Chapter 8
Eight
HANNAH
Kane Haverhill is having the best season of his life at least it started that way…
His scoring average is up. Stanford keeps winning. Mock drafts have moved him into the first round, and every sports account on campus posts slow-motion clips of him walking through tunnels in headphones.
The numbers look good for a while.
The film doesn’t lie.
I notice it while waiting for coffee in the student center. Stanford’s last game plays across the television above the counter. Haverhill comes off a screen, rejects it, and drives left.
His second dribble rises too high.
His right shoulder turns before the defense commits.
The weak-side guard strips him clean.
A student beside me groans.
“Bad luck.”
It wasn’t.
Three possessions later, Haverhill does it again. This time, he picks up the ball near the free-throw line and forces a pass into traffic.
Turnover.
He stares at the referee as the other team runs the floor.
I take my coffee and leave.
His game is none of my business.
Neither is he and ever since I switched dorms he’s been put of my life for good.
* * *
My contacts are delayed—again.
The tracking page claims they left a distribution center in Sacramento three days ago, then apparently abandoned civilization.
I try wearing the last pair anyway, wore them over night. Making the last pair stretch out past its feasibility.
The left lens feels like sandpaper.
By the time I reach the bathroom mirror, my eye is red and watering. I remove it, throw both contacts away, and reach for the tortoiseshell glasses.
Rain has turned my hair into a frizzy mess, so I twist it into a high bun. Mascara and lip gloss make me look slightly less exhausted. An oversized forest-green hoodie, black leggings, and Uggs complete the picture.
Lila looks up from her desk.
“You look cozy.”
“I look like I’m about to investigate a murder at a boarding school.”
“That too.”
I grab my backpack.
The seminar meets in one of the oldest buildings on campus. Stone arches, narrow staircases, ivy crawling around windows that refuse to close properly.
It’s my favorite classroom.
I arrive early and claim the seat in the back corner beside an outlet. My laptop battery is unreliable, and the old building has exactly three usable plugs. The professor prefers to speak in the old annex auditorium with stadium seating and stage lighting.
Students drift in while rain taps against the windows.
Professor Aldridge arranges papers at the front.
I’m opening the assigned reading when the door swings wide.
Conversation thins.
Kane Haverhill steps inside wearing black sweats, a fitted Stanford quarter-zip, and the expression of someone arriving wherever everyone has been waiting for him.
His hair is damp.
A gym bag hangs from one shoulder.
He scans the room, then stops when he sees me.
Recognition sharpens his face.
“Sandy?!”
I lower my eyes to the article, sink in my seat. Pretend I didn’t hear him. He walks toward me. His shadow reaches the desk first.
“You’re in my seat.”
“There are eleven others.”
“This one’s mine.”
“It’s attached to the university. I sat here last week.”
“I wasn’t here last week.”
“Clearly.” I bristle or “the week before that.”
“Training. I attended via Zoom,” he shrugs.
I glance toward Professor Aldridge. He’s reading something on his tablet, either unaware or wisely refusing to participate.
Kane sets one hand on my desk.
“Move.”
“No.”
His eyes drop to my glasses, then climb to the bun on top of my head.
“Still wearing those?”
“I enjoy seeing.”
“They make you look like a footnote.”
I stare at him. “A footnote?”
“Small print. Extra information nobody asked for.”
“That’s surprisingly literary for you.”
His jaw shifts.
“Move, Footnote or do you like Bookworm better?”
“Ass.”
Two students nearby pretend to organize their notebooks while listening to every word.
Kane bends closer.
Clean soap. Rain. A trace of whatever athletes rub into sore muscles.
“You crashed my party, ruined two shirts, and now stole my seat. Begging for my attention? Book worm?”
“Um, no… please. You are the one who walked into me twice.”
“You’re a menace. Clumsy. I’m a world class athlete. You ran into me, sweetheart.”
“You’re blocking the board, dick head.”
“I love it when you talk dirty, Sandy.”
Professor Aldridge finally looks up.
“Mr. Haverhill, unless you plan to teach today, sit down.”
A few people laugh.
Kane holds my gaze another second, then drops into the chair beside me.
His knee hits mine beneath the narrow desk.
I shift away.
He doesn’t.
The lecture begins.
Aldridge writes PERCEPTION VERSUS PERFORMANCE across the board.
“Institutions often rely on measurable outcomes,” he says. “But data can conceal weaknesses as easily as it reveals them.”
Beside me, Kane opens his laptop.
A sports article fills the screen.
His own face sits beneath the headline.
HAVERHILL LEADS STANFORD’S SURGE
I look back toward the board.
Aldridge continues. “A successful result does not prove a sound process.”
Kane raises his hand.
“Results still matter. If the system works, arguing over minor flaws can become an excuse to ignore success.”
I press my lips together.
He notices.
“What?” he whispers.
“Nothing.”
“You made a face.”
“I have a face.”
“What was that one for?”
I keep my eyes on my notes.
“The numbers can look good while the film tells a different story.”
He goes still.
“What film?”
I should stop.
Instead, I draw a line beneath the lecture heading.
“Forget it.”
His voice drops. “Say it.”
“You’re in class.”
“So are you.”
Professor Aldridge turns toward the board.
Kane leans closer.
“What film, Sandy?”
I press too hard.
The pencil snaps.
His eyes move to the broken wood between my fingers.
“Temper.”
I set it down.
“You don’t have a speed problem.”
His expression changes.
Tiny.
Sharp.
“I never said I did.”
“You’re playing like you think you do.”
He closes his laptop.
“What do you know about how I’m playing?”
“Enough.”
“From one game?”
I look at him.
“Cal forced you away from the screen six times. You rejected it four. Twice, you picked up your dribble near the free-throw line because the second defender arrived before you expected.”
The amusement leaves his face.
I continue before common sense returns.
“Arizona copied it. Your right shoulder turns before you make the read, so the weak-side defender knows when you’re coming back across your body.”
Kane stares at me.
I can hear the professor speaking, rain hitting the glass, and someone typing two rows ahead.
“You think my shoulder is the problem?”
“No. Your trust is.”
His brows pull together.
“You don’t trust the left-side finish once the help arrives. You decide where you’re escaping before the trap closes.”
“What trap?”
“The one everyone else can see.”
His chair shifts toward me.
“What do you know about basketball, Footnote?”
“More than you think.”
“Then explain it.”
“I just did.”
“No. You threw out a few possessions and acted like you solved my game.”
“The stats are hiding it.”
His eyes harden.
“You’re winning because your shooting covers the bad reads. That won’t work when the defenses get better in March.”
Silence settles around us.
The students nearest us have stopped pretending not to listen.
Kane looks toward them.
Then back at me.
I have said too much.
Professor Aldridge closes the book in his hand.
“Mr. Haverhill, since your private conference has become more compelling than mine, would you care to share it?”
Kane doesn’t take his eyes off me.
“No.”
“Then save it for after class.”
I reach for another pencil.
Kane catches it first.
He places it beside his notebook.
“Give it back.”
“You’ll break this one too.”
“I’ll risk it.”
His fingers remain over the pencil.
Mine close around the other end.
Neither of us lets go.
His gaze drops to my hand.
Then to my mouth.
The pause lasts one beat too long.
I release the pencil.
He wins that battle.
The look on his face says he knows it.
I pull my laptop closer and spend the rest of the lecture taking notes with my keyboard.
Kane doesn’t open his computer again.
The second Aldridge dismisses us, I’m out of my chair.
I zip my laptop into my bag and head for the side door.
“Sandy.”
I keep moving.
“Sandy.”
His chair scrapes behind me.
Rain blows beneath the stone archway outside. I pull up my hood and cross the courtyard.
Kane catches the door before it shuts.
“Stop.”
“I have somewhere to be.”
“You’re going to explain what you saw.”
“I already did.”
“You gave me half an answer.”
“That was generous.”
His footsteps close the distance.
I turn beneath the covered walkway.
He stops inches away.
Even in boots, I have to tilt my head to meet his eyes. Rain dots the shoulders of his quarter-zip. His breathing is controlled, but the muscle near his jaw has started working.
“You’ve been watching me,” he says.
“I’ve seen you play.”
“How many times?”
“Enough to recognize a pattern.”
“Why?”
The single word carries more suspicion than curiosity.
He thinks I’m another girl tracking his games, his future, or whatever contract people expect him to sign.
“I like patterns.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
I step around him.
His hand closes lightly around my elbow.
Heat runs up my arm.
I look down at his fingers.
He releases me.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Then quit walking away.”
“You’re not entitled to my time.”
“You humiliated me in front of the class.”
“You asked.”
“You could’ve kept your mouth shut.”
“So could you.”
His gaze drops to my lips again.
Brief.
Still noticeable.
“You don’t know me, Sandy.”
“I know what happens when the defense takes away your first choice.”
The words hit something deeper than basketball.
His face closes.
I regret it before he speaks.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“It didn’t sound like nothing.”
My phone buzzes inside my pocket.
Melissa’s driver is waiting on the other side of the old quad. If I miss him, I miss practice.
“I have to go.”
Kane steps into my path.
“Where?”
“Not your business.”
“You’re hiding something.”
“You think everyone is hiding something because you assume they’re interested in you.”
He leans down, bringing us closer.
“And you’re not?”
“No.”
The answer comes too fast.
His mouth curves.
Not a smile.
A warning.
“Liar.”
I slip past him and take the narrow stairs beside the history building.
He follows.
“Sandy.”
I cross through the covered arcade and cut left behind the archaeology wing. The old side of campus is a tangle of courtyards, stone passages, gardens, and doors that lead into buildings through unexpected floors.
I know the fastest route.
Kane knows the athletic complex.
His footsteps remain behind me through the first arch.
I take the passage beside the small sculpture garden, descend three steps, then turn through a wooden door propped open with a sandbag.
Inside, a tour group blocks the hall.
I weave through them.
Kane enters as the guide raises a bright red flag.
“Please remain with the group.”
“I’m not with the group.”
“Sir, this area is restricted during the tour.”
I push through the far doors before Kane gets around them.
Rain hits my glasses. I hurry beneath another arch, cross the courtyard, and slip through the side entrance of Briar Hall.
The heavy door closes behind me.
I wait.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No voice calling the name I gave him.
I pull back my hood and catch my breath.
Through the narrow glass panel, Kane appears at the far end of the courtyard.
He looks left.
Then right.
I press myself against the wall.
After several seconds, he turns and disappears beneath the ivy-covered arch.
I smile.
He still thinks my name is Sandy.
Let him search.