Page 208 of Disarm
I twirl some pasta around my fork, more to have something to do with my hands than because I’m ready to eat. “Dr. K said basically the same thing,” I admit. “She’s very team ‘feel multiple feelings at once.’”
“She sounds awful,” he deadpans, rolling his eyes.
I snort, then sigh. “It’s just… every time something good happens, my brain immediately goes, ‘Okay, cool, how do we protect ourselves from the inevitable crash?’ And then I can’t even enjoy it because I’m already bracing for impact.”
Miguel nods slowly. “Makes sense,” he says. “Your brain has receipts, unfortunately. It’s seen the crash. But… we’re building something different now.”
He reaches across the table and curls his fingers around my wrist. “If this happens—camp, scouts, maybe the draft someday—I’m going to be obnoxiously loud about how you earned it,” he says. “If it doesn’t happen, I’m still going to be obnoxiously loud about how much I love you. None of this is the condition for me staying.”
My chest does that thing again, where it feels too small for my heart. “Say it again,” I whisper, because apparently I’m greedy.
He squeezes my wrist. “Whether you play pro ball or not has exactly zero impact on whether I stay,” he says, slow and clear. “I’m here for you. Period. Full stop. No small print.”
Tears prick unexpectedly at the corners of my eyes. “Okay,” I say. “Noted.”
He waits.
“And…” I swallow. “My dad texted again.”
Miguel’s jaw tics. “Yeah?” he asks carefully. “Good, bad, or ‘I googled how to sound supportive and copied the first result’?”
Snorting so hard at the last bit that food shoots out of my mouth. “Better,” I say, wiping my chin. “He said he’s still working on things, but he meant it when he said he’s proud of me. That it hasn’t changed.”
Miguel’s face softens, but there’s still wariness there. “How does that land for you?” he asks.
I stare at my fork. “Like… someone opened a window in a house that’s still on fire,” I say. “It’s not enough to fix everything, but it’s… air.”
He nods. “You don’t have to forgive him on the spot,” he says. “You don’t have to trust that completely. You’re allowed to take it in little sips.”
Nodding, my throat tight.
We eat, and the pasta is actually good. Shocking. The noise in my head is still buzzing, but the food helps. So does the stupid way Miguel nudges my knee under the table every time I zone out too long.
After dinner, we migrate to the couch. He puts on some show neither of us is really watching. I lean into him, head on his shoulder, his arm around me.
“What’s the volume now?” he asks at one point, fingers weaving through my hair.
I close my eyes, attempting to listen, but his magic fingers tugging in all the right spots make it extremely difficult. “Five,” I groan. “Maybe four-point-eight.”
“Look at us,” he murmurs. “Practically zen.”
“Don’t jinx it,” I mutter into his shirt. “The universe hears that and starts loading a new boss level.”
He laughs, chest shaking under my cheek. “Okay, okay. No jinxes. Just… right now.”
Right now.
Right now is a couch, warm light, and the feeling of his hands in my hair. My safety plan is tucked in my bag. Coach’s words echoing in my ears. Dr. K’s voice reminding me I’m allowed to have more than one feeling. My dad’s text is sitting on my phone like a fragile truce.
It’s… a lot.
Everything is bigger now: the future, the stakes, the love, and the fear.
I fall asleep tangled up in Miguel, but it takes longer than normal because the ceiling is suddenly more interesting.
My brain runs simulations—me at that camp, me bricking every shot, me nailing a three at the buzzer while some scout scribbles something on a clipboard. Me shaking Adam Silver’s hand on draft night. Me not getting the call and instead filling out grad school applications. Me and Miguel in some tiny apartment in a city we can’t even picture yet. Miguel cradling a kid on the sidelines of a game… screaming “Go #26.”
The noise tries to start its favorite song.
