Page 129 of Disarm
I swallow hard. “I can try,” I say.
“That’s all I’m asking,” she says.
When the session ends, I’m wrung out and buzzing at the same time. Dr. Kaur walks me to the door as usual. “You did something incredibly difficult yesterday,” she says quietly as I’m about to leave. “I’m proud of you.”
My throat tightens. It’s different hearing it from her than from Dad.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“Text your support system today,” she adds. “Let them know where your head’s at. You don’t have to carry this alone.”
I nod and step back into the hallway, the fluorescent lights harsh after the soft lamp glow. By the time I hit the sidewalk outside, my phone is already in my hand.
Caleb
Therapy done, survived. Brain = soup. Heart = cooked to a medium-rare.
Miguel
10/10 medical report.
You wanna talk in person or can I DoorDash comfort and memes via text?
Caleb
Practice in an hour.
Can I come over after?
Miguel
Obviously.
I’ll pick you up. Don’t let Coach run you into the ground.
Caleb
No promises.
Practice is…okay.
Not great, not a disaster. Just okay.
My legs feel heavy, but my head’s a little clearer than yesterday. I mess up a rotation once, but I catch it and correct myself before Coach can blow the whistle. He still yells at me twice—once for drifting on defense, once for hesitating on a shot—but it’s the usual level of Coach, not the “I might bench you forever” tone.
“You good?” Anderson asks in the locker room afterward, towel slung around his neck. “You’ve been off the last couple days.”
“Just tired,” I say, shoving my feet into my slides. “Road games kick my ass.”
He grunts in agreement. “Fair. You were on fire in Reno, though. Coach was creaming himself over your shot chart.”
“Gross,” I say automatically.
He smirks. “Hey, if it means more minutes, I’d take it.”
I let his voice wash over me. This is probably what normal looks like. Teammates talking about stats, showers, and what they’re grabbing for dinner. Nobody here knows that my dad knows. Nobody knows that my heart is doing cartwheels because my boyfriend made a therapy appointment.
For forty-five minutes, I get to be just… Burton. Guard. Shooter. The guy who hit fifteen points at UNR and nearly threw up on the bus home.
