Chapter 21 Caleb
TWENTY-ONE
CALEB
Miguel
You’re gonna play a great game tonight, pretty boy. I’ll call you after, no matter how late it is.
That text is still burned behind my eyelids when the ball hits my hands at the top of the key. It’s fourth quarter, UNR’s gym is loud as hell, there’s blue and silver everywhere, and the student section behind the basket is a wall of bodies and taunts.
The air up here feels thin compared to sea level… my lungs burn in a way that’s half altitude, half adrenaline. My jersey is plastered to my back with sweat. The scoreboard says we’re up by four with a minute and change left.
“Burton, move!” Someone yells.
I snap out of it, dribble once, then swing the ball to our wing, cut through, and flash to the corner. The defense is scrambling, we’ve been hammering them inside all quarter. My guy hesitates, glances toward the paint.
Wrong move.
The ball skips back out to me.
Catch. Set. Rise.
The shot leaves my hand with that perfect, easy snap that feels like breathing. For half a second, the whole gym shrinks down to the arc of orange, the white square of the backboard, and the soft ring of the rim.
Swish.
The net whispers. The crowd erupts—half roar, half groan, depending on which colors they’re wearing. Our bench loses its mind. I’m already backpedaling, heart hammering, blood singing, as the announcer’s voice booms something about “Burton from downtown.”
I don’t let myself look for him. Miguel’s not here. He’s in Santa Cruz, probably on the couch, cussing while he watches this on his laptop.
But for a second, it feels like he’s right behind me anyway, breath warm against my ear.
That’s my pretty boy.
UNR calls a timeout. We jog to the bench and Coach slaps my shoulder so hard it stings. “There you go, Burton,” he barks, grinning. “That’s what I want. Confidence. Keep your head in it.”
I nod, trying to suck in air, bouncing on my toes while he talks strategy.
My legs feel like they’re full of electricity instead of blood.
I’ve already logged more minutes into this game than I have in any other away game this season.
My stats are gonna look stupid when I see them later—points, assists, rebounds—I had no business getting over their big guys.
Miguel’s gonna talk so much shit when he sees the box score.
We close it out ugly but solid with a hard defense, fouls get traded back and forth, and I hit two free throws in the last thirty seconds with the student section screaming something about my mom behind the basket.
When the final buzzer sounds and the scoreboard flashes UCSC 82–UNR 75, the noise inside me finally matches the noise outside.
We did it.
We won.
And I wasn’t just… there.
I was part of it.
The locker room after a road win has its own smell.
Victory, exhaustion, cheap body wash, layered over damp wood lockers and the sour tang of sweat-soaked socks.
Music’s blasting from somebody’s speaker, guys are yelling, towels snapping.
Someone slaps my ass with a rolled-up stat sheet as I walk by.
“Burton!” Martin, our power forward, crows, waving the paper in my face. “My man was COOKING tonight. Fifteen points, six rebounds, four assists? Okay, I see you.”
“Gimme that,” I laugh, snatching the sheet from him.
My name’s there, numbers right next to it.
Real. I tap the page with my finger like I don’t trust it.
“Player of the game, easy,” Jamal says. “We’re getting you drunk tonight, bro.”
My stomach flip-flops, just a little. I’m already kind of floating and adding alcohol feels like tempting fate. But the energy here is contagious. These are the guys Dad keeps saying I need to “bond” with. Guys who’ve seen me bust my ass in practice and—yeah, okay—seen me choke, too.
“All of us are going out,” Martin declares. “Team spot. Coach doesn’t need to know. You’re coming.”
“I’ll have one drink,” I warn. “I gotta be functional tomorrow.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that,” he grins.
The room starts thinning out as guys hit the showers. I sit on the bench and pull my phone out of my bag with damp fingers.
Three notifications from the ESPN app. Two from Dad that I promptly ignore. And one from the only person I care about.
Miguel
Knew you were gonna show off.
That three at the end was fucking filthy, Caleb.
I bite down on a smile, thumbs already moving.
Caleb
You watched?
Miguel
Obviously.
You think I’m gonna miss my man killing it on the road?
How you feeling?
I glance around. A couple guys are still talking shit in the corner, no one’s paying attention to me.
Caleb
Like I did actual things out there.
You proud?
Miguel
I’m always proud of you, baby.
But yeah, extra proud tonight.
You going back to the hotel?
I hesitate, then type.
Caleb
The guys wanna take me out for a drink.
Team bonding.
I can say no if you want.
Miguel
If I want?? Who am I, your parole officer?
Go out, pretty boy.
You deserved this.
Have a drink WITH your team. Dad would love that.
Then call me when you’re back in your room. Deal?
Caleb
Deal. I miss you, you know.
Miguel
Miss you too.
Now go shower before your teammates stage an intervention.
“Look at this lovesick motherfucker,” Anderson cackles from two lockers down. “Smiling at his phone like someone texted him nudes.”
“Shut up,” I fire back, grinning despite myself, shoving the phone back in my bag. “Just a good game review.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Go scrub your sweaty asses, gentlemen. I want my beer, my fries, and hopefully some chick sucking my dick by the end of the night.”
The bar they pick is walking distance from the hotel—a place clearly designed for college kids and sad middle-aged dudes who lost big on the game. Neon signs, sticky floors, too-loud music. The air smells like spilled beer, fryer oil, and bad cologne.
Our whole team rolls in like a tide of navy and gold warm-ups. Heads turn. They always do when a bunch of tall guys in matching gear show up. A couple of UNR students give us side-eye. One guy in a Wolf Pack hoodie mutters something about “luck” as we pass.
I clock exits automatically. Of course I do. The bar, the bathrooms, the side door.
Miguel’s hoodie is a weight on my shoulders—literally. The dark blue one, the one he told me to take. It smells like his cologne and laundry detergent and faintly like weed. I pulled it on as soon as we got back to the hotel to change.
The guys commandeer two high-top tables near the back. Someone orders a round of beers before I can even pull my credit card out. One materializes in front of me, condensation beading on the glass.
“You good?” Anderson asks, already halfway through his first.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just… it’s been a while since I did this.”
“Then you’re overdue,” he says cheerfully, clinking his glass against mine. “To big nights, big shots, and you finally acting like you’re not on a monastery retreat every time we’re on the road.”
“You’re such an idiot,” I laugh, but I take a sip. It’s cheap beer, cold and fizzy, sitting heavy in my empty stomach.
It’s not bad.
It’s also not… dangerous. Not tonight. Not like those nights when my mother’s boyfriend would slam a bottle down and tell me to drink the “grown-up juice” and laugh when I choked.
This is… different.
For a while, it’s actually fun. The guys retell plays from the game like we didn’t all just live them, embellishing details and roasting each other.
They reenact my three like it was from the logo instead of just behind the line.
Someone pulls out their phone and shows me a shaky video from the stands where a UNR fan yells “MISS IT” right before I sink a free throw and the whole bar laughs.
I have another beer.
Then a third.
An hour’s gone by, my face is warm, my limbs loose, and the edges of my thoughts soft. The music is louder but less… intrusive. My body feels heavy in a not-horrible way. I text Miguel under the table with clumsy fingers.
Caleb
We’re at a bar.
I had…
Like 2 drinks.
Maybe 3.
I’m slightly buzzed.
Don’t be mad.
His reply comes pretty fast.
Miguel
Mad???
Nah, baby. You act like I’m some fucking saint. I’m so high rn, I’m floating on a cloud.
Caleb
Jealous… I wanna be with you.
Miguel
Just don’t let them talk you into tequila. I don’t wanna have to come bail you out of jail for public indecency.
How you feeling? Scale of 1 to calling your dad to tell him he’s a prick.
Caleb
7?
I wanna call you.
Does that count?
Miguel
That’s allowed, actually, it’s encouraged.
Check what time it is. Don’t miss curfew.
I squint at the neon clock above the bar. “Shit,” I mutter when the numbers look blurry. “What time is it?”
“Almost midnight,” one of the guys answers. “We should head back. Coach will have our asses if we’re late.”
By the time we spill out into the cold Nevada air, my head is pleasantly spinning. The walk back to the hotel feels longer than it did coming here. My balance is a little off, so I clutch my phone in one hand and the strap of my bag in the other, like that’s gonna help.
“You good, Burton?” Martin drapes an arm around my shoulders. He’s taller than me and annoyingly steady. “You’re walking like you’re on a boat.”
“I’m fine,” I protest, but I lean into him a little. The sidewalk tilts more than I expected. “Okay, maybe not fine-fine.”
He laughs. “Come on, superstar. I’ll get you to your room so you don’t break your ankle on some random Reno curb and Coach starts crying.”
The hotel lobby is mercifully quiet. Just a bored guy at the front desk and some other employee scrolling on his phone. My brain feels like it’s wrapped in cotton. Everything’s a little slow, delayed, like watching life through glass.
We make it up to our floor without incident. Martin walks me straight to my door. Apparently I look like I’m about to “fall down in the hallway.”
“You need me to tuck you in too?” He teases as I fumble in my pocket for my keycard and finally get the green light. Then I flip him off.
“I hate you,” I say fondly. “But thanks.”