Chapter 37 Caleb
THIRTY-SEVEN
CALEB
Coach
Swing by my office when you get a chance. I’ve got news for you.
Not the pressure I need before a statistics exam but okay.
This exam room smells like dry-erase markers, heavy perfume and straight-up fear.
Desks in rows, fluorescent lights buzzing, thirty college students pretending they didn’t all cram for this stats exam at the last possible second.
I was still going over my notes as I sat down, trying like fuck to memorize the formulas.
The clock over the whiteboard ticks too loud.
I stare at the first page.
Fuck my life.
Question 1: A researcher wants to determine whether…
My brain skips the rest and just goes, “Run. The door is right behind you.”
“Okay,” I whisper to myself, under my breath. “You know this. You studied. You have a safety plan. You’re not going to die in this stupid classroom.”
Martin nudges my ankle from the desk next to me, like he heard my internal monologue through sheer friend telepathy. He doesn’t turn around, just taps twice—our low-key “you got this” code.
I take a breath. Box breathing.
In for four.
Hold for four.
Out for six.
The radio in my head is already playing a low, insistent track: Don’t fuck this up. Don’t prove everyone right. Don’t lose everything because of one exam.
I pick up my pencil and flip to the second question. Sometimes you need to ease your brain in, like a skittish animal.
Confidence intervals. Hypothesis testing. Type I versus Type II error. Somewhere in the mess, things start to click. Not all at once, but enough that I can feel my hand moving, writing formulas and drawing tiny bell curves like I know what I’m doing.
Halfway through, the panic hum drops from a seven to a five.
My heart is still beating too fast, but not in that “you’re going to pass out” way.
More like I just sprinted emotionally and by the time I bubble in the last multiple-choice answer and scribble the last bit of work, my brain feels wrung out.
I hand the exam in and step into the hallway like I just escaped from a cave.
Martin appears beside me two seconds later, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets.
“Well?” he asks. “Did we survive?”
“I didn’t cry or throw up on the exam,” I say. “And I only wrote ‘fuck this’ in the margins once, so I’m counting it as a win.”
“Growth,” he says, solemn. “We love to see it.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Miguel
How’s my stats king? Did you conquer the numbers, or did they conquer you?
Caleb
We’ll call it a draw. I live to suffer on future assignments.
Miguel
Proud of you. Eat food. Hydrate. Stop clenching your jaw.
Yes, I can tell.
I roll my eyes at the last line, even as I force my jaw to unclench because, of course, he’s right, even through a phone screen.
“Coach texted me,” I tell Martin, shoving my phone away. “He wants me to swing by his office.”
Martin gives me a look. “I wonder if that’s a good ‘I’m so proud of you’ meeting or the ‘you’re playing like ass’ type of chat?”
“Hopefully, the first?” I say. “If it’s the second, I’m transferring schools.”
He snorts. “Call me if you need an alibi to get out of it.”
“Will do.”
Coach’s office always smells like coffee and sweat and some kind of lemony cleaner he uses to wipe down his whiteboard.
There’s a framed photo of the team from last season on the wall, slightly crooked.
Behind his desk, a bulletin board is cluttered with schedules, camp flyers, and a couple of faded newspaper clippings.
He’s in his usual UCSC hoodie, glasses perched on his nose as he stares at his laptop. When I knock on the doorframe, he glances up and gestures me in with a flick of his fingers.
“Burton,” he says, motioning to the chair in front of the desk. “Sit.”
My stomach does a stupid little roller coaster dip.
I obey.
“How’d that stats exam go?” he asks, surprising me. I didn’t think he actually paid attention to when the team talks amongst ourselves. Especially when it comes to things that don’t involve an orange ball.
I scrub the back of my neck. “Uh… not catastrophic,” I say. “I didn’t black out or start crying, so that’s a step up from last semester.”
He huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “I’ll take that as a win.” Then he leans back, folding his arms, eyes sharpening. “Listen. I wanted to talk to you about something before it starts coming at you from other angles.”
That sounds… ominous.
“Okay…” I say carefully.
“You remember the scout from Oregon, obviously,” he goes on, and I nod. “The same org reached out again. They liked what they saw at that game. And they’ve been looking at your tape since.”
My heart starts pounding in my ears. “Okay,” I say again, because that’s the only word in my brain.
“They want you at a summer camp thing,” he says, reaching over to tap a printed email on his desk. “High-intensity, invite-only, a lot of drills, scrimmages, and skill work. Other scouts will be there, not just them. It’s kind of a pipeline. You do well there, more doors open.”
My brain is doing that thing where it tries to detach from my skull and float to the ceiling.
“Wow,” I manage. “Okay.”
Get another word in your vocabulary, Caleb.
He gives me a look. “You don’t have to give me an answer right now,” he says. “I’m just putting it on your radar. We’ll talk about logistics. Money, travel, how it fits with your summer, all that. But I want you to understand something.”
I sit up straighter without meaning to.
“You’re on people’s radar now,” he says, voice firm. “You’re not just some undersized guard anymore. You’ve put together a string of really solid games. Scouts talk. They share notes. The guy from Oregon isn’t the only one who’s asked about you.”
The room tilts and I grip the edge of the chair.
“Whoa,” I say, even quieter.
Coach studies me. “How does that land?” he asks. “Give it to me straight.”
I laugh, a short, breathless sound, almost like I’m forcing it.
Okay… I’m totally forcing it. “Like someone just cracked my skull open and poured possibility in,” I say.
“Which is… cool. And also… terrifying. Like… like I’m being asked to pick a future off a shelf and I’m still trying to figure out how to pass stats. ”
His mouth twitches. “Fair,” he says. “Look, Burton. I’m not here to shove you toward the draft tomorrow.
You’re not declaring this year. We both know that.
But after next season…” He shrugs. “If you keep working, keep putting up numbers, and keep improving on defense the way you have been? It’s not crazy to talk about you declaring. ”
The sentence hits somewhere deep in my chest and then explodes outward: declare for the draft.
Sixteen-year-old me would’ve sold a kidney for him to say that. Twenty-two-year-old me wants to throw up.
“I… don’t know what to do with that,” I admit. “Part of me wants to scream and run laps around the gym. And another part is like—” I snap my fingers. “Nope. Too much. Shut it down. You’re not allowed to be excited because then it’ll hurt more if it doesn’t happen.”
He nods like this is exactly what he expected me to say. Which is both annoying and… grounding.
“That’s your job, right now,” he says. “Notice both parts. Let them both exist. Then show up to lifts and practices and class on time. You don’t have to decide your whole life today. You just have to keep doing the work that has already got you here.”
“What about… school?” I ask. “Grad programs, if this doesn’t… go anywhere.”
“We’re not throwing academics out the window,” he says immediately.
“I’d kill you and your father would sue me.
We’re going to prepare for both tracks. That’s what the offseason is for.
We’ll talk to academic advising. We’ll look at summer courses that don’t interfere with the camp if you decide to go.
You’re not choosing between ‘ball’ and ‘brain.’ You’re building a life that can hold both. ”
I swallow hard, throat tight. “No pressure,” I say weakly.
“There’s pressure,” he says bluntly. “But there’s not a wrong answer.
I know your history, Burton.” His eyes soften just a touch.
“I know how hard it is for you to believe you’re allowed to want things.
So I’m telling you, as your coach, you’re allowed to be excited about this.
You’re allowed to pursue it. And if it doesn’t work out, you’re allowed to be disappointed and then find another path. None of that makes you a failure.”
My eyes burn.
Staring at the floor until I can trust my voice to actually string together coherent words. “Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll… think about the camp. Talk to Miguel. Dr. K. My dad. Try not to implode.”
“Good plan,” he says. “In the meantime, get to the weight room. You’re on the clock, hotshot.”
I snort, blink the almost-there tears out of my eyes, and stand. “Yes, Coach.”
Walking out of his office feels like stepping into a bigger world. The hallway looks the same. The gym smells the same. My body doesn’t.
There’s more space now.
More ways to fall.
Dr. Kaur’s office is the same soft beige, fake plant, cozy armchair situation as always, except today there’s a new mug on her desk, some cheesy therapist thing about “feelings are data,” with little cartoon clouds.
“How are you coming into the room?” she asks once I’ve sunk onto the couch.
“Uh.” I blow out a breath and let my head thunk back against the cushion. “Like someone took my life, put it in the microwave, and hit the ‘reheat’ button too many times.”
Her mouth curves. “That’s pretty vivid,” she says. “Tell me what got reheated.”
“Stats exam this morning,” I say. “Didn’t cry or puke, so we’re counting that as a win.”
“Agreed,” she chuckles. “That all?”
“Then Coach called me into his office,” I continue. “Scout from Oregon wants me at some summer camp thing. Other scouts will be there. He talked about me maybe declaring for the draft after next season if things keep going well.”