Miguel
You’re gonna play a great game tonight, pretty boy. I’ll call you after, no matter how late it is.
That text is still burned behind my eyelids when the ball hits my hands at the top of the key. It’s fourth quarter, UNR’s gym is loud as hell, there’s blue and silver everywhere, and the student section behind the basket is a wall of bodies and taunts.
The air up here feels thin compared to sea level… my lungs burn in a way that’s half altitude, half adrenaline. My jersey is plastered to my back with sweat. The scoreboard says we’re up by four with a minute and change left.
“Burton, move!” Someone yells.
I snap out of it, dribble once, then swing the ball to our wing, cut through, and flash to the corner. The defense is scrambling, we’ve been hammering them inside all quarter. My guy hesitates, glances toward the paint.
Wrong move.
The ball skips back out to me.
Catch. Set. Rise.
The shot leaves my hand with that perfect, easy snap that feels like breathing. For half a second, the whole gym shrinks down to the arc of orange, the white square of the backboard, and the soft ring of the rim.
Swish.
The net whispers. The crowd erupts—half roar, half groan, depending on which colors they’re wearing. Our bench loses its mind. I’m already backpedaling, heart hammering, blood singing, as the announcer’s voice booms something about “Burton from downtown.”
I don’t let myself look for him. Miguel’s not here. He’s in Santa Cruz, probably on the couch, cussing while he watches this on his laptop.
But for a second, it feels like he’s right behind me anyway, breath warm against my ear.
That’s my pretty boy.
UNR calls a timeout. We jog to the bench and Coach slaps my shoulder so hard it stings. “There you go, Burton,” he barks, grinning. “That’s what I want. Confidence. Keep your head in it.”
I nod, trying to suck in air, bouncing on my toes while he talks strategy. My legs feel like they’re full of electricity instead of blood. I’ve already logged more minutes into this game than I have in any other away game this season. My stats are gonna look stupid when I see them later—points, assists, rebounds—I had no business getting over their big guys.
Miguel’s gonna talk so much shit when he sees the box score.
We close it out ugly but solid with a hard defense, fouls get traded back and forth, and I hit two free throws in the last thirty seconds with the student section screaming something about my mom behind the basket.
When the final buzzer sounds and the scoreboard flashes UCSC 82–UNR 75, the noise inside me finally matches the noise outside.
We did it.
We won.
And I wasn’t just… there.
I was part of it.
The locker roomafter a road win has its own smell. Victory, exhaustion, cheap body wash, layered over damp wood lockers and the sour tang of sweat-soaked socks. Music’s blasting from somebody’s speaker, guys are yelling, towels snapping. Someone slaps my ass with a rolled-up stat sheet as I walk by.
“Burton!” Martin, our power forward, crows, waving the paper in my face. “My man was COOKING tonight. Fifteen points, six rebounds, four assists? Okay, I see you.”
“Gimme that,” I laugh, snatching the sheet from him.
My name’s there, numbers right next to it.
Real. I tap the page with my finger like I don’t trust it.
“Player of the game, easy,” Jamal says. “We’re getting you drunk tonight, bro.”
