Page 152 of Disarm
A fucking scout.
As if the night needed more stakes.
The game is a blur,but a sharp one. Their point guard is fast and slippery in that annoying way where he always looks one step ahead. First couple of possessions, we’re trading buckets. Sneaking glances at the stands is useless, the crowd is just a smear of color and sound now.
On our third trip down the floor, Anderson kicks me the ball off a screen. My defender goes under. Instinct takes over. I rise up behind the arc and release smoothly.
Nothing but net.
The roar—small but real—hits a beat after the swish. My team’s bench erupts. Someone smacks the back of my head as we run back on D.
“Let’s go, Burton!”
I don’t have time to grin. I pick up the guard at half, slide my feet, and get a hand in his face on his jumper. He bricks it off the back iron. Our big snags the board and outlets.
We run.
By the time the first timeout rolls around, I’ve hit two more threes and a pull-up jumper in transition. Sweat drips down my spine, my lungs are burning, and my hands feel weirdly steady.
Coach grabs my jersey as we huddle. “They can’t guard you,” he says, eyes bright. “Keep your foot on their throat. But don’t settle. If they chase, attack the paint. Got it?”
“Got it,” I say, heart hammering.
When I dare a glance at the stands during free throws, Miguel is on his feet along with Mom, both clapping. Dad’s still seated, but his hands are together, expression… not exactly relaxed, but not miserable either. Somewhere between focused and overwhelmed.
In the second half, they start face-guarding me, trailing me like a shadow. Good. That means someone else is open. I draw defenders, swing the ball, and rack up assists. I still find my spots—a backdoor cut here, a step-back three there. The basket looks big tonight.
With two minutes left, we’re up six. Their home crowd is loud, trying to will them back into it. The scout is still there. I can feel him watching from the baseline. Coach calls a play out of a timeout, and it’s basically “everybody get the hell out of Caleb’s way.”
“Straight horns set,” he says, gripping my shoulder. “If they switch, punish them. You’ve got this, Burton.”
I don’t deserve that kind of faith, some old part of me whispers.
We inbound and I take the ball at the top, with two bigs setting screens on either side. Their smaller guard fights over, their slower big hesitates on the switch.
I split them.
The lane opens up just enough. One dribble, two, gather. A defender slides over late, arms up. I adjust, go high off the glass, and feel the contact slam into my hip as the ball arcs over his fingertips and drops through.
Whistle.
And one.
I hit the floor, grunt, roll, then pop back up, adrenaline drowning out the ache. The guys mob me, smacking my head, yelling. I can’t hear individual words, just noise.
At the line, I bounce the ball twice and spin it once. My hands shake for the first time all night.
Miguel’s voice flashes through my brain:You’re terrifyingly brave.
I exhale, shoot.
Swish.
We win by eight.
In the locker room,everything is chaos, with the sound of towels snapping, guys yelling, and Coach doing his best to look stern while obviously high on the win. “Good work,” he says.“That’s more like it. Defense still needs work, but we’ll deal with that in film. Burton.”
I look up, heart in my throat.
