Lower section, across from the bench. Backwards blue hat, black hoodie. You won’t miss me.
Breathe. You’ve got this. I’m proud of you already.
Already.
He doesn’t even need to see me play.
Coach claps his hands, dragging my brain back to the present. “Alright, bring it in.” We crowd around him in a tight circle. Sweat, cologne, and the sharp tang of nerves hang in the air. “We’ve practiced this. Stick to the plan. Smart defense. Good communication. Burton, I want you aggressive on the perimetertonight. Don’t get in your head about the threes, take the shot if you have it.”
“Got it,” I say, even though my throat’s dry.
We yell the team chant, slap hands, and spill out into the tunnel. The sound hits me first—a swell of voices, shoes squeaking, and the band blasting something too loud and brassy. Lights glare off the polished court as we run out, our names echoing from the announcer’s booth.
During warm-ups, I force myself through the usual routine: layups, free throws, mid-range, and threes. My first few shots clank off the rim. On the fourth one, the ball slips through the net with that perfect whisper of nylon.
Okay. Not a disaster.
Between reps, I scan the bleachers. I spot Dad first, in front of the middle section, near center court, in another UCSC hoodie. Arms crossed, jaw tight, almost like he’s watching a courtroom instead of a game. Celeste is next to him, hands already clasped like she’s praying I don’t break something.
Then I find him.
Lower level, opposite the bench, exactly where he said he’d be. Blue cap, black hoodie, elbows on his knees like he’s already settled in for the whole show. He’s not yelling, not waving his arms. He doesn’t have to.
He just watches me.
Our eyes meet. The noise fades for a second. He splays his hand on his chest and then points at me.
Breathe.
My face warms and I drag in a slow breath like he’s right next to me.
The buzzer blares, and the team huddles together. Starters are called, my name blares over the speakers, and I feel the slap of my teammates’ hands on my back as I jog to the free-throw line for the tip-off.
Game on.
UCB comes out swinging.They’re quick and aggressive on defense, hands everywhere, heavy on the press. The first few possessions are ugly—turnovers, rushed shots, sloppy passes.
I lock in on defense, feet moving, arms out, forcing my guy toward the sideline. He jabs right, crosses over, and tries to blow past me. I slide with him, cut him off, feeling the thump of his shoulder as he tries to create space.
“Good, Caleb!” Coach shouts.
He passes out of it. Turnover and we’re running the other way.
Transition has always been my favorite, those split seconds when the court opens up and everything slows down in that weird, bright way. I sprint up the sideline and call for the ball. It hits my hands, and I could pull up for the three, but a defender’s closing fast.
So I drive. Two hard dribbles, plant, spin, layup off the glass. The crowd roars.
I don’t look at the stands, but I feel him.
I hear Miguel in my head—that’s my pretty boy.
In the first half, I’m grinding. I get a few good stops, a couple solid assists, and four points on the board. My threes are off again. Every time I hesitate at the line, I can feel Dad’s frown from all the way across the gym.
Stop thinking.
Just shoot.
On one possession, the ball swings around the arc and finds me wide open at the corner. No time to overthink. I catch, set my feet, and let it fly.
