Chapter 18 Caleb
EIGHTEEN
CALEB
Game days are seriously starting to feel like exams I didn’t study for. No matter how many times I go through the motions of class, practice, film, and walk-through, when it’s a home game and I know my family’s in the stands, my body acts like I’m walking into an execution chamber.
A few days have passed since the emergency therapy session and the night Miguel stayed in my dorm, and on paper, things look better.
I’m sleeping a little more. Eating a little more.
I used the stupid safety plan twice—cold water on my face, texting Miguel a dumb emoji instead of disappearing, and walking to the cliffs when my chest got too tight.
But today it’s like my nervous system forgot every skill we practiced.
UCSC vs. UCB. A home game that already has the gym buzzing when we’re in the locker room, the dull roar of the crowd bleeding through the walls like ghosts.
Coach’s voice is a low rumble as he goes over matchups and sets, but I’m only half there.
I keep tugging at the hem of my warm-up shirt.
My heart’s racing, bouncing between my ribs like it’s looking for a way out.
Dad texted twice this morning.
Dad
Big game tonight. Mom and I will be there. Give us a show, huh?
Remember, composure. Eyes up. Don’t let your nerves get you.
No pressure.
Celeste sent a softer one a little later.
Mamá
We’re so excited to see you, mijo. I’m making you flan for after.
I should be happy. This is what normal people want.
All it does is make my stomach clench.
The only text that eases any of it is the one that came a few minutes ago.
Miguel
Lower section, across from the bench. Backwards blue hat, black hoodie. You won’t miss me.
Breathe. You’ve got this. I’m proud of you already.
Already.
He doesn’t even need to see me play.
Coach claps his hands, dragging my brain back to the present.
“Alright, bring it in.” We crowd around him in a tight circle.
Sweat, cologne, and the sharp tang of nerves hang in the air.
“We’ve practiced this. Stick to the plan.
Smart defense. Good communication. Burton, I want you aggressive on the perimeter tonight.
Don’t get in your head about the threes, take the shot if you have it. ”
“Got it,” I say, even though my throat’s dry.
We yell the team chant, slap hands, and spill out into the tunnel. The sound hits me first—a swell of voices, shoes squeaking, and the band blasting something too loud and brassy. Lights glare off the polished court as we run out, our names echoing from the announcer’s booth.
During warm-ups, I force myself through the usual routine: layups, free throws, mid-range, and threes. My first few shots clank off the rim. On the fourth one, the ball slips through the net with that perfect whisper of nylon.
Okay. Not a disaster.
Between reps, I scan the bleachers. I spot Dad first, in front of the middle section, near center court, in another UCSC hoodie.
Arms crossed, jaw tight, almost like he’s watching a courtroom instead of a game.
Celeste is next to him, hands already clasped like she’s praying I don’t break something.
Then I find him.
Lower level, opposite the bench, exactly where he said he’d be. Blue cap, black hoodie, elbows on his knees like he’s already settled in for the whole show. He’s not yelling, not waving his arms. He doesn’t have to.
He just watches me.
Our eyes meet. The noise fades for a second. He splays his hand on his chest and then points at me.
Breathe.
My face warms and I drag in a slow breath like he’s right next to me.
The buzzer blares, and the team huddles together. Starters are called, my name blares over the speakers, and I feel the slap of my teammates’ hands on my back as I jog to the free-throw line for the tip-off.
Game on.
UCB comes out swinging. They’re quick and aggressive on defense, hands everywhere, heavy on the press. The first few possessions are ugly—turnovers, rushed shots, sloppy passes.
I lock in on defense, feet moving, arms out, forcing my guy toward the sideline. He jabs right, crosses over, and tries to blow past me. I slide with him, cut him off, feeling the thump of his shoulder as he tries to create space.
“Good, Caleb!” Coach shouts.
He passes out of it. Turnover and we’re running the other way.
Transition has always been my favorite, those split seconds when the court opens up and everything slows down in that weird, bright way. I sprint up the sideline and call for the ball. It hits my hands, and I could pull up for the three, but a defender’s closing fast.
So I drive. Two hard dribbles, plant, spin, layup off the glass. The crowd roars.
I don’t look at the stands, but I feel him.
I hear Miguel in my head—that’s my pretty boy.
In the first half, I’m grinding. I get a few good stops, a couple solid assists, and four points on the board. My threes are off again. Every time I hesitate at the line, I can feel Dad’s frown from all the way across the gym.
Stop thinking.
Just shoot.
On one possession, the ball swings around the arc and finds me wide open at the corner. No time to overthink. I catch, set my feet, and let it fly.
The arc looks good. The release feels clean.
It rattles out.
Groans from the crowd.
“Keep shooting, Burton!” Coach yells.
On the way back down the court, I risk a glance at the stands. Dad’s jaw is locked, lips pressed into a hard line. Celeste claps anyway, stubbornly optimistic.
One of the many things I love about her.
Miguel just nods once when our eyes meet, expression steady. That look alone tells me I’m not a failure.
Halftime comes with us down by six. The locker room is a mix of half-hearted jokes and heavy breathing. Coach writes adjustments on the whiteboard and talks about ball movement and not forcing shots.
While he talks, my phone buzzes in my bag. I don’t look at it, but my brain fills in the blank anyway.
Miguel.
Breathe.
You’re doing fine.
In the second half, something just clicks.
Maybe it’s the trash talk. Maybe it’s Miguel’s face when I miss another free throw.
Whatever it is, something in my chest snaps into place.
I start driving harder, using my body more, and drawing fouls instead of avoiding contact. I crash the boards, fight for rebounds, and get my hands on every loose ball I can.
Midway through the half, we’re tied. The gym is loud in that vibrating way, like the sound is under your skin. I’m at the top of the key, ball in my hands, shot clock ticking down. My defender sags off, daring me. I can hear Dad in my head—take the open shot, Caleb. Don’t waste it.
I can hear Miguel, too—trust yourself, baby.
I take one hard dribble, step back behind the line, and rise up.
For a split second, it’s just me and the ball and the rim. No crowd. No Dad. No brother. No past.
Release.
The ball arcs, clean and high, then drops through the net without touching iron.
The gym explodes. My teammates swarm me, slapping my back and the top of my head. Coach is shouting something from the sideline.
I can’t help it, I look for him.
Lower section, left side.
Miguel is on his feet, both hands cupped around his mouth as he yells something I can’t hear, hat pushed back, eyes bright. He’s grinning like I just won the championship, not just hit one three in a mid-season home game.
Heat rushes to my face. My chest is so tight it almost hurts.
I believe it.
I believe him.
We ride that momentum all the way to the buzzer. Final score: 78–71. We win.
The guys are yelling, towels are flying, and someone sprays water like we actually clinched something important. Coach does the quick post-game speech—good hustle, better discipline, we tighten the free throws next time—then lets us go.
I’m sweating through my jersey, heart still racing in that high that feels like happiness and a little like panic.
I check my phone as the others start peeling off their uniforms to head toward the showers.
Miguel
That three was fucking beautiful.
Meet you outside the main doors.
My chest does that stupid flutter thing.
Dad’s text pops up right after.
Dad
We’re waiting near the lobby. Don’t take too long.
And there it is.
The high dips.
The crowd’s mostly cleared out by the time I step into the lobby, hair damp from the quickest shower of my life, hands jammed into my hoodie pocket. I spot them before they spot me.
Celeste is talking animatedly with someone from the faculty, hands flying. Dad stands beside her, eyes already scanning for me. Miguel hangs a little to the side, leaning against a pillar, arms folded over his chest.
He looks tired, hair mussed from his hat, hoodie sleeves shoved to his forearms showing off all the muscle and ink. But when his eyes find me, his whole face softens.
“Caleb!” Mom beams, breaking away from the conversation and hurrying over. She wraps me in a hug that smells like vanilla and cinnamon and home. “Ay, mijo, you played so well.”
I hug her back, sinking into it for a second. “Thanks, Mamá.”
Dad claps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing once, firm. “Good game, son,” he says. “That three was clean. I knew you had it in you if you’d just stop hesitating.”
There it is. The backhanded compliment.
“Thanks,” I say again, because I don’t know what else to say.
Miguel hangs back until the initial family moment passes, then he pushes off the pillar and walks over, hands in his pockets, lips tugged up at one corner.
He stops just short of touching me because Dad’s right there, but his eyes are all over my face. “You killed it, pretty—” He catches himself, glances at my dad, and switches mid-word. “—sweet game. Good job.”
I bite back a smile. “Thanks. Glad you came.”
His gaze flicks over me, soft and warm, like he’s checking if I’m really okay. I give him the smallest nod I can manage without it being obvious.
He nods back.
Celeste loops her arm through mine. “We’re taking you to dinner,” she announces, like it’s already decided. “There’s that new taco place by the wharf—”