Chapter 25 Caleb #3
Obviously.
I’ll pick you up. Don’t let Coach run you into the ground.
Caleb
No promises.
Practice is… okay.
Not great, not a disaster. Just okay.
My legs feel heavy, but my head’s a little clearer than yesterday.
I mess up a rotation once, but I catch it and correct myself before Coach can blow the whistle.
He still yells at me twice—once for drifting on defense, once for hesitating on a shot—but it’s the usual level of Coach, not the “I might bench you forever” tone.
“You good?” Anderson asks in the locker room afterward, towel slung around his neck. “You’ve been off the last couple days.”
“Just tired,” I say, shoving my feet into my slides. “Road games kick my ass.”
He grunts in agreement. “Fair. You were on fire in Reno, though. Coach was creaming himself over your shot chart.”
“Gross,” I say automatically.
He smirks. “Hey, if it means more minutes, I’d take it.”
I let his voice wash over me. This is probably what normal looks like. Teammates talking about stats, showers, and what they’re grabbing for dinner. Nobody here knows that my dad knows. Nobody knows that my heart is doing cartwheels because my boyfriend made a therapy appointment.
For forty-five minutes, I get to be just… Burton. Guard. Shooter. The guy who hit fifteen points at UNR and nearly threw up on the bus home.
By the time I walk out of the gym, my hair is damp, my body is pleasantly sore, and the sky is bleeding into early evening.
Miguel’s truck sits in its usual spot by the curb.
He leans against the hood, scroll-squinting at something on his phone.
When he looks up and sees me, his whole face softens and lights up.
“Hey, star player,” he says when I get close enough. “You look less like death.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You look like you just finished a Nike commercial.”
He smirks. “That’s just sweat and poverty, baby.”
I laugh, the sound coming out looser than I expect. He reaches out, hooks a finger in my hoodie drawstring, and pulls me in to kiss my forehead.
We climb into the truck. The cab fills with the usual mix of his cologne and old leather and faint sawdust. He pulls out of the lot, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console where my fingers immediately gravitate.
“So?” he says. “How was Dr. Kaur? She yell at you for not using your coping skills?”
“She did not yell,” I say, then sigh. “She… listened. A lot. Told me she’s proud of me. Which is, like, rude. Who gave her that right?”
He smiles. “I did. In my head.”
I huff. “She wants to do a joint session at some point. With you.”
His eyebrows rise. “Yeah?”
“If you’re okay with it,” I add quickly. “She said not now. Later. When we don’t feel like we’re one question away from spontaneously combusting.”
He nods slowly. “I’m okay with that,” he says. “Terrified, but okay.”
“Same,” I admit.
We stop at a red light and he glances over at me. “What else did she say?”
I stare at our hands. “That I feel guilty about you getting therapy is… understandable but not proof that I’m toxic.” I swallow. “That you going is a sign you want to stay. Not that I broke you.”
“Smart lady.”
“She also said,” I add, “that if she thought this was irreparably fucked up, she’d tell me. Not those words, but… you know.”
“And?” he asks carefully.
“And she hasn’t,” I say. “She has concerns. Obviously. But she doesn’t think we’re doomed.”
He huffs a breath, almost a laugh. “High praise.”
“Shut up,” I say, but I’m smiling.
The light turns green and he drives.
“My dad texted.”
Miguel’s jaw flexes. “Yeah? What’d he have to say?”
I fish my phone out and unlock it. The screen shows the afternoon’s message.
Dad
I really am proud of you for how you played in Reno. And for calling me back yesterday. I’d like to speak with Miguel sometime soon. Not to interrogate him. To listen. We’ll talk more this weekend. Get some rest. You’ve got another away game coming and you need to be at your best.
Miguel reads it at the next red light. His mouth flattens, but not in the way I expected.
“‘Not to interrogate him,’” he reads. “Points for self-awareness, I guess.”
“Right?” I say. “I don’t… know what to do with that.”
“How does it make you feel?” he asks, eyes on the road again.
“Like I’ve been emotionally stabbed,” I say. “But, like… cleanly? In a controlled medical setting?”
He snorts. “Only you.”
“It’s just…” I exhale. “He said he’s proud of me. Twice now. That’s like… a record. And he wants to listen to you. Not yell. Part of me wants to believe that’s real. And part of me is like, this is how you die in horror movies.”
Miguel nods slowly. “We can take him at his word,” he says. “And still go in with armor.”
“Is that allowed?” I ask.
“Hell yeah,” he says. “We can set boundaries before we even get on the phone. If he starts getting weird, we can say, ‘We’re not answering that tonight.’ We can hang up, Caleb. You know that, right? You’re allowed to hang up on your dad if he starts hurting you.”
The thought makes my stomach flip.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”
Do I believe I’d actually do it?
Different question.
He pulls into the lot by the condo and parks.
The sky outside is almost fully dark now, the building windows glowing warm in patches.
Miguel kills the engine and turns to me fully.
“Hey,” he says. “You did something huge yesterday. You’re still standing.
You went to therapy. You ran practice. You’re here. That’s a lot.”
“I feel like I got hit by a bus,” I say.
“Emotionally, you did,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”
The words land somewhere deep and messy. Between Dad, Dr. Kaur and Miguel, my internal “proud” meter is cranked to eleven.
“Thanks,” I say, voice small.
He reaches over and cups the back of my neck, thumb stroking my jaw. “You coming in?” he asks. “Or do you wanna sit here and spiral in the truck for a bit first?”
“Can I do both?” I ask.
He smiles. “Yeah. Just… do it inside, where there’s blankets.”
We climb out, grab my bag from the back, and head up to the condo. The space smells like popcorn and the candle he burned last week and never relit. As I drop my bag on the couch, my phone buzzes again.
Dad
Whenever you and Miguel are ready, we can set a time to talk. No rush.
I mean that.
Miguel looks at the screen over my shoulder. “You wanna answer now?” he asks.
I stare at the words: no rush. I mean that.
“I think,” I say slowly, “I want to wait until after your first session. And maybe after we talk with Dr. Kaur about, like, ground rules.”
Miguel’s eyes soften. “That sounds like a good plan,” he says. “You can text him that you got his message and you’ll let him know, just so he doesn’t think you’re ghosting him completely.”
I nod and type out the words.
Caleb
Got your texts. Thanks. Miguel and I will talk and let you know when we’re ready. Love you.
The three dots pop up almost immediately.
Dad
Take your time. Love you too.
Both of you.
My chest squeezes. I lock the phone before I can overanalyze the punctuation. Miguel nudges me toward the couch. “Come on,” he says. “You did enough emotional gymnastics for one day. Let’s corrupt your brain with overly masculine sports.”
I let him pull me down beside him and he throws the weighted blanket over both of us and hands me the remote. As the Sharks game flickers to life on the screen, I curl into his side, phone silent on the coffee table, my dad’s messages and Dr. Kaur’s words humming around the edges of my thoughts.
Miguel’s fingers trace absent circles on my knee.
My brain is still terrified. Still waiting for the other shoe, other call, other catastrophe. But there’s something else there now, too. Maybe we’re not doing this completely blind. Miguel’s getting help. Dr. Kaur’s in our corner. Dad hasn’t slammed the door.
And I’m still here.