Page 153 of Disarm
He’s got his arms crossed, lips pressed together like he’s trying not to smile too big. “Guy from the NBA was here looking at your stats,” he says. “Asked your year. Wanted to know if you’re thinking about grad school or the NBA.”
My brain short-circuits for a second. “NBA,” I echo. “Shit… that’s crazy.”
Especially since it’s not quite on my radar.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Coach grunts, but there’s a glint in his eye. “You’re a, what, undersized guard at a small program. You’d have to work your ass off. But people are starting to notice, Burton. Keep piling up games like that… doors open.”
The words are a rush and a weight at the same time. Doors open. Futures expand. More potential to disappoint.
“Y-yes, Coach,” I manage.
He gives my shoulder a brief squeeze. “You earned that look tonight,” he says. “Now go shower. Your fan club’s waiting.”
My fan club.
Right. My… family.
They’re waitingin the hallway outside the locker room, near the “Players and Family Only” sign. Mom spots me first and immediately does the thing where she claps both hands over her mouth like she watched me get drafted first overall.
“Mijo,” she breathes, barreling into me the second I’m in hugging range. I’m still damp from the shower, hair half-dry, duffel slung over my shoulder.
She wraps me up like I’m fourteen again. “You were amazing,” she says into my chest. “Did you see? They could not stop you. I almost died.”
“I saw,” I say, laughing, hugging her back. “Please don’t die. I’m trying to impress a scout, not commit manslaughter.”
“Bah,” she says, swatting my shoulder and pulling back to cup my face. “Let the scout wait. My son was on fire.” She kisses my cheek, then my forehead, like I’m still her baby.
Miguel is next, stepping in as she moves aside. It’s just a half step, but it puts him between me and my dad for a second.
“Star player,” he says softly, eyes crinkled at the corners. “You played so well, baby.”
“Felt pretty decent,” I say, my grin wobblier than I want it to be. “You, uh—did you see…?”
“The part where you lit them up from three?” he says, smirking. “Yeah, I caught that bit.”
His hand finds the small of my back. In public, in a hallway full of people, it’s nothing. A casual touch between brothers, maybe. If you don’t know to look.
If you do know, it’s everything.
“Caleb.” Dad’s voice.
I turn.
He’s standing a little back from them, hands in his coat pockets, expression… weird. Proud, yeah. But also tight around the edges. Like he’s still adjusting to the double exposure of “my kid, the athlete” and “my kid, in love with my wife’s son.”
“Hey,” I say, hitching my duffel higher on my shoulder. My voice comes out hoarse from yelling on the court. “You came.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says. “You played very well.”
For a few years, those were the magic words—the ones I chased like oxygen. Tonight, they land differently. Knowing that his approval is coming with fine print now.
“Thanks,” I say, managing a small smile. I gesture toward the doors. “You guys heading back tonight or staying?”
“We got a little hotel outside of town,” Mom says before Dad can answer. “I told him we are not driving home in the dark with these crazy people on the road.”
Dad clears his throat. “We thought we might take you both out for dinner,” he says. “If you’re not… obligated to the team, that is.”
The plural is what gets me. “You both.”
