Chapter 16 #4
Kane has pushed, followed, argued, and made himself impossible to ignore.
Now he takes one step backward.
The distance feels worse.
I clear my throat.
“We tied.”
His brows lift.
“The assignment.”
“We both got an A.”
“That wasn’t the wager.”
“I know.”
“If I won, you watched film with me through the postseason.”
“And if I won, you left me alone.”
“We need a tiebreaker.”
“No.”
“One session.”
“We already watched film.”
“You gave me twelve minutes.”
“It felt longer.”
“Ninety minutes.”
“Forty-five.”
“An hour.”
I hesitate.
He notices.
“Tonight,” he says. “After practice.”
“I have reading.”
“You finished next week’s assignments by Saturday.”
“How do you know that?”
“You reorganized your room to avoid my game. A woman who irons sheets doesn’t leave assignments unfinished.”
I hate that he has me there.
“One hour,” I say. “No following me afterward.”
“I’ll drive you home.”
“No.”
“It’ll be late.”
“I can arrange a ride.”
“Hannah.”
“You wanted me to decide.”
His jaw shifts.
Then he nods.
“Fine.”
The victory should feel better.
Instead, I’m staring at his hands inside his pockets, wondering what he would do if I closed the distance.
Kane opens the stairwell door.
Noise rushes back in.
He looks outside, then angles his body to shield me again.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Neither do we.”
He walks out first.
I follow because apparently I have learned nothing.
* * *
The athletic complex is almost empty by nine.
Melissa’s driver drops me near the side entrance, and I stand beneath the overhang wondering why I agreed to meet a man in a deserted film room after he announced he plans to withhold kisses until I beg.
Not beg.
Ask.
The distinction should matter.
It doesn’t feel like it does.
I pull open the door.
Kane waits in the hallway.
Black T-shirt.
Gray sweats.
Backward cap.
Freshly showered hair curling slightly near his ears.
His gaze drops over me.
I wore jeans instead of leggings.
A fitted sweater instead of one large enough to hide inside.
The glasses remain.
Armor.
Mostly.
“You came.”
“We made an agreement.”
“You’ve broken several.”
“Name one.”
“You said you wanted nothing to do with athletes.”
“That was a general policy. You forced an appeal.”
His mouth curves.
I point toward the film room.
“Fifty-eight minutes.”
“You’re already subtracting time?”
“You spoke.”
He opens the door.
The room holds three rows of padded chairs, a large screen, and a table crowded with scouting reports. Light from the hallway cuts across the floor until Kane closes the door.
Not fully.
A narrow gap remains.
He remembered.
I set my bag on the table.
“Where’s the film?”
He lifts a tablet.
“Here.”
“And the coaches?”
“Gone.”
“Team?”
“Gone.”
“Security?”
“Watching every exit.”
I look toward the open sliver of doorway.
“You planned that answer.”
“I knew you’d ask.”
He takes the chair beside mine.
Close enough for his knee to brush the side of my leg.
I shift.
He moves his knee away.
Another missing touch.
I pull out my notebook, two pencils, and a smaller bag of Twizzlers.
Kane looks at it.
“Travel size?”
“You abused family-pack privileges.”
“I took two.”
“You took what wasn’t offered.”
His eyes settle on mine.
“I’m learning.”
The words carry more than candy.
I open the notebook before he sees how deeply they land.
“Play the last ten minutes of the second half.”
Kane starts the video.
We watch in silence.
Stanford swings the ball around the perimeter. Kane comes off a screen, draws the second defender, and finds Vale beneath the rim.
“Better,” I say.
“I know.”
“Do you need me here?”
“Yes.”
“Then stop answering your own questions.”
He rewinds.
The next possession begins after a hard foul.
Kane pushes up the court too fast, rejects the screen, and drives into traffic.
I pause the video.
“There.”
“I saw it.”
“Did you?”
“The official missed the call.”
“And you punished three teammates for it.”
His jaw tightens.
“The shot went in.”
“After Noah recovered your pass.”
“It worked.”
“Your entire problem in one sentence.”
He leans back.
“Explain.”
“You treat survival as proof that the decision was sound.”
His eyes sharpen.
“That isn’t only basketball.”
“No.”
“Are we analyzing my childhood now?”
“I charge extra for that.”
He looks at the frozen image.
“What should I have done?”
“Used the screen. Their big was late getting above it. You would have forced a switch.”
“He can’t stay with me.”
“Exactly.”
I move to the next clip.
“You keep trying to defeat the player who embarrassed you instead of attacking the defense that’s actually there.”
Kane studies my face rather than the tablet.
“What?”
“That’s how you looked at Vale.”
My fingers still over the screen.
“This is film.”
“You said my choices repeat.”
“They do.”
“You saw Stella choose him, then spent months trying to prove she chose wrong.”
I close the tablet cover.
“Our hour is over.”
“We have forty-one minutes.”
“Then spend them discussing basketball.”
“I am.”
“No. You’re turning yourself into a case study.”
“You did that in class.”
“Academically.”
His mouth almost smiles.
I glare until it disappears.
Kane stands and takes a ball from the rack near the wall.
“Fine. Fix the mechanics.”
“I already did.”
“You said my hips open early when I’m irritated.”
“They do.”
“Show me.”
He moves into position near the screen.
I remain seated.
“You know what to do.”
“I know what you said.”
“That’s usually enough for most people.”
“I’m not most people.”
No argument there.
I set down my notebook and walk toward him.
Kane faces the screen, ball held at his hip.
“Start the move.”
He takes one dribble.
Stops.
“Your stance is too high.”
“Fix it.”
“You have functioning knees.”
“Hannah.”
I step behind him.
His back fills my view.
Broad shoulders under thin cotton. Narrow waist. The soft fabric of his sweats sitting low across his hips.
I place one hand against his side.
Kane goes rigid.
“Relax.”
“You touched me.”
“I’m correcting you.”
“Still counts.”
My palm warms through his shirt.
I set the other hand on his opposite hip.
His breath leaves slowly.
I shift him a fraction to the left.
“Your weight needs to stay centered longer.”
“Like this?”
“No.”
I press closer to move him.
His back brushes my chest.
Every thought disappears.
Kane’s hands remain on the ball.
He doesn’t turn.
Doesn’t reach behind him.
Doesn’t take advantage of the way I’ve stepped into his space.
My fingers tighten at his waist.
His voice drops.
“You’re tense.”
“You’re doing it wrong.”
“Then keep working.”
I slide one hand up his side, stopping beneath his ribs.
“Close your shoulder.”
He obeys.
My other palm moves to his forearm. I guide the ball lower, adjusting his wrist.
“Take the extra dribble before you gather.”
“You smell different.”
The comment grazes across my skin.
“What?”
“Vanilla.”
“I changed shampoo.”
“Why?”
“I bought what was on sale.”
“Prefer the almonds.”
I move around him before my face gives me away.
“Again.”
Kane resets.
This time his stance stays low. He drives left, protects the ball, and finishes the imaginary move.
“Better,” I say.
He turns.
We’re standing too close.
The ball rests against his hip. One of my hands is still on his arm.
His gaze drops to it.
I let go.
He doesn’t follow.
“You’re being strange,” I say.
“I’m standing.”
“You usually find reasons to touch me.”
“You complained.”
“I noticed.”
His eyes return to mine.
“You miss it?”
“No.”
“Then there’s no problem.”
He moves toward the rack.
I hate him.
I hate the open space when he steps away more.
Kane returns without the ball.
“Your turn.”
“I don’t play.”
“You can still learn the movement.”
“I know the movement.”
“Prove it.”
“You enjoy saying that.”
“It works.”
I take the ball from him.
His fingers brush mine.
Accidental.
Brief.
Enough to send heat into my palm.
I move into position.
Kane circles behind me.
My shoulders tighten.
He stops.
“Can I touch you?”
The question steals my next breath.
I glance over my shoulder.
His hands hang at his sides.
He waits.
“You didn’t ask in the car.”
“I should have.”
“You didn’t ask at my dorm.”
“I gave you time to stop me.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“I know.”
His expression doesn’t defend it.
He simply waits for my answer.
I look toward the open door.
Then at the screen reflecting both of us in black glass.
“Yes.”
Kane doesn’t move.
“Was that unclear?”
“Say what you’re agreeing to.”
My pulse climbs.
“You can correct my stance.”
“Thank you.”
His hands settle on my hips.
Warm.
Large.
Careful.
Every nerve beneath my sweater wakes at once.
He shifts me back.
“Feet wider.”
“They’re fine.”
“They’re too close.”
“I’m short.”
“Not an excuse.”
I widen my stance.
Kane steps nearer.
His chest hovers behind my back. The heat of him surrounds me without fully touching.
He lowers his mouth toward my ear.
“Stay balanced.”
“I know.”
“You’re leaning.”
“You’re crowding me.”
“You said I could correct you.”
His thumbs press lightly into my waist.
Nothing improper.
Nothing I can accuse him of wanting.
My body doesn’t care.
He guides my right hip back.
“Now drive.”
I take one step.
Kane moves with me.
“Keep the ball protected.”
His hand slides from my hip to my forearm.
My breath catches.
He freezes.
“Still okay?”
The room goes silent around the question.
“Yes.”
His palm travels to my wrist.
He lowers the ball and brings my elbow closer to my body.
“Don’t show it before you decide.”
His breath warms the side of my neck.
I turn my face.
Kane is inches away.
Brown eyes.
Parted lips.
A faint pulse moving in his jaw.
He wants to kiss me.
I see it.
Feel it in the way his fingers tighten once around my wrist.
Then he releases me and steps back.
Cold air takes his place.
“That’s the movement.”
I stare at him.
“That’s it?”
His brows lift.
“What else did you expect?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
I place the ball on the table too hard.
It rolls, hits a stack of folders, and falls to the carpet.
Kane catches it before it reaches the chairs.
“Clumsy.”
“Annoying.”
“Distracted.”
“Arrogant.”
“Interested.”
The word hangs between us.
He sets the ball aside.
I look at the clock.
“Our hour is up.”
“We have six minutes.”
“I’m donating them.”
I shove my notebook into my bag.