Chapter 28 Caleb
TWENTY-EIGHT
CALEB
I try to care. I really do.
My leg bounces so hard my kneecap feels like it might just launch.
Oregon.
Not even that far from home. Close enough that when the schedule came out, my dad sent a simple text: We’ll see you there. That prompted Miguel to take the time off and hitch a ride with them.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Miguel
Almost at the arena. Traffic sucks balls. Mamá is threatening to fight an Audi.
Caleb
Surely you don’t mean my angel of a stepmother who prays over me whenever she drags me to mass.
Miguel
The very one. She says, “If this pendejo cuts me off one more time, I will lay holy hands on him.”
Focus up. We’ll be in the stands.
My stomach flips and I swallow what feels like an entire desert.
Caleb
Okay.
Try not to get arrested before tip-off.
Miguel
No promises.
Proud of you already, hermoso.
I stare at that last line until Coach stomps down the aisle, clapping his hands once.
“Let’s go,” he barks. “We’re not here for the fucking scenery.”
The guys around me start waking up, stretching, and grabbing their bags off the rack. I shove my phone into my hoodie pocket and pull my headphones down around my neck. My playlist is just white noise at this point, the real noise is all inside my skull.
Moments like this, I feel like my life is a series of stacked expectations.
Play well.
Be composed.
Don’t embarrass your dad.
Don’t embarrass your boyfriend.
Don’t give anyone a reason to regret loving you.
No fucking pressure at all.
The gym at this Oregon school smells like every other gym: rubber, popcorn, and a faint undercurrent of disinfectant. Their colors are green and gold, painted in obnoxious stripes along the walls. Our warmup shirts look extra black against it, like we’re invading.
During shootaround, I try to fall into the rhythm: catch, dribble, pull-up, release. The ball leaves my fingertips in that perfect backspin that always feels like a tiny prayer.
Swish.
I let it settle me. I know how to do this. It’s all muscle memory that doesn’t care that my dad knows who I’m sleeping with now.
“Burton, finish the set and hit the line,” Coach yells. “We’re doing two-man closeouts next.”
On my next rep, I glance up at the stands.
They’re not full yet. A scattering of students in school colors, some bored parents, and a band assembling in the corner. And there, halfway up, three familiar shapes I’d recognize in a blackout.
Mom, in a UCSC hoodie she probably bullied the merch table for. My dad, in a crisp button-down under a sport coat because he doesn’t know how to be casual. And Miguel, in a black hoodie and beanie, arms crossed over his chest, watching me.
When his eyes catch mine, he lifts his chin, just slightly.
“Eyes on your shot, Burton,” Coach snaps.
“Yes, Coach,” I mutter, flushing, and sink the next three just to prove I can.
We huddle up after warmups, hands in the middle.
“Defense first,” Coach says. “Talk. Rotate. Crash the boards. Burton, I want you hunting your shot. Last game wasn’t a fluke.”
My stomach drops and soars at the same time. “Yes, Coach.”
When the buzzer sounds and we jog to the bench, I catch a glimpse of a man in a dark windbreaker down near the scorer’s table, talking to our assistant coach. Clipboard, lanyard, that posture. Not school staff.
A fucking scout.
As if the night needed more stakes.
The game is a blur, but a sharp one. Their point guard is fast and slippery in that annoying way where he always looks one step ahead. First couple of possessions, we’re trading buckets. Sneaking glances at the stands is useless, the crowd is just a smear of color and sound now.
On our third trip down the floor, Anderson kicks me the ball off a screen. My defender goes under. Instinct takes over. I rise up behind the arc and release smoothly.
Nothing but net.
The roar—small but real—hits a beat after the swish. My team’s bench erupts. Someone smacks the back of my head as we run back on D.
“Let’s go, Burton!”
I don’t have time to grin. I pick up the guard at half, slide my feet, and get a hand in his face on his jumper. He bricks it off the back iron. Our big snags the board and outlets.
We run.
By the time the first timeout rolls around, I’ve hit two more threes and a pull-up jumper in transition. Sweat drips down my spine, my lungs are burning, and my hands feel weirdly steady.
Coach grabs my jersey as we huddle. “They can’t guard you,” he says, eyes bright. “Keep your foot on their throat. But don’t settle. If they chase, attack the paint. Got it?”
“Got it,” I say, heart hammering.
When I dare a glance at the stands during free throws, Miguel is on his feet along with Mom, both clapping. Dad’s still seated, but his hands are together, expression… not exactly relaxed, but not miserable either. Somewhere between focused and overwhelmed.
In the second half, they start face-guarding me, trailing me like a shadow. Good. That means someone else is open. I draw defenders, swing the ball, and rack up assists. I still find my spots—a backdoor cut here, a step-back three there. The basket looks big tonight.
With two minutes left, we’re up six. Their home crowd is loud, trying to will them back into it. The scout is still there. I can feel him watching from the baseline. Coach calls a play out of a timeout, and it’s basically “everybody get the hell out of Caleb’s way.”
“Straight horns set,” he says, gripping my shoulder. “If they switch, punish them. You’ve got this, Burton.”
I don’t deserve that kind of faith, some old part of me whispers.
We inbound and I take the ball at the top, with two bigs setting screens on either side. Their smaller guard fights over, their slower big hesitates on the switch.
I split them.
The lane opens up just enough. One dribble, two, gather. A defender slides over late, arms up. I adjust, go high off the glass, and feel the contact slam into my hip as the ball arcs over his fingertips and drops through.
Whistle.
And one.
I hit the floor, grunt, roll, then pop back up, adrenaline drowning out the ache. The guys mob me, smacking my head, yelling. I can’t hear individual words, just noise.
At the line, I bounce the ball twice and spin it once. My hands shake for the first time all night.
Miguel’s voice flashes through my brain: You’re terrifyingly brave.
I exhale, shoot.
Swish.
We win by eight.
In the locker room, everything is chaos, with the sound of towels snapping, guys yelling, and Coach doing his best to look stern while obviously high on the win. “Good work,” he says. “That’s more like it. Defense still needs work, but we’ll deal with that in film. Burton.”
I look up, heart in my throat.
He’s got his arms crossed, lips pressed together like he’s trying not to smile too big. “Guy from the NBA was here looking at your stats,” he says. “Asked your year. Wanted to know if you’re thinking about grad school or the NBA.”
My brain short-circuits for a second. “NBA,” I echo. “Shit… that’s crazy.”
Especially since it’s not quite on my radar.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Coach grunts, but there’s a glint in his eye. “You’re a, what, undersized guard at a small program. You’d have to work your ass off. But people are starting to notice, Burton. Keep piling up games like that… doors open.”
The words are a rush and a weight at the same time. Doors open. Futures expand. More potential to disappoint.
“Y-yes, Coach,” I manage.
He gives my shoulder a brief squeeze. “You earned that look tonight,” he says. “Now go shower. Your fan club’s waiting.”
My fan club.
Right. My… family.
They’re waiting in the hallway outside the locker room, near the “Players and Family Only” sign. Mom spots me first and immediately does the thing where she claps both hands over her mouth like she watched me get drafted first overall.
“Mijo,” she breathes, barreling into me the second I’m in hugging range. I’m still damp from the shower, hair half-dry, duffel slung over my shoulder.
She wraps me up like I’m fourteen again. “You were amazing,” she says into my chest. “Did you see? They could not stop you. I almost died.”
“I saw,” I say, laughing, hugging her back. “Please don’t die. I’m trying to impress a scout, not commit manslaughter.”
“Bah,” she says, swatting my shoulder and pulling back to cup my face. “Let the scout wait. My son was on fire.” She kisses my cheek, then my forehead, like I’m still her baby.
Miguel is next, stepping in as she moves aside. It’s just a half step, but it puts him between me and my dad for a second.
“Star player,” he says softly, eyes crinkled at the corners. “You played so well, baby.”
“Felt pretty decent,” I say, my grin wobblier than I want it to be. “You, uh—did you see…?”
“The part where you lit them up from three?” he says, smirking. “Yeah, I caught that bit.”
His hand finds the small of my back. In public, in a hallway full of people, it’s nothing. A casual touch between brothers, maybe. If you don’t know to look.
If you do know, it’s everything.
“Caleb.” Dad’s voice.
I turn.
He’s standing a little back from them, hands in his coat pockets, expression… weird. Proud, yeah. But also tight around the edges. Like he’s still adjusting to the double exposure of “my kid, the athlete” and “my kid, in love with my wife’s son.”
“Hey,” I say, hitching my duffel higher on my shoulder. My voice comes out hoarse from yelling on the court. “You came.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says. “You played very well.”
For a few years, those were the magic words—the ones I chased like oxygen. Tonight, they land differently. Knowing that his approval is coming with fine print now.
“Thanks,” I say, managing a small smile. I gesture toward the doors. “You guys heading back tonight or staying?”
“We got a little hotel outside of town,” Mom says before Dad can answer. “I told him we are not driving home in the dark with these crazy people on the road.”