Page 73 of Disarm
The arc looks good. The release feels clean.
It rattles out.
Groans from the crowd.
“Keep shooting, Burton!” Coach yells.
On the way back down the court, I risk a glance at the stands. Dad’s jaw is locked, lips pressed into a hard line. Celeste claps anyway, stubbornly optimistic.
One of the many things I love about her.
Miguel just nods once when our eyes meet, expression steady. That look alone tells me I’m not a failure.
Halftime comes with us down by six. The locker room is a mix of half-hearted jokes and heavy breathing. Coach writes adjustments on the whiteboard and talks about ball movement and not forcing shots.
While he talks, my phone buzzes in my bag. I don’t look at it, but my brain fills in the blank anyway.
Miguel.
Breathe.
You’re doing fine.
In the second half,something just clicks.
Maybe it’s the trash talk. Maybe it’s Miguel’s face when I miss another free throw.
Whatever it is, something in my chest snaps into place.
I start driving harder, using my body more, and drawing fouls instead of avoiding contact. I crash the boards, fight for rebounds, and get my hands on every loose ball I can.
Midway through the half, we’re tied. The gym is loud in that vibrating way, like the sound is under your skin. I’m at the top of the key, ball in my hands, shot clock ticking down. My defender sags off, daring me. I can hear Dad in my head—take the open shot, Caleb. Don’t waste it.
I can hear Miguel, too—trust yourself, baby.
I take one hard dribble, step back behind the line, and rise up.
For a split second, it’s just me and the ball and the rim. No crowd. No Dad. No brother. No past.
Release.
The ball arcs, clean and high, then drops through the net without touching iron.
The gym explodes. My teammates swarm me, slapping my back and the top of my head. Coach is shouting something from the sideline.
I can’t help it, I look for him.
Lower section, left side.
Miguel is on his feet, both hands cupped around his mouth as he yells something I can’t hear, hat pushed back, eyes bright. He’s grinning like I just won the championship, not just hit one three in a mid-season home game.
Heat rushes to my face. My chest is so tight it almost hurts.
I believe it.
I believe him.
We ride that momentum all the way to the buzzer. Final score: 78–71. We win.
