Page 53 of Caden & Theo
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I say it like someone who sees how hard you’re working. Who knows how much you’ve given up for this.”
His smile fades a little, and something more vulnerable settles there. “What if I get everything I want and still can’t be myself?”
I pause. That one hits deep.
“You’ll get there,” I say. “Whenyou’reready. Not when other people want you to be.”
He nods slowly. “I just—I don’t want to get to the league and still be hiding after years of playing, you know? I want to walk out of a tunnel and know that I don’t have to lie about who I’m going home to after the game.”
I slide my hand out of his and press my palm against his cheek, just for a second. Just long enough to ground us. “Then we’ll get there together.”
His eyes flutter shut.
When he opens them again, he leans forward and kisses me. Soft. Barely there. Like a secret passed from his mouth to mine.
And that’s all we need. Not because it’s enough, but because, right now, it’s what wecanhave.
And honestly? For him? It’s worth everything.
TWELVE
CADEN
Draft Day.
There are a dozen things I thought I’d feel when I woke up this morning—hype, nerves, maybe full-body nausea—but not this floaty, out-of-body feeling like I’m a background extra in my own life. My clothes are sharp, I’ve got my hair trimmed, and I’m parked on a couch in a downtown hotel suite with my parents on one side and Theo on the other. But my brain? My brain’s still back at the practice court, shooting free throws until my shoulders ache.
Theo leans in so no one else hears him. “Breathe.”
My eyes slide to his, and I do. His pinkie rests against mine on the cushion, barely touching, but enough to remind me I’m not alone. Not now. Not ever.
“You okay?” Mom asks softly, adjusting the edge of her navy dress like she’s smoothing the fabric’s nerves along with her own.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to pass off the tightness in my chest as excitement. “Just staying cool.”
Dad lets out a low chuckle. “You’ve been cool since you were twelve, boy. Don’t let it go to your head.”
I crack a smile. It helps. A little.
The TV screen is massive, muted for now, but the ESPN logo pulses in the bottom corner like a heartbeat. Highlight reels flash. Stats scroll. Analysts dissect my game like I’m already somebody. Shooting averages. Rebounding. Wingspan. Interview answers. Everything but blood type and whether I put ketchup on my eggs (I don’t).
I glance again at Theo, and for a second, he’s just my person. No titles. No hiding. His button-down’s slightly wrinkled, his foot tucked under him on the couch, and his curls are freshly trimmed. He looks casual, like he belongs here—which he does. He’s played just as much of a role in getting me to this point as my coaches have. But right now, to everyone else in the room, he’s just my best friend.
And I hate that part. I hate pretending.
Still, pretending is better than not having him here at all.
We’d gotten here an hour ago, threading our way through a sea of press badges, media crews, and jittery players with suit jackets lying stiff over their nerves. Everyone had a smile they practiced in the mirror this morning, and an agent somewhere lurking like a hawk.
Mine, Marcus—thanks to Cameron hooking me up with the agency he interned for and plans to work for when he graduates next year—had briefed me with a grin and a bottle of water, saying, “Eyes bright, smile clean, hands off everything except the mic and your career. Got it?”
Now he’s perched by the minibar, phone in one hand, sparkling cider in the other, just in case the moment strikes and he needs to pop a cork without actually breaking NCAA image rules.
“Second round is the sweet spot,” he told me on the drive over. “You’ve got teams looking. Stay calm.”
Right. Stay calm. Easier said than done when your entire future is crawling across the bottom of a screen next to college stats and the words “projected pick.”
The first round begins. The room stills, the volume clicks up, and suddenly it’s real.
