Chapter 14
Fourteen
HANNAH
The player guest section smells like perfume, spray tan, and expensive lip gloss.
Like Cosmopolitan and Glamour had a baby, dressed it in a cropped leather jacket, and handed it courtside tickets.
I stop at the end of the row and check the seat number again.
Correct section.
Correct row.
Unfortunately.
The women already seated look like they arrived through professional hair and makeup. Sleek waves. French manicures. Almond-shaped nails. Tiny tops paired with jeans that probably require assistance to put on.
Then there’s me.
Chunky cream sweater.
Black leggings.
Uggs.
Hair twisted into a bun because I changed in seven minutes and ran across campus.
Tortoiseshell glasses.
Family pack of Twizzlers tucked beneath my arm.
Every face turns.
Not openly.
That would require honesty.
They look at my glasses, drop to my sweater, then exchange those quick little glances women use when they’ve agreed on something cruel without speaking.
I squeeze past them.
“Sorry.”
No one moves enough.
My bag catches on a knee.
A woman with bright blond extensions lifts her drink before I knock it over.
“These seats aren’t general admission.”
“I’m aware.”
She studies me again.
“Whose guest are you?”
The question sounds less like curiosity and more like security screening.
I drop into my seat and place the Twizzlers in my lap.
“A player’s.”
“Which one?”
I push my glasses higher.
“Is there an audition before I’m allowed to sit down?”
Her friend snorts.
The blonde’s smile tightens.
“I was just asking.”
“And I was just sitting.”
She turns away.
Conversation resumes around me in low, deliberate voices.
Someone’s boyfriend forgot to arrange a car.
Another player’s ex posted something suggestive.
A girl near the aisle is furious because her seat is three rows behind the one she had last game.
I stare at the court.
This is why I transferred dorms.
There are thousands of people in the arena, yet this section has somehow reduced the entire evening to who belongs beside which athlete.
The lights sweep across the court.
Kane stands near center with his teammates.
Even from here, I can see the grin on his face.
He found me.
I shouldn’t have winked.
It felt funny from twenty feet away.
Now he’s wearing that look like I handed him a private promise.
The woman beside me follows his gaze.
Her attention lands on me.
Then the Twizzlers.
Then back on Kane.
Interesting.
I open the bag.
The first piece is mine before he starts stealing them again.
The opening tip goes Stanford’s way.
Kane catches the ball near the sideline and settles the offense. His movements are controlled, but there’s an extra charge beneath them. He dribbles higher than I would like, signals the set, then uses the screen instead of rejecting it.
Better.
The help defender steps up.
Kane keeps the ball alive for one more bounce and fires a pass to the weak-side cutter.
Easy layup.
I bite the end of my Twizzler.
“Good read.”
The brunette on my right looks over.
“You know basketball?”
“A little.”
She glances toward my sweater.
I’m not sure what clothing item she believes qualifies someone to understand a pick-and-roll.
Stanford gets a stop.
Kane pushes in transition, slows before the lane closes, then hits Noah in the corner.
Three.
The crowd surges around me.
Kane backpedals on defense and looks toward my section.
I lift one finger.
One more dribble.
He nods.
The blonde notices that too.
“Are you coaching him from the stands?”
“I doubt he can hear me.”
“He keeps looking over here.”
“There are several people in this row.”
Her friend leans across her.
“Who invited you?”
I pull another Twizzler from the bag.
“Haverhill.”
The name drops into the conversation like a glass hitting tile.
Three women look over.
The blonde laughs, but it comes out wrong.
“Kane?”
“That’s usually what people mean by Haverhill.”
“How do you know him?”
“Class.”
She waits for more.
I don’t supply it.
“Like tutoring?”
Her friend hides a smile behind her cup.
I stare at the court.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
I turn.
“Sorry. I didn’t get the memo that this section required a photo shoot, an interview, and a WAG application.”
The brunette looks away first.
The blonde’s mouth thins.
“No one said that.”
“No one had to.”
The pep band explodes behind the basket, saving me from whatever she planned to say next.
On the court, Kane takes a hard hit while driving left.
No whistle.
He lands, looks toward the official, and I feel the shift before he gets the ball back.
The next possession will be personal.
He calls for a screen.
Rejects it.
Drives into the same defender who hit him.
My fingers tighten around the Twizzler.
“Don’t.”
He gathers too soon.
The help defender reaches in.
Kane twists, nearly losing the ball, then kicks it out at the last second. Noah saves the possession with a contested jumper.
The shot drops.
The crowd cheers.
Kane scowls as he runs back.
Bad process. Good result.
He looks toward me.
I shake my head.
His expression sharpens.
The woman beside me laughs softly.
“I don’t think he liked that.”
“He knows I’m right.”
“That sounded intimate.”
“It wasn’t.”
She makes a small humming sound that tells me she doesn’t believe me.
I don’t believe myself much either.
The first quarter ends with Stanford ahead by four.
Music blasts through the arena while dancers take the court. People stand, stretch, and begin filming themselves with the game behind them.
The women in my row cluster near the aisle for a group picture.
No one asks me to move into the frame.
Fine.
I prefer historical exclusion. It usually comes with better artifacts.
A ripple moves through the section behind us.
Not noise exactly.
Awareness.
Heads turn.
A woman descends the stairs with a security guard several steps behind her. He isn’t escorting her so much as making sure everyone else stays out of her way.
Stella Cortez.
I recognize her without following a single gossip page.
You would have to live underground not to.
Tall. Dark ponytail. Black fitted jacket over a red Stanford top. Long legs shaped by years of volleyball, not a gym routine designed for photographs.
She moves through the player section without checking a ticket.
Nobody stops her.
The queen bee has arrived.
Only she doesn’t look fake.
She looks capable of folding half this row into carry-on luggage.
Stella reaches my seat and nods toward the empty chair beside me.
“Taken?”
“My roommates couldn’t come.”
“Perfect.”
She sits before anyone can object.
The blonde straightens.
“Stella, we were saving—”
“No, you weren’t.”
Stella doesn’t even look at her.
The conversation dies.
She settles into the chair, crosses one leg over the other, then glances at me.
“Ignore those bitches.”
I blink.
She looks toward the Twizzlers.
“Can I have one?”
I hand her the bag.
“You’re not going to interrogate me first?”
“Should I?”
“Apparently, these seats come with a background check.”
Stella takes a piece.
“They’re territorial.”
“Over chairs?”
“Men. Chairs. Camera angles. It changes by the quarter.”
I study her.
Up close, she’s even more striking. Not delicate. Strong shoulders, sharp cheekbones, dark eyes that seem to take in everything before deciding what deserves a reaction.
“You look like my kind of girl,” she says.
I laugh.
“Shut up.”
Her eyebrows rise.
“You have more muscle in one arm than I’ll build in my entire lifetime. Even if I worked out ten hours a day and did creatine shots for fun.”
Stella bites into the Twizzler and laughs.
It’s warm and unexpectedly easy.
“Creatine shots sound vile.”
“Then we agree on something.”
“I’m Stella.”
“I know.”
She smiles. “That bad?”
“You’re on banners.”
“Right.”
“Hannah Goodwin.”
We shake hands.
Her grip is firm.
She points toward my glasses.
“I like those.”
“Thank you.”
“No insult attached?”
“I’ve had enough for one night.”
“I get that.”
The game resumes.
Tristan Vale crashes the offensive glass on Stanford’s first possession, muscles the rebound away from two defenders, and puts it back through contact.
Stella smiles before the ball clears the net.
That tells me more than a thousand edited videos could.
Vale turns toward this section.
Finds her immediately.
The shift in his face is almost unfair.
He points at her.
Stella points back.
“What was that?” I ask.
“He likes checking whether I’m watching.”
“Are you?”
“Always.”
The word carries no embarrassment.
No caution.
She loves him.
Cleanly.
The certainty makes something inside me ache in a place I didn’t know existed.
Stella looks at me again.
“Whose seats are these?”
I pull the Twizzler bag closer.
“I’m embarrassed to say.”
“That makes this interesting.”
“Haverhill’s.”
Her expression changes.
“Kane invited you?”
“He’s my study partner.”
“Study partner..?”
“Yupp.” I pop the p.
Her mouth curves.
“He annoys the hell out of me.”
“Now I believe you know him.”
“We had a class project. He gave me the tickets.”
“That’s all?”
“Yepppp.” This time I choke on the Twizzler.
Stella pats my back.
I stare at the court.
Kane brings the ball up slowly, directing traffic with one hand.
“He’s kind of a dick,” I mutter.
“He can be.”
“You’re supposed to defend your boy.”
“He is my best friend. That doesn’t require lying.”
I turn toward her.
“Your best friend?”
“One of them.”
“But you and he…”
“Almost.”
She watches Kane use a screen and thread a pass to the corner.
“He’s a good guy, Hannah. Better than his reputation.”
“That reputation seems well earned. I mean half the Kappa Beta girls have rotated through these very seats and then track girl.”
“So? Most of that was his freshman year.”
She takes another Twizzler.
“Kane and I understood each other. We came from similar situations. Same ambition. Same chip on our shoulders.”
“But you chose Vale?”
Her gaze returns to Tristan.
“Vale is my soul mate.”
No hesitation.
No softening it for Kane’s sake.
The truth sits there without apology.
“You probably saw the blogs,” she adds. “The hashtags. The entire campus acted like we were a tournament bracket.”
“I didn’t.”
Stella turns.
“Seriously?”
“I don’t follow any of that.”
“You live under a rock?”