Chapter 17 #4
The story isn’t finished.
“Once it became obvious I wasn’t getting taller and I wasn’t going to have the athleticism to make up for it, that dream died.”
“For him.”
She glances at me.
“Exactly.”
Not for her.
For him.
“He stopped teaching me.”
My chest tightens.
“I still learned. I watched. I listened. I sat in that stupid lounge every day.”
“I know.”
“Eventually he realized I could help.”
Her laugh has no humor in it.
“Not play. Help.”
Stats.
Film.
Schedules.
Notes.
Players.
All the invisible things she understands better than anyone I know.
“I became his little protégé. His secretary. His extra brain.”
“Hannah—”
“He loved me.”
She says it quickly.
“I know he did.”
There’s the complication.
Love doesn’t erase damage.
“He just could never give up the dream.”
Her eyes turn toward the lights again.
“If he couldn’t build it through me, he would build it around me.”
The gym.
The program.
The boys.
“And eventually he decided I would help him run it.”
I remember what she told me.
MBA.
Business side.
Her future already designed.
“He never asked?”
She shakes her head.
“Not once.”
Anger moves through me.
Not the explosive kind.
The slower kind.
“He never asked whether I had dreams of my own.”
I study her profile.
The glasses.
The dark hair lifting slightly in the wind.
The girl who crossed the country because she needed enough distance to hear herself think.
“What are they?”
She turns.
“What?”
“Your dreams.”
Hannah blinks.
“I don’t know yet.”
“That’s allowed.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah.”
I nudge my knee against hers.
“You’re eighteen.”
“Almost nineteen.”
“Ancient.”
“Watch yourself.”
“You’re smart as hell, Hannah.”
Her expression shifts.
“You’ll figure it out.”
She looks at me for another second.
Then that dry little smile returns.
“So maybe you’ll hire me for your school.”
I stare at her.
“Hire you?”
“When you’re an NBA billionaire running your benevolent educational empire.”
“Billionaire?”
“You aim high.”
“I like this version.”
She lifts one shoulder.
“I have administrative experience.”
“Strong basketball background.”
“Extensive.”
“Terrible attitude.”
“Discrimination.”
“Candy dependency.”
“Medical condition.”
I laugh.
Then slide closer.
Our thighs touch.
Hannah notices.
Doesn’t move.
“You never know.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“It’s our first date.”
I let my gaze drop to her mouth.
“I think it’s going pretty well so far.”
Her breath changes.
Tiny.
There.
I lift my hand.
Slowly.
Hannah watches it come.
No flinch.
No retreat.
My palm settles against her cheek.
Warm skin.
Soft.
My thumb traces once beneath her glasses.
“You okay?”
She nods.
Not enough.
I wait.
Her eyes hold mine.
“Yes.”
I lean in.
No urgency this time.
No frustration.
No proving anything.
My mouth touches hers softly.
Hannah inhales against me.
Her fingers curl into the front of my sweater.
I kiss her again.
Slow.
Her lips part beneath mine, and something inside me pulls tight.
I could deepen it.
I want to.
Instead, I keep my hand against her cheek and let the kiss stay exactly what it is.
Tender.
Chosen.
Hannah moves closer.
Her knee slides between mine.
The smallest sound leaves her when my thumb brushes along her jaw.
That almost destroys my restraint.
Almost.
I pull back an inch.
Her eyes stay closed.
“Still going well?” I whisper.
They open slowly.
Gray behind tortoiseshell.
Warm.
Uncertain.
Happy.
“Ask me after the second date.”
I smile.
“So there’s a second date?”
Her cheeks turn pink.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I said ask me.”
“Friday?”
“Kane.”
“Saturday?”
She laughs.
I kiss the corner of her mouth.
“Sunday?”
“You’re ruining the moment.”
“You like me.”
“I’m reconsidering.”
I pull her closer until her shoulder settles against my chest.
This time my arm goes around her.
Hannah lets it.
We sit on the tailgate looking over thousands of lights that belong to people who have no idea we’re up here.
No cameras.
No teammates.
No scouts.
No basketball.
Just Hannah.
For once, I don’t need the night to lead anywhere else.
I already know where I want to be.
I stop smiling.
Because suddenly the joke isn’t enough.
Not after everything she just told me.
Not after the little girl who only ever wanted her father to see her finally admitted he never once asked what she wanted.
Not after she listened to every ugly, awkward piece of my past and never once looked at me like it made me less.
Hannah looks back toward the lights.
A dark strand of hair blows across her cheek.
I reach for it without thinking.
My fingers catch the soft strand and tuck it behind her ear, but I don’t pull my hand away. The skin beneath my knuckles is warm and impossibly smooth—softer than anything has a right to be. She turns into my palm almost without realizing it, like her body already knows where it belongs.
That tiny movement wrecks me.
“Hannah.”
Her eyes lift.
No argument waiting.
No smart answer.
Just her.
I drag my thumb slowly beneath the edge of her glasses, tracing the delicate curve of her cheek. She smells like almonds and jasmine—warm, clean, faintly sweet—and it sinks straight into my chest.
“You know what I kept thinking while you were talking?”
“That you made a mistake bringing me somewhere without snacks?”
A laugh moves through me, low and rough, but it doesn’t break the moment.
“No.”
“What?”
“That somebody should’ve asked you.” My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to. “What you wanted. What you loved. What you were good at before anyone decided whether it was useful.”
Her lips part. Soft. Pink.
“Kane—”
“You spent your whole life seeing everybody else.”
Players.
Her father.
Me.
Every weakness before we could name it ourselves.
“Someone should’ve been looking back.”
Her eyes shine.
Not like the open mic.
This is different.
Quieter.
Closer.
She swallows.
“You are.”
Two words.
Barely louder than the wind.
Something opens inside my chest so wide it almost hurts.
All night I’ve been trying to show her I want Hannah without the basketball attached.
Now I realize that isn’t quite right.
I don’t want pieces of her separated into safe little categories.
The girl who knows my game.
The girl who loves old books.
The girl who coaches kids nobody else takes seriously.
The girl who gets scared and runs.
The girl who comes back anyway.
I want all of it.
Every soft, sharp, brilliant, terrified piece.
“You see me too,” I say.
Her brows draw together slightly.
“Probably more than you’d like.”
“No.” My thumb brushes her cheek again, slower this time. “More than anyone.”
Her breath catches.
I lean closer, then stop.
There’s barely an inch between us.
I could close it.
I don’t.
Not anymore.
Hannah looks at my mouth.
Then my eyes.
She knows exactly what I’m waiting for.
Her fingers slide into mine where my other hand rests on the tailgate.
She squeezes once.
“Kiss me, Kane.”
There it is.
No teasing.
No technicality.
No fear hiding behind another question.
Her choice.
My chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.
I bend toward her.
The first touch of my mouth against hers is soft.
So soft it barely feels like a kiss at first.
More like an answer.
Time stills.
The lights below us blur.
The wind goes quiet.
There is only the warm press of her lips—soft and pink and perfect—and the quiet sound she makes against my mouth.
Hannah exhales, a tiny, shaky breath that tastes like everything I’ve ever wanted.
Her hand rises and settles against my jaw.
I kiss her again.
Still slow.
Still careful.
But deeper somehow.
Not because of what our mouths are doing.
Because I know her now.
I know why she runs.
Why she watches people so closely.
Why being wanted scares her almost as much as being overlooked.
And she knows me.
Not Kane Haverhill on television.
Not the point guard.
Not the future contract.
The kid who couldn’t tie his shoes.
The boy on the cracked court trying to find one place where he was good enough.
She knows him.
And she’s kissing him.
Then she moves.
Her lips part against mine, teasing—pulling in just enough to make my breath catch, then easing back so the loss of her feels like a physical ache. She nips the full curve of my lower lip, soft and deliberate, and a low sound rumbles in my throat before I can stop it.
She smiles against my mouth.
Then her tongue slides against mine—first.
Before I can deepen it.
Before I can take.
The little librarian is phenomenal.
She kisses like she already knows every place that will undo me.
Slow, then deeper, then teasing again, drawing me after her until I’m chasing every soft, clever stroke of her tongue.
Her hands slide up into my hair, fingers twining against the nape of my neck, holding me exactly where she wants me.
A breathy little moan slips from her throat when I answer, and the sound goes straight through me.
Who knew the sexy little librarian was actually real?
My hand slides from her cheek into her hair, cradling the back of her head as she melts against me. No rush. I don’t need one. There’s nowhere else I want to get.
Her mouth moves against mine, tentative at first, then certain.
I feel the exact moment she stops thinking.
Her shoulders loosen.
She leans into me completely, soft and warm and smelling like almonds and jasmine, and I understand something I’ve spent most of my life getting wrong.
Winning has always meant taking the opening before someone else does.
Move first.
Push harder.
Get there before the door closes.
This isn’t that.
Hannah isn’t something to win.
She’s trusting me with the door.
I kiss her like I understand the difference.
Slow enough to feel her smile against my mouth.
Tender enough that when she finally pulls back, she doesn’t go far.
Her forehead settles against mine.
Neither of us speaks.
The lights stretch beneath us.
Her thumb moves once along my jaw.
I close my eyes.
For years, basketball was the place I went to feel worth something.
Tonight, sitting on the back of my truck with Hannah Goodwin breathing softly against me—lips still parted, fingers still tangled in my hair—I don’t need to prove a single thing.
She already sees me.