Page 151 of Disarm
Okay.
Try not to get arrested before tip-off.
Miguel
No promises.
Proud of you already, hermoso.
I stare at that last line until Coach stomps down the aisle, clapping his hands once.
“Let’s go,” he barks. “We’re not here for the fucking scenery.”
The guys around me start waking up, stretching, and grabbing their bags off the rack. I shove my phone into my hoodie pocket and pull my headphones down around my neck. My playlist is just white noise at this point, the real noise is all inside my skull.
Moments like this, I feel like my life is a series of stacked expectations.
Play well.
Be composed.
Don’t embarrass your dad.
Don’t embarrass your boyfriend.
Don’t give anyone a reason to regret loving you.
No fucking pressure at all.
The gymat this Oregon school smells like every other gym: rubber, popcorn, and a faint undercurrent of disinfectant. Their colors are green and gold, painted in obnoxious stripes along the walls. Our warmup shirts look extra black against it, like we’re invading.
During shootaround, I try to fall into the rhythm: catch, dribble, pull-up, release. The ball leaves my fingertips in that perfect backspin that always feels like a tiny prayer.
Swish.
I let it settle me. I know how to do this. It’s all muscle memory that doesn’t care that my dad knows who I’m sleeping with now.
“Burton, finish the set and hit the line,” Coach yells. “We’re doing two-man closeouts next.”
On my next rep, I glance up at the stands.
They’re not full yet. A scattering of students in school colors, some bored parents, and a band assembling in the corner. And there, halfway up, three familiar shapes I’d recognize in a blackout.
Mom, in a UCSC hoodie she probably bullied the merch table for. My dad, in a crisp button-down under a sport coat becausehe doesn’t know how to be casual. And Miguel, in a black hoodie and beanie, arms crossed over his chest, watching me.
When his eyes catch mine, he lifts his chin, just slightly.
“Eyes on your shot, Burton,” Coach snaps.
“Yes, Coach,” I mutter, flushing, and sink the next three just to prove I can.
We huddle up after warmups, hands in the middle.
“Defense first,” Coach says. “Talk. Rotate. Crash the boards. Burton, I want you hunting your shot. Last game wasn’t a fluke.”
My stomach drops and soars at the same time. “Yes, Coach.”
When the buzzer sounds and we jog to the bench, I catch a glimpse of a man in a dark windbreaker down near the scorer’s table, talking to our assistant coach. Clipboard, lanyard, that posture. Not school staff.
