
His mouth envelops me, wet and hot, sucking and licking until I’m a mess of need and desire. But he doesn’t let me come, pulling back just as I’m about to tip over the edge.
That elicits a whine from me.
“Not yet, baby,” he says, a smirk on his face. “I want you to come on my cock. I want to feel you milking me dry.”
Whatever he wants. I’m so wound up that if he told me to bend over the balcony so he could fuck me for everyone to see… I would.
Morals? What are those?
He stands up, shedding his clothes quickly before grabbing the lube from the nightstand. While he does, I rip my sweatshirt over my head and toss it aside. Miguel squirts a generous amount onto his fingers, his eyes never leaving mine as he reaches between my legs, circling my hole.
I suck in a breath as he does.
“You’re so tight, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a finger inside. “All fucking mine.”
I moan, pushing back against his finger, wanting more. He obliges, adding another finger, scissoring them to stretch me open. The burn is intense, but it’s a good pain, a reminder of what he does to me.
“That’s it, baby,” he praises, his voice thick with desire. “Take them for me. You’re doing so good. Think you can take another?”