He burrows closer, tucking his face into my neck. “One day at a time,” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I say, holding him like something priceless. “One day at a time.”
THIRTY-FIVE
CALEB
By the time midterms are over, everything feels like it’s been put through a blender and poured back into my skull. Spring break is over and the season’s done. My last box of game-day socks is shoved in the back of my closet, right next to the duffel I swear I’m going to properly unpack “soon.”
Now it’s just… school.
Survive the last stretch, keep my GPA from tanking, and don’t have a nervous breakdown in the middle of the quad.
Low bar.
Totally reasonable.
Campus in late March has this weird, half-awake vibe. People are wandering around in shorts like it’s summer, even though the wind still has teeth. Fliers for end-of-year concerts are taped over old tutoring ads. The basketball banners in the gym are starting to look less like “current season” and more like “archival footage.”
I’m in the library, where dreams go to die.
My laptop screen is a terrifying wall of tabs—one paper about developmental psych due Friday, one stats assignment I’veopened and immediately minimized so I don’t cry, and one email tab where the subject line from Coach still glows bold:
NBA scout wants to keep eyes on you next season. Proud of you. Let’s talk about the off-season plan.
I take a long sip of the coffee Miguel shoved into my hand this morning when we were hauling ass out the door, instead of clicking anything.
“Earth to Burton,” Martin says, dropping into the chair across from me. He slides a snack-size bag of Hot Cheetos onto my notebook like an offering. “You look like you’re about to fight your laptop in single combat.”
“I am,” I say. “It started it.”
He snorts. “You good?”
I roll the question around. “Midterms are over,” I say. “I only cried over statistics once, and I did it in private, so that’s a win.”
“Proud of you, king.” He leans back, tipping his chair dangerously. “How’s the rest of the… ‘life is a complicated web of trauma, romance, and basketball’ thing?”
A week ago, that would’ve made something in my chest twist. Today, it just makes me huff out a laugh. “We survived spring break,” I say. “There was a fancy dinner that ended with me having a panic attack in a bathroom and Miguel threatening to verbally body-slam my dad, but on the bright side, no one got disowned and we bailed early, like emotionally responsible adults.”
Martin whistles low. “Damn. You okay now?”
“Define ‘okay,’” I say. “I’m… not actively vibrating out of my skin. I’m talking about it in therapy.” I shrug. “Miggy and I are finding that sweet spot of living together part-time. Though he wants me there full-time, and I’m considering it.”
“Good.” He nods, then eyes my screen. “And the email from Coach that you keep side-eyeing like it owes you money?”
I grimace. “Scout from Oregon reached out again,” I admit. “Wants to ‘keep an eye on my development next season.’” I make jazz hands. “Doors. Opening. Or some shit.”
Martin’s eyebrows shoot up. “Bro. That’s huge.”
“I know.” My stomach flips. “It’s also… a lot. My brain’s still figuring out if it’s allowed to dream about the future or if that’s illegal.”
Studying me for a second. “You don’t have to decide anything right now,” he says. “You can just… let it be a nice thing. ‘Hey, someone noticed I don’t suck.’ That’s enough.”
“Wild concept,” I mutter. “Letting something be good without immediately turning it into a moral test.”
He points at me. “Exactly!”
We work in silence for a while—or, more accurately, Martin works and I stare at the same paragraph about attachment theory until the words stop meaning anything.
