The guys are yelling, towels are flying, and someone sprays water like we actually clinched something important. Coachdoes the quick post-game speech—good hustle, better discipline, we tighten the free throws next time—then lets us go.
I’m sweating through my jersey, heart still racing in that high that feels like happiness and a little like panic.
I check my phone as the others start peeling off their uniforms to head toward the showers.
Miguel
That three was fucking beautiful.
Meet you outside the main doors.
My chest does that stupid flutter thing.
Dad’s text pops up right after.
Dad
We’re waiting near the lobby. Don’t take too long.
And there it is.
The high dips.
The crowd’smostly cleared out by the time I step into the lobby, hair damp from the quickest shower of my life, hands jammed into my hoodie pocket. I spot them before they spot me.
Celeste is talking animatedly with someone from the faculty, hands flying. Dad stands beside her, eyes already scanning for me. Miguel hangs a little to the side, leaning against a pillar, arms folded over his chest.
He looks tired, hair mussed from his hat, hoodie sleeves shoved to his forearms showing off all the muscle and ink. But when his eyes find me, his whole face softens.
“Caleb!” Mom beams, breaking away from the conversation and hurrying over. She wraps me in a hug that smells like vanilla and cinnamon and home. “Ay, mijo, you played so well.”
I hug her back, sinking into it for a second. “Thanks, Mamá.”
Dad claps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing once, firm. “Good game, son,” he says. “That three was clean. I knew you had it in you if you’d just stop hesitating.”
There it is. The backhanded compliment.
“Thanks,” I say again, because I don’t know what else to say.
Miguel hangs back until the initial family moment passes, then he pushes off the pillar and walks over, hands in his pockets, lips tugged up at one corner.
He stops just short of touching me because Dad’s right there, but his eyes are all over my face. “You killed it, pretty—” He catches himself, glances at my dad, and switches mid-word. “—sweet game. Good job.”
I bite back a smile. “Thanks. Glad you came.”
His gaze flicks over me, soft and warm, like he’s checking if I’m really okay. I give him the smallest nod I can manage without it being obvious.
He nods back.
Celeste loops her arm through mine. “We’re taking you to dinner,” she announces, like it’s already decided. “There’s that new taco place by the wharf?—”
“Actually,” Dad cuts in, polite but firm, “I need to talk to him for a bit first.”
“About what?”
He gives me that look, one that’s half concern and half disappointment. “About the game. About some things I noticed.”
Of course.
