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Until my earbuds chirp with an incoming call from my mother.

I hold up a finger to DeJuan, then step away from the circuit. "Hey."

"Cameron." My mother is about to scold me for not answering her call from five minutes ago. When I was working. I’m unsurprised when she says, "Your brother called me."

"Which one?” I dab the sweat off my face with my shirt.

“David.” She pauses. "He says the restaurant job isn't working out."

I wince. The restaurant job was my idea. I told Davey to call the manager, said I knew someone, and made two calls I didn't have to make. "Define not working out."

"The hours. He says the hours are wrong."

“Meaning work gets in the way of his party schedule,” I spit out.

"Cameron, he’s trying.”

"I know. I know." I press two fingers to the bridge of my nose. "I'll call him."

"Also, your father says that physical therapist is useless.”

“Ma, she has a master’s from Columbia.”

“I don’t know. Your father doesn’t like her.” A beat. "He's stubborn."

"I wonder where he got that."

My mother lets out a sound that might be a laugh. In the background, I hear the ambient noise of the MBTA dispatch center — radio chatter, keyboard clicks, the chaos she's navigated for twenty years. She is probably doing three other things while talking to me. She always is.

"You sound tired," she says.

"I'm in the weight room."

“They’re not working you too hard, I hope.” Another pause. “You always push yourself too hard. Ever since that no-good Lisa Marie⁠—”

"Ma."

"I'm just saying. If you had a nice girl, you’d maybe slow down.”

I close my eyes in frustration. “Ma, I’m a professional athlete.”

"You're too much in your head. Your brothers have girlfriends. Nicky is going to prom. Meanwhile, you're reading your sad books and working yourself to the bone.”

DeJuan taps his watch and glares at me. “Ma, I’m at work. I’ll call Davey. I’m handling Ian’s tuition. Can you work on Dad?”

I can hear her typing. “What’s the point of making him feel better if he has no grandchildren to play with?”

“Jesus, Ma. Do you hear yourself?”

She gasps. “Do not take that tone with your mother, Cameron Donovan Miller. I am simply wondering if this is all for nothing. That’s all.”

“I apologize for my tone. Look.” I turn toward the wall so the guys can't read my face. "I'm actually — there's someone. I'm seeing someone."

The typing stops. "Seeing someone," she says.

"It's new. Do not freak out.”

"New." She sounds like she is holding in a fart. "Who is she? Can I meet her?”