Page 36 of Disarm
I dribble, stretch, shoot, and try to lose myself in the rhythm of the music. Miguel’s text keeps replaying in my head.Just play.
I can do that. I can.
When the whistle blows and the teams line up, I scan the bleachers. And there—right near midcourt—I see my dad first.
Tuesday night lights glare off the court, and every sound feels too sharp: the squeak of shoes, the ball slapping the hardwood, and the whistle slicing through it all.
The game starts hard and fast. UC Davis plays like they’ve got something to prove.
We’re holding our own—barely—but I can feel my focus slipping every time I glance toward the bleachers. Dad’s in his casual lawyer uniform, which is to say jeans that probably cost too much, a UCSC hoodie over a button-down, and that serious, fixed expression he wears even at events that are supposed to be fun. He’s standing, clapping, but it’s measured.
He’s proud—I know that—but there’s a kind of expectation in the way he watches me that always makes my chest tight.
Then my gaze shifts left.
Miguel.
He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, a baseball cap pulled low, a smirk just barely visible when he catches me looking. He’s not shouting or waving. Miguel just watches, calm, steady.Proud.Like he already knows I’m doing enough. Like I don’t have to earn it. He mouths something across the court.
Breathe.
And just like that, the noise around me fades.
I nod once.
Then the ref tosses the ball into the air, and the game starts.
The first quarter’s clean. I’m in control, light on my feet, and working defense hard. The crowd’s a blur of motion and noise, and I’m running on autopilot, just how Coach drilled us.
But every time I make a shot, I catch my dad’s face. That tiny frown of concentration. That unspoken you could’ve done better.It’s stupid.I’m not a kid anymore, not some scrawny ten-year-old trying to earn his approval.
But it still digs in deep.
By the second quarter, we’re down eight points. I get subbed back in and immediately feel Anderson’s irritation radiating from across the court. He’s been on edge all night, missed two free throws, and blamed everyone but himself.
Coach is pacing, barking strategies. I drink my Gatorade and nod when I’m supposed to, but my brain’s still split between two sets of eyes in the crowd.
One thatexpects.
One thatbelieves.
And I don’t know which one’s harder to face. Expectation is easier to let down. It’s when someone believes in you and you disappoint them that it hits the hardest when you fail.
The third quarter is rough. I miss two free throws back-to-back. The bench groans. Coach yells something I barely hear. My pulse is hammering, my palms slick. I can’t get a grip on the ball.
When I glance at the bleachers again, Miguel’s still there, steady, arms folded, head tilted slightly like he’s trying to remind me that none of this defines me.
Dad’s clapping, but he’s talking to someone next to him. Probably pointing out what I should’ve done differently.
The noise swells again, the floor vibrating under my sneakers. I catch the ball, pivot, and see an opening at the three-point line. The crowd rises.
I take the shot.
It hits the rim—hard—and bounces out.
Fuck!
Whistle.Timeout.
