Chapter 13
Thirteen
KANE
I’ve played in packed tournament arenas with my season balanced on one possession.
I’ve stood at the free-throw line while twenty thousand people tried to shake my hands with noise.
None of that explains why I’ve checked Hannah’s ticket status six times today.
I check my phone again before entering the arena.
No message.
Her last answer remains on the screen.
Hannah: I’ll consider it.
She can call that indecision.
I call it yes with unnecessary attitude.
I lock the phone and head inside.
The arena hasn’t opened to the public yet.
Security gates remain closed around the concourse, and the building sounds hollow without fans. Equipment carts roll beneath the stands. Someone tests the speakers, sending a burst of static across thousands of empty seats.
I head into the training room.
The trainer points toward the table.
“You’re early.”
“I’m always early.”
“Not this early.”
I sit while he checks my ankles, knees, and shoulders. He tapes two fingers, runs me through hip mobility, then works on the tightness in my left calf.
“You’re wound up.”
“We have a game.”
“You have games every week.”
“This one matters.”
“They all matter to you.”
He presses deeper into the muscle.
I grit my teeth.
“Something else going on?”
“No.”
“Personal problem?”
“No.”
“Girl problem?”
I look at him.
He raises both hands and backs away from the question.
“Calf looks good.”
“Excellent diagnosis.”
I hop off the table and head into the locker room.
My uniform hangs inside the locker. Fresh white jersey. Number three across the chest. Shorts folded beneath it. Warm-up pants and jacket waiting on the bench.
I dress slowly.
Not because I need the time.
Every time I move too fast, I reach toward my phone.
I zip it into the pocket of my warm-up bag and leave it there.
For now.
The arena is nearly empty when I step onto the floor.
Crew members tape black cables along the baseline.
ESPN has cameras positioned across from the benches, and technicians test the overhead rig.
A Sports Illustrated photographer adjusts a long lens near the tunnel.
Local reporters wait beside the scorer’s table with coffee cups and hopeful expressions.
One spots me.
“Haverhill, got a minute?”
I shake my head and jog toward the basket.
Pregame interviews go through media staff. Everyone knows the rule. Reporters still try to catch players before the coaches arrive.
Another one calls after me.
“Quick question about the draft projections?”
The media coordinator steps between us.
“He’ll be available after the game.”
I take a ball from the rack.
The empty court usually clears my head.
I begin close to the basket. Right block. Left block. Short corner. Elbow.
The ball leaves my fingers clean and snaps through the net.
I move deeper.
Catch.
Set.
Release.
Swish.
Noah rebounds and sends it back.
I shoot again.
My gaze drifts toward the player guest section.
Empty red seats.
Staff members are wiping railings and checking seat numbers. No families. No girlfriends. No freshman archaeology student pretending she only came to evaluate my left-side reads.
I miss from the wing.
The ball hits the back rim and kicks long.
Noah catches it near the baseline.
“Haverhill.”
“I know.”
“You sure?”
I hold out my hands.
He sends the ball back without raising his voice. Two assistants are talking near the opposite basket, and neither of us wants them looking over.
I set my feet.
The next shot drops.
Then another.
Noah keeps rebounding.
“You’ve checked those seats after every third shot,” he says under his breath.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Every second shot, then.”
“The doors aren’t open.”
“That makes it stranger.”
I ignore him and drive from the wing.
Stay low.
One more dribble left.
No early shoulder turn.
No gathering before the defense commits.
I finish high off the glass.
Noah catches the ball as it falls.
“Whatever she told you, keep doing it.”
I stop.
“Who?”
His mouth curves.
“Exactly.”
After early shooting, I return to the locker room.
The rest of the team filters in. Music starts. Tape tears. Shoes squeak against the rubber floor. Someone insists his shooting slump is caused by the new detergent shrinking his socks.
I sit at my locker and retie my shoes.
Eli drops into the chair beside mine.
“You look tense.”
“I’m fine.”
“That was convincing.”
“Worry about your own game.”
“My game is beautiful.”
“Your assist-to-turnover ratio disagrees.”
He glances toward the pocket holding my phone.
“She coming?”
I keep my attention on the laces.
“Who?”
“Your grandmother.”
I look at him.
“The one with the huge glasses who threatened to stab you over candy.”
“She has a name.”
“Librarian?”
“Hannah.”
His grin grows.
“You said that fast.”
Coach enters before he can keep going.
The music cuts.
Everyone sits.
Coach stands in the center of the room with the scouting board beneath one arm.
“This team wants chaos,” he says. “They want rushed possessions, emotional decisions, and arguments with officials. Don’t give them any of it.”
His gaze lands on me for half a beat.
I lean forward, forearms on my knees.
“Use the screen. Let the second defender commit before you decide where the ball goes. The weak side will open if you stay patient.”
Hannah’s voice slips into the space beneath his. “You stop seeing the floor when you’re frustrated.”
I focus on the board.
Coach reviews matchups, rotations, and our opening sets.
“Trust the read. Protect home court.”
We rise and bring our hands together.
Then we head for the tunnel.
The building has transformed.
Fans stream through the aisles. The student section fills in waves of red. The pep band blasts from the lower bowl while the cheer team runs formations beneath the opposite basket.
Popcorn, hot pretzels, and Diet Coke drift down from the concourse, mixing with hardwood, sweat, and the sharp muscle rub from the training room.
I jog onto the court with the team.
The crowd surges.
That never gets old.
Basketball opened the first door for me.
I forced the rest.
Now cameras track my warm-ups. Scouts sit near the baseline with notebooks open. Thousands of people wear my number.
And I’m searching for one girl in a chunky sweater.
Her seat remains empty.
Noah sends me a pass from the wing.
I catch, rise, and miss left.
He retrieves the rebound and comes closer instead of throwing it back.
“Lock in,” he murmurs.
“I am locked in.”
“No, you’re pretending well enough that Coach hasn’t noticed yet.”
“Keep it that way.”
“That’s what I’m doing.”
He bounces the ball to me.
I hit the next shot.
Vale moves beneath the basket, working on finishes and offensive rebounds. He crashes into one of our forwards, pulls down the miss with both hands, then fires the ball toward me.
I catch it.
Vale jogs closer and lowers his voice.
“What’s up with you?”
“Nothing.”
He glances toward the player guest section.
“You looking for someone?”
“No.”
The answer comes too fast.
Noah snorts beside us.
Vale’s mouth curves.
“Tell me you’re not looking for my girl.”
I stare at him.
He lifts one brow, enjoying himself.
“You know she’s mine now, right? Locked in.”
I launch the ball at his chest.
He catches it without moving.
“Shut up, Vale.”
Noah steps between us enough to make the exchange look like part of the drill.
“Both of you keep your voices down.”
Vale grins.
“It’s another girl.”
“There is no girl.”
“I knew it.”
“You know nothing.”
“I can be your wingman.” Eli chimes in.
“I don’t need one.”
“Everyone needs help.”
“Not from you.”
Vale spins the ball in his hands while watching me.
“Tell me who she is. Stella can say nice things about you.”
“Stella would tell her to run.”
“She might lead with that. Then I’ll ask her to add something supportive.”
Noah bites back a laugh.
I take the ball from Vale.
“Can we warm up?”
“Is it over with the track girl?” Vale asks.
I stop.
He raises his eyebrows.
“Krista.”
“How do you know about Krista?”
“People talk.”
“You’re in every gossip blog and hashtag on campus. I didn’t think you actually read them.”
Vale shrugs.
“Never said I did.”
Noah looks between us. “Can we discuss Kane’s romantic collapse after we win?”
“I’m protecting our point guard,” Vale says.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Both can be true.”
“I hope she comes.” Eli grins, before doing a drop-step three.
I glance toward Hannah’s seat again.
Vale follows my gaze.
His expression turns triumphant.
“That section?”
“Quit looking.”
“Player guests. Serious.”
“It’s two tickets.”
“Two?”
“She has roommates.”
“Or a husband.”
I glare at him.
Vale laughs quietly.
“There he is.”
Noah takes the ball from me and passes it toward the next station.
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You’ve missed left three times,” Vale says.
“You crash the boards. Worry about rebounds.”
“I am. Your misses are providing excellent practice.”
I step closer.
Noah catches my arm before it becomes noticeable.
“Coaches,” he warns.
An assistant glances our way.
All three of us separate.
Vale heads back toward the paint as if we were discussing the drill.
Noah stays beside me.
“Who is she?”
“None of your business.”
“Vale will ask until March.”
“I know.”
“You might as well tell us.”
“No.”
Vale calls from beneath the basket, loud enough for us but not the coaches.
“Stella and I are rooting for you, Haverhill.”
I flip him off at waist level.
Noah laughs.
“Very subtle.”
During the next warm up set, I notice a little girl in the first row.
She wears an oversized Stanford jersey and a red bow almost as big as her head. A small box of Twizzlers rests in her lap.
She catches me looking and holds it up.
I point at the candy.
Her face lights.
I wink, and she turns toward her mother, nearly bouncing out of the seat.
The Twizzlers pull Hannah straight back into my head.
Her family-sized bag in the library.
Her hand around my wrist.
The threat involving a pencil.
The red candy between her lips while she tore apart my argument.
I jog toward the bench for water.
My phone should be locked inside the locker room.
Instead, it’s tucked into my warm-up bag near the chairs.
I take it out.
No message.
We aren’t supposed to text courtside. Coaches hate the distraction, and cameras are everywhere.
I type anyway.
Me: Your seat is still empty. I feel lonely and stood up.
I send it, lock the screen, and return the phone.
Noah blocks the nearest camera angle while I zip the bag.
“Risking a benching for romance,” he whispers.
“It was one text.”
Vale walks past on his way toward the lane.
“Smooth.”
“Keep moving.”
He grins and joins the bigs beneath the basket.
Noah shakes his head.
“You’ve lost both of us now.”
“I never had either of you.”
“We’re still protecting you.”
“From what?”
“Coach noticing you’re one empty seat away from an emotional breakdown.”
I shove him toward the court.
“Warm up.”
He laughs and jogs away.
The butterflies remain.
Actual butterflies.
I almost find them amusing.
I don’t get nervous over women.
I’ve dated and kissed some of the most beautiful girls on campus. With them, I knew where I stood before they crossed the room.
Hannah makes me guess.
She studies me like she’s deciding whether I deserve another insult, then kisses me back hard enough to keep me thinking about it for two days.
She understands my game.
Questions everything else.
That uncertainty keeps me alert in a way admiration never has.
The warm-up clock runs down.
Still no Hannah.
We clear the floor for the national anthem.
The pep band falls silent. The crowd rises, and thousands of voices settle into a low rustle.
After the final note, fireworks burst from the corners of the scoreboard. Cheerleaders race onto the court. Red lights sweep across the stands while the announcer introduces the visiting lineup.
Then ours.
Vale runs through the tunnel with the starting forwards.
Noah follows.
My name booms through the arena.
“Kane Haverhill!”
I sprint between my teammates, slapping hands as the student section erupts.
By the time I reach center court, the officials are carrying out the ball.
I glance toward the player guest section one last time.
Empty.
She isn’t coming.
The thought hits harder than it should.
I turn toward the huddle.
Movement near the aisle catches my eye.
A high bun appears above the row.
Then a familiar chunky sweater.
Black leggings.
Uggs.
Tortoiseshell glasses.
Hannah squeezes past several people with her bag pressed against her side. She drops into the seat, breathless, with a family-sized pack of Twizzlers tucked beneath one arm.
Relief rolls through me so fast I nearly laugh.
Her head lifts.
Our eyes meet across the court.
The arena blurs around her.
Hannah pushes her glasses higher with one finger.
Then she winks.
Bookworm winks at me.
My grin breaks free.
Not the one for cameras.
Not the smirk I use when someone challenges me.
A full, uncontrollable, shit-eating grin.
Noah follows my gaze.
“There she is.”
Vale looks too.
He studies Hannah for a second, then turns back to me with his brows raised.
“That’s the girl?”
I take my position near center court.
“Both of you get your heads in the game.”
Vale laughs as he moves toward the lane, ready to crash the opening possession.
Noah gives me one last shove between the shoulder blades.
“Go impress her.”
Hannah opens the Twizzlers and settles into her seat.
The butterflies disappear.
It’s going to be a good night.