Chapter 12 #2
“Let’s see whether he texted.”
I grab for it.
She rolls away and holds the screen above her head.
“Lila.”
“It’s locked.”
“Give it back.”
“It just lit up.”
All three of us freeze.
She looks at the notification.
Her eyes widen.
“No.”
“What?”
She hands me the phone.
Kane’s name sits across the screen.
Kane: I meant that kiss, Hannah.
My stomach drops.
A second message arrives.
Kane: I put two tickets under your name for Saturday’s home game. Player guest section. The seats everyone calls the wives-and-girlfriends section, before you start typing something hostile.
Lila reads over my shoulder and squeals again.
Noor leans closer.
Another text appears.
Kane: I know you don’t want the title, the attention, or anything attached to me.
Then:
Kane: Come because you understand the game.
I hold my breath.
The final message lands.
Kane: And because I want you there.
Nobody speaks.
The phone feels warm in my hand.
Lila breaks first.
“You’re going.”
“No.”
“You have to.”
“I absolutely do not.”
Noor watches my face. “Do you want to?”
That is the only question that matters.
It is also the one I don’t want to answer.
I picture Kane beneath arena lights. The bad left-side read. The shoulder turn. The moment his frustration gets ahead of his judgment.
I picture him looking into the stands and finding me there.
My heart starts pounding again.
“I want to see whether he fixes it.”
Lila grins. “That is the nerdiest possible way to admit you want to watch him.”
“I’m evaluating technical progress.”
“You’re going to sit in the girlfriend section.”
“Player guest section.”
“Wives and girlfriends.”
“I heard you the first time.”
Noor takes the phone gently from my hand and places it facedown on the bed.
“Don’t answer tonight.”
Lila nods. “Agreed. Make him sweat.”
“That isn’t why,” Noor says. “She needs to decide whether she wants to enter his world.”
I glance around our room.
Books stacked on the windowsill.
Postcards above Noor’s desk.
Lila’s mystery novel open facedown on her pillow.
The radiator clanking inside the wall.
This is my world.
Quiet, imperfect, mine.
Kane’s world is lights, cameras, bodies packed into stands, and thousands of people waiting to turn one look into a story.
I fought hard to leave that behind.
Then he kissed me, and for several dangerous seconds, it felt like being seen instead of dragged backward.
My phone vibrates once more.
I flip it over.
Kane: Bring the Twizzlers. They seem to improve your personality.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
Lila points.
“That face. You’re done.”
“I am not done.”
Noor gives me a sympathetic look.
“You’re in trouble.”
I stare at Kane’s messages.
The tickets.
The invitation.
The fact that he knew exactly what would make me hesitate and asked anyway.
“No,” I say quietly.
Then I type:
Me: I’ll consider it.
His answer appears almost immediately.
Kane: That means yes.
I narrow my eyes at the screen.
Me: It means you should work on your reading comprehension.
Kane: Wear the glasses. I like them.
My breath catches.
Lila reads the message and falls sideways onto the bed.
Noor closes her eyes.
I lock the phone and press it against my chest.
This life fit perfectly before Kane Haverhill stepped into it.
Now every edge feels charged.
* * *
I spend Saturday avoiding Kane Haverhill.
Not physically.
He isn’t standing outside Briar Hall with flowers or another stolen Twizzler between his teeth.
He’s worse.
He’s inside my phone.
The tickets sit in my Stanford account. His messages remain unanswered beneath the one I already regret sending.
Me: I’ll consider it.
He took that as a yes.
I treat it like a clerical error.
By eight in the morning, I’ve finished two reading responses, revised the seminar outline, and mapped out three weeks of practices for the boys.
At nine, Evan sends me a video of his left-handed layup.
He misses the first attempt, catches his rebound, and tries again.
The second drops.
Evan: Did I jump off the right foot?
Me: Yes. Keep the ball higher. Your shoulder dipped before the first attempt.
Evan: I knew you would say that.
Me: Then fix it before I have to.
A thumbs-up appears.
Then another message.
Evan: Tyler says we need a full-court press.
Me: Tyler thinks every problem can be solved by running faster.
Evan: He says that is not a no.
I add basic press break to Monday’s practice plan and send the parents an updated schedule.
Two practices.
Saturday game.
Possible tournament next month if Doug submits the paperwork before the deadline instead of debating uniform colors in the group chat.
By ten thirty, every assignment due within the next week is finished.
The tickets still exist.
I wash my bedding.
Then I wash it again because Lila says the first time doesn’t count if I forgot the fabric softener.
I borrow Noor’s handheld steamer and clean the curtains, the desk chair, and one suspicious patch of carpet beside the radiator.
“Are you nesting?” Lila asks from her bed.
“I’m cleaning.”
“You ironed your sheets.”
“They wrinkle.”
“They’re sheets.”
“I know what they are.”
Noor looks up from her book.
“She’s avoiding the basketball game.”
“I’m not avoiding it.”
“You’ve cleaned the baseboards.”
“They were filthy.”
Lila peers over the side of the mattress.
“You’re wearing rubber gloves.”
“Chemicals exist.”
“It’s water and vinegar.”
“Still a compound.”
Noor closes her book.
“You could decide not to go.”
“I know.”
“You could also go.”
“I know that too.”
Lila points toward the window.
“Stanford is playing tonight. He put you in the player section. This does not require forty-eight hours and a deep-cleaned radiator.”
“I’m not making a decision because he kissed me.”
“No,” she says. “You’re scrubbing grout because he kissed you.”
I throw the cleaning cloth at her.
She catches it and smiles.
By afternoon, I’ve reorganized my closet, updated the team roster, and watched enough film to decide Eli needs stronger ankles and Tyler needs to learn that passing is not a personal defeat.
I open the ticket page twice.
Close it twice.
Kane does not text again.
That bothers me more than another message would.
My phone buzzes while I’m sorting pencils by length.
I expect Eli.
Maybe Melissa.
Possibly Kane deciding patience no longer suits him.
The name on the screen stills my hand.
Dad: I haven’t heard from him since the fight in our kitchen.
The message is short.
Dad: Miss you.
I stare at the words until the screen begins to dim.
The anger is still there.
So is the memory of him holding my Stanford letter as if I had used it to betray him.
Underneath both sits something heavier.
I left.
He let me.
Neither of us knew how to speak after that.
My thumb moves before I decide what to say.
Me: Hey.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Dad: Hey, kid.
My throat tightens.
He hasn’t called me that in months.
Dad: I’m sorry.
I sit on the edge of my bed.
Lila and Noor are at the bookstore, which means I don’t have to explain why three words have made it difficult to breathe.
Me: I’m sorry, too.
The typing bubble appears.
Stops.
Starts again.
Dad: It’s not the same here without you.
I glance at the clean desk, the old radiator, and the row of archaeology books along my shelf.
Me: I miss Mom.
I regret the answer as soon as I send it.
Too sharp.
Too honest.
Dad responds anyway.
Dad: She misses you, too.
Then:
Dad: I do.
I press my lips together.
Dad: How is school?
It is such a simple question.
He should have asked it weeks ago.
Maybe I should have given him the chance.
Me: It’s going really well. I love my classes more than I expected.
Dad: Archaeology?
Me: Yes.
Dad: You always did like figuring out why people did stupid things.
A laugh slips out.
Me: It’s a rich field.
Dad: Making friends?
Me: Two good roommates. Lila and Noor.
Dad: They treating you okay?
Me: They make fun of my glasses and steal my clothes.
Dad: Sounds healthy.
The tension loosens by half an inch.
I stare at his name above the messages.
Then type the thing I’ve been meaning to tell Mom.