He lets out a shaky breath and leans in, pressing his forehead to mine. “I really want to believe that.”
THIRTEEN
CALEB
The UCSD gym smells like floor polish, sweat, and popcorn, the place hums before the game. It’s all nerves and noise. We’ve been on the bus since dawn, cramped and stiff, and by the time we hit the court for warm-ups, the crowd’s already thick. It’s a rivalry game—California schools always bring that extra edge.
Not to mention NorCal vs. SoCal.
I’m lacing up my sneakers when I spot him.
Lower section, near the UCSC bench.
Miguel.
He’s in a black hoodie, sleeves shoved to his elbows, forearms flexing as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. He’s not cheering, not waving like an excited boyfriend would do, just watching. Eyes locked on me.
My stomach flips. My grip on the ball tightens and I take a deep breath.He came!
“Burton, you good?” Martin asks, smirking.
“Yeah,” I mutter, forcing a stretch, shaking out my hands. “Just… dialed in.”
The ref’s whistle cuts through the hum, the ball is tossed high, and we’re off.
The first quarter is messy—both teams trading fouls and sloppy turnovers. I drive the lane early, get blocked, and then steal the ball back on the next play, pushing the fast break. My legs burn, but it’s a good burn. Every dribble, every pivot, grounds me. Looking over to where he’s sitting, catching the hungry look in his eye, has me shaking myself back into the game’s focus. I kinda like that he came.
Okay, more than kinda.
Midway through the second quarter, I find my groove. Three-pointer, clean. Then another—off a screen, nothing but net. The bench erupts, and I glance over at him. Miguel’s up on his feet now, with that half-smile on his face that says, “That’smy boy.”
Every move, every point, feels like it’s for him. I want him to be proud of me.
The game’s tight all the way through. By halftime, we’re down by four, and Coach is pacing, barking orders. Sweat drips from my hairline into my eyes, stinging, but I barely feel it.
Third quarter, I’m locked in. The UCSD defense doubles me hard, and I break through it with a crossover that makes their guard stumble. The crowd goes wild. I feed Anderson under the rim, he dunks, and the noise explodes around us.
Miguel’s standing, arms crossed, with a slow nod. He mouths, “You got this, baby.”
Fourth quarter’s chaos. We trade baskets. The score flips back and forth. The crowd’s deafening, but I tune it out—the squeak of shoes, the slam of the ball, and the breath in my lungs.
Thirty seconds left. Tie game.
Coach calls timeout.
We huddle up, breathing hard. “Ball goes to Burton,” Coach says. “You make the shot, we go home winners.”
Pressure weighs heavy, but I nod. I’ve done this before.
Inbound pass—three seconds left.
I fake left and spin right. Defender bites.
One step back.
Release.
The ball arcs high into the lights, spinning slowly, everything else muted—the crowd, sound, and thought—until it drops clean through the net.
