Chapter 11 #4
She’s walking toward the building with her backpack over one shoulder.
I park across the street.
This would be the perfect moment to leave.
Instead, I’m out of the car before common sense catches up.
The front door sticks.
I pull harder.
Sneakers squeak somewhere inside.
A whistle cuts through the hallway.
Then a girl’s voice.
Her voice.
“Again.”
I follow it.
The gym doors are open.
And I stop.
Hannah stands at center court surrounded by a dozen boys.
Maybe twelve.
Thirteen.
Black leggings. Old T-shirt. Hair still piled on top of her head.
Whistle around her neck.
Completely in charge.
“If you cross your feet, you’re giving him the lane.”
One kid raises his hand.
“This isn’t school, Tyler.”
He lowers it.
The others laugh.
“What?”
“Can we have water?”
“You’ve been moving for four minutes.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“I’m dying.”
“Then die after the drill.”
More laughter.
I bite back a smile.
“Again.”
They move.
Defensive slides.
One kid turns his hips too early.
Hannah blows the whistle.
“Stop.”
Everyone freezes.
She walks over.
“What are you watching?”
“The ball.”
“Why?”
He shrugs.
“Because he has it?”
“His hands can lie to you.”
She taps her own chest.
“Watch here. Shoulders and hips. Read his center. Stop guessing where he’s going and make him tell you.”
Something in my chest shifts.
I’ve heard that before.
Not those exact words.
Close enough.
From her.
Directed at me.
I lean against the wall.
One boy drives.
Hannah stops him.
Another takes his place.
She adjusts his stance with the toe of her sneaker.
“Lower.”
He drops.
“Lower.”
He drops again.
“You planning to defend someone or propose to them?”
The kid snorts.
I do too.
Too loud.
One boy turns.
Sees me.
His eyes widen.
Then everyone starts looking.
Hannah follows their stare.
And finds me.
Her entire face changes.
Not pleased.
“What are you doing here?”
I lift one shoulder.
“Got lost.”
“You followed me.”
“I prefer took the scenic route.”
“Kane.”
One of the boys looks between us.
“Wait. Kane Haverhill?”
Now they all start talking.
“No way.”
“That’s him.”
“Yo, he plays for Stanford.”
“He dropped twenty-three last week.”
“Twenty-one,” Hannah says.
I straighten.
“Twenty-three.”
Her eyes narrow.
“That’s what you took from that?”
“Stats matter.”
A kid laughs.
Hannah points at the bleachers.
“Sit.”
I blink.
“Me?”
“You’re interrupting practice.”
The boys go quiet.
I look at the bleachers.
Then her.
“You’re benching me?”
“I will if you keep talking.”
A kid whispers, “She actually did it.”
I sit.
Because apparently I’ve lost all control of my life.
Hannah turns back to them.
“Now. Where were we?”
“Reading the hips.”
“Good.”
Practice starts again.
And I stop smiling.
Because she’s good.
Really good.
Not someone who watches basketball and knows a few plays.
She sees everything.
Bad foot placement.
Late rotations.
A kid cheating toward his dominant hand before the drive even starts.
She corrects them without stopping the whole gym every thirty seconds.
She explains why.
Makes them do it again.
Then again.
Until they get it.
And when they finally do, she notices that too.
No screaming.
No showing off.
Just sharp.
Precise.
Confident.
I’ve never seen this version of her.
I can’t stop watching.
“Water break.” she declares her eyes locked on mine. I smirk, cross my arms, I’m not going anywhere.
* * *
Sneakers squeak across hardwood. Seven boys run a ball-handling drill while several parents watch from the bleachers.
Hannah walks backward in front of the tallest player, holding up numbers with her fingers.
“Eyes up, Evan. The ball isn’t going to tell you where the defense is.”
The kid pushes thick glasses higher on his nose.
“Three.”
She switches hands.
“Five.”
“Good. Stay low.”
A small guard jogs toward me. “Are you really going to the NBA?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Can you dunk?”
“Yes.”
“Can Coach Hannah?”
Hannah blows her whistle sharply.
“Baseline.”
Nobody moves.
She points at me.
“He’s tall and appears on television. You’ve seen both before.”
One boy shakes his head. “Not this close.”
“Enjoy it for three seconds.”
They count aloud.
“One. Two. Three.”
Hannah claps once.
“Done. Baseline.”
The team runs.
I look at her differently.
At Stanford, Hannah guards every inch of herself. Here, she owns the room.
She notices one boy bringing the ball below his waist after rebounds. Corrects another player’s foot angle during a closeout. Stops Eli from setting screens with his feet too narrow.
Nothing escapes her.
Including me.
“If you’re staying,” she says, “be useful.”
I step onto the court. “What do you need?”
“Defense.”
One boy groans. “That isn’t fair.”
“Neither are most people you’ll defend if you keep playing.”
She divides them into three-on-three and puts me near the rim.
“Half speed,” she warns.
“I know how to practice with kids.”
“I’ve watched you play frustrated.”
A few fathers laugh from the bleachers.
Hannah bounces the ball to Evan.
“Run it.”
The boys move into four-out spacing. Evan starts inside, sets a weak-side screen, then rolls toward the basket.
The pass comes late.
I step into the lane.
Evan panics and brings the ball down.
I strip him.
Hannah’s whistle cuts through the gym.
“Freeze.”
She walks onto the court and points at Evan’s hands.
“What happened?”
“He took it.”
“Why?”
Evan looks at me. “He’s Kane Haverhill.”
“That isn’t a basketball answer.”
“I brought the ball down.”
“Exactly. Catch high, keep it high, finish before the defense resets.”
She gives him the ball.
“Again.”
This time, he catches above his head and goes straight to the glass. I contest without blocking him.
The shot drops.
Evan’s whole face changes.
Hannah nods once. “Better.”
He runs back taller than before.
I’ve had coaches who could tear a player apart with three words.
Hannah builds them with one.
We run the action several more times before she calls everyone in.
“Who wants to see why Haverhill gets trapped when he rejects the left screen?”
Four fathers straighten on the bleachers.
I stare at her. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
She positions one boy at the top and another near the elbow.
“Show them.”
I take the ball.
The kid approaches to screen. I reject it, drive left, and gather early.
Hannah blows the whistle.
“See?”
One boy raises his hand. “See what?”
“His right shoulder.”
She steps closer and places one palm against the front of it.
“Here. He turns before the help defender commits.”
Her other hand slides down my forearm to my wrist.
Every muscle in my body locks.
Hannah either doesn’t notice or decides to ignore it.
“Keep this side closed longer,” she says. “One more dribble before the gather.”
Her fingers adjust the ball in my hand. Her jersey brushes my arm.
“That gives you time to read the second defender instead of guessing.”
I look down at her.
She lifts her face.
The boys, parents, and gym blur behind those tortoiseshell frames.
“You listening?” she asks.
“Trying.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Again.”
She steps away.
The absence of her hand feels colder than it should.
I reset, stay low, keep the dribble alive, and let the help defender move first.
He cuts off the rim.
I drop the pass to Evan.
Easy layup.
The boys cheer.
Hannah crosses her arms.
“That’s the read.”
“You’re bossy.”