Page 75 of Disarm
“Here?” I glance around at the emptying lobby, where a couple of my teammates are still milling about. “Can this wait until we?—”
“Just a few minutes.” He steps slightly away, clearly expecting me to follow.
My eyes flick to Miguel, and his jaw tightens.
Celeste squeezes my arm and lets go. “We’ll be right over there,” she says softly, gesturing to a bench.
I follow Dad a few paces away, just out of earshot. Miguel stays where he is.
“You played well,” Dad starts, voice low. “Better than I’ve seen you in a while.”
“Thanks,” I say, waiting.
He doesn’t make me wait long. “But you’re still inconsistent. You hesitate when you don’t need to. You let your emotions bleed into your focus. I saw it—you’d miss a shot, and your whole energy changed.”
“I recovered,” I argue, heat prickling under my skin. “We won. I hustled. I?—”
“You let that one missed three in the first half live in your head for three possessions,” he says. “You can’t do that if you want to be taken seriously. The pros aren’t looking for someone who hesitates.”
“I’m trying,” I say, more sharply than I mean to.
“I know you’re trying,” he replies. “I just need you to understand that this matters. Your future opportunities rely on these games. You can’t afford to have off nights because your personal life is messy or because you haven’t slept.”
My chest constricts. “I’m working on it. I’m in therapy and I’m doing everything everyone’s told me to do.”
He sighs that disappointed lawyer sigh. “I’m not saying you’re not. I’m saying you need to push harder. Be tougher. You can’t lean on Miguel every time something gets hard. He’s nota solution, Caleb. He’s…” He waves a hand, searching for the word. “…a distraction.”
The word hits me like a slap.
Behind my ribs, something sharp snaps.
“What?” I ask quietly.
“You heard me,” Dad says, dropping his voice even lower. “I saw him here, front and center. I’m glad you’re close, I am, but there’s a line. You’re tethering yourself to him like a lifeline, and it’s making you soft.”
Soft.
Blood rushes in my ears… the lobby tilts.
“Don’t talk about him like that,” I say, voice shaking.
“I’m not talking about him,” he lies. “I’m talking about you. About what’s best for your future. You need to broaden your circle. Bond with your teammates. Meet people your own age who aren’t—” He glances subtly at Miguel, then back at me. “—who doesn’t encourage this level of dependency.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. “He’s the reason I’m even still here,” I snap before I can stop myself. “You have no idea what he does for me.”
Dad’s eyes harden. “He enables you. That’s not the same as helping.”
That’s when Miguel moves.
He doesn’t storm over, doesn’t make a scene. He just walks up, quiet and steady, stopping at my side so our shoulders almost touch.
“Everything okay?” he asks, looking between us. His tone is mild, but there’s steel under it.
“We’re having a private conversation,” Dad says.
“With your son, who texted me a few days ago because he couldn’t breathe,” Miguel replies, calm but sharp. “Because you bombarded him after his away game. So forgive me if I’m a little invested in how you talk to him right now.”
My heart lurches. “Miggy?—”
