Chapter 20
Twenty
HANNAH
Dating Kane Haverhill is considerably less terrible than predicted.
This is inconvenient.
I had prepared for ego.
Drama.
Possessiveness.
Women throwing themselves at him in public places.
Cameras.
Gossip.
Several of those things happened.
The problem is Kane.
Kane is annoyingly good at being my boyfriend.
Three weeks after WaffleGate, I have been forced to revise the working hypothesis.
The internet has not helped.
The picture Vale posted of me kissing Kane beside a stack of chocolate-chip waffles escaped containment within eleven minutes.
By lunch, three campus accounts had reposted it.
By dinner, somebody had edited together a video beginning with the picture of me in the player section wearing my giant glasses, followed by clips from our seminar debate, the waffle kiss, and Kane staring at me during a game.
The caption:
HE FELL FOR THE BOOKWORM.
I considered deleting the internet.
Instead, I survived.
Then things became stranger.
Girls started wearing tortoiseshell glasses.
Not prescription glasses.
Fake ones.
Oversized.
Chunky.
One girl in my archaeology lecture paired hers with an enormous cream sweater, leggings, and a pack of Twizzlers tucked into her tote.
I stared at her for so long she finally noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She smiled.
“I love your glasses.”
“Thank you.”
“I bought these because of you.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
She laughed like I was joking.
I wasn’t.
The next week, a campus fashion account posted:
BOOKWORM CORE
Apparently I am now an aesthetic.
Lila treats this like vindication.
“You started a trend.”
“I have severe astigmatism.”
“Iconic astigmatism.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It is now.”
Noor is worse.
She keeps sending me pictures of women wearing oversized glasses with captions like:
HANNAH GOODWIN, YOUR IMPACT.
I have stopped opening them.
Mostly.
The truly alarming part is that I’m getting used to it.
Not the attention.
I still duck when somebody lifts a phone too quickly.
But I no longer hide behind Kane’s hoodie every time we cross the athlete quad together.
Sometimes I even hold his hand.
In public.
Reckless behavior.
The first time I did it, Kane looked down at our joined hands, then at me.
He didn’t say anything.
Which was smart.
His grin said enough.
* * *
The fall settles into a rhythm.
Classes.
Coaching.
Kane.
Repeat.
Sometimes Briar.
Mostly his place.
This is not because I have abandoned my roommates.
It is because Kane has a private bedroom, a king-size bed, blackout curtains, his own bathroom, and roommates who leave before sunrise for practice.
Briar has three women in one room, a radiator with anger issues, and Lila, who believes sleeping after nine in the morning is a moral failure.
I am making a rational housing decision.
That is all.
Kane disagrees.
“You like sleeping with me.”
“I like your mattress.”
“You spoon me.”
“The mattress does not generate body heat.”
“You kiss me before bed.”
“That’s unrelated.”
“You stole my pillow.”
“It has better support.”
He usually shuts up when I kiss him again.
Also useful.
We still haven’t had sex.
We’ve gotten close.
Very close.
There have been shirts on floors.
His.
Mine.
There has been one bra hanging from his desk lamp that Noah saw before I could retrieve it.
He did not let that go for nine days.
There have been hands.
Mouths.
Breathing that makes conversation impossible.
Moments where I have discovered exactly how much self-control Kane possesses.
And moments where I have discovered mine is considerably weaker.
Still, whenever I say stop, slow down, not yet—
he does.
No frustration.
No bargaining.
No wounded male performance.
He stops.
Every time.
That matters.
Enough that two weeks ago, I made an appointment at student health.
Not because Kane asked.
He didn’t.
I didn’t even tell him.
I sat through an appointment, answered questions that made me wish the floor would open, discussed contraception, side effects, effectiveness, and whether I felt safe in my relationship.
That last question caught me.
Do you feel safe with your partner?
I thought about Kane asking before touching me in the film room.
Waiting under the archway.
Stopping when I froze.
Putting on pajama pants because I was nervous.
Protecting my name from reporters.
Yes.
I circled it.
Then I started the pill.
Safety first.
Preparation is not intention.
It is simply excellent planning.
I have repeated this to myself every morning for seventeen days.
* * *
Krista is less enthusiastic about my relationship.
That is putting it politely.
Her current emotional state appears to fall somewhere between offended and homicidal.
I mostly avoid her.
Stanford is large.
This should be possible.
Apparently Krista has developed tracking abilities.
She corners me on a Tuesday afternoon outside the athlete laundry room.
I’m carrying Kane’s hoodie and two towels because I made the mistake of offering to move his laundry while he met with a trainer.
The door swings shut behind me.
Krista stands against the opposite wall.
Arms folded.
Running tights.
Tiny tank.
Perfect ponytail.
She looks at the hoodie in my arms.
Then at me.
“You practically live here now.”
“Good afternoon to you too.”
Her jaw tightens.
“What do you have?”
I blink.
“Laundry?”
“What do you have that I don’t?”
There it is.
Not sadness.
Not confusion.
Venom.
I shift the towels higher.
“Krista.”
“No. Seriously.”
She steps closer.
“What is it?”
I say nothing.
“I’m faster.”
This is a strange opening argument.
“Agreed.”
“I'm more athletic.”
“Also agreed.”
“People know who I am.”
“I know who you are.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do.
That is the problem.
She looks at my oversized Stanford sweatshirt, worn jeans, and glasses.
Then laughs once.
“You don’t even try.”
There’s so much bitterness in it that I almost feel sorry for her.
Almost.
“Kane never asked me to compete with you.”
Her expression hardens.
“He didn’t need to.”
“Yes, he did.”
She stares.
I tighten my grip on the laundry.
“Because whatever competition you think exists is happening entirely inside your head.”
“What does he see in you?”
I could answer.
Basketball.
Books.
Arguments.
Twizzlers.
My terrible pajamas.
The fact that he once kissed my forehead after I panicked and thought that mattered more than anything else we’d done.
Instead, I say the only thing that matters.
“You should ask him.”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m not auditioning.”
Her eyes narrow.
I step around her.
She catches my arm.
Not hard.
Enough.
I stop.
Look down.
Then at her.
“Let go.”
Something in my face must convince her.
Her hand drops.
“Don’t touch me again.”
Krista looks away.
For the first time, the anger slips.
Something raw sits beneath it.
“You think he’s serious about you?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
That surprises both of us.
I keep going before fear can revise the answer.
“And I’m serious about him.”
Her face closes.
“Good luck.”
I pick up Kane’s hoodie where it slipped.
“Thanks.”
She walks away.
I stand alone beside the laundry room for several seconds.
My hands are shaking.
Still, I smile.
Because I meant it.
* * *
My second job begins by accident.
Technically.
The boys need academic tutors.
Technically.
Eli is taking introductory anthropology next semester.
Technically.
So are Noah, Jalen, and two other members of the team.
This is not suspicious at all.
“You all enrolled in anthropology?” I ask.
Eli looks innocent.
“Yes.”
“Together.”
“We value community.”
“You hate reading.”
“I’m growing.”
Noah nods.
“Personal development.”
Kane leans against the kitchen counter trying not to laugh.
I point at him.
“You were involved.”
“No.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I have a face.”
I hate that everyone has stolen that line.
The arrangement is legitimate enough.
Student-athlete services needs tutors who can travel occasionally when teams miss class.
I qualify.
My grades are strong.
I’m already working in the department.
I know the introductory material.
And the extra pay beats washing stockpots until I remove another layer of skin.
So now I have a badge.
A travel schedule.
A tutoring stipend.
And absolutely no official responsibility for explaining to five Division I basketball players why their hips open too early on closeouts.
That part remains underground.
Kane calls me their black-market coaching operation.
Vale calls me Intelligence.
Noah wanted to call the group chat Bookworm Analytics.
I threatened violence.
We settled on Study Group.
Subtle.
I travel twice in November.
It is strange.
Team bus.
Hotels.
Study rooms.
Road games.
I sit in the stands with my laptop and pretend to annotate anthropology readings while quietly keeping notes about possessions.
After games, the texts start.
Vale: What did you see?
Noah: Be gentle.
Eli: Don’t answer Noah first.
Kane: Ignore all of them.
Then:
Kane: Tell me mine privately.
Dating a basketball player has not removed basketball from my life.
It has changed who controls the door.
That makes all the difference.
* * *
Dad texts two weeks before Thanksgiving.
Dad: Got your flight.
I stare at the message.
Then:
Dad: Wednesday afternoon. Chicago. Your mother already bought too much food.
My chest tightens.
We’re better now.
We talk every Sunday.
He asks about my classes.
I send him clips from the boys’ games.
He occasionally disagrees with my defensive schemes and then acts shocked when I refuse to change them.
It almost feels normal.
Almost.
I type.
Me: I can’t come Thanksgiving.
His answer comes quickly.
Dad: Why?
I look toward the study room.
Kane sits at a table across from me with headphones around his neck, pretending to read while watching me over the top of his laptop.
Vale is asleep on a couch.
Noah and Eli are arguing quietly over a quiz question.
Tomorrow we leave for a road tournament.
No real Thanksgiving break.
Not for them.
And, apparently, not for me.
Me: Work.
Three dots.
Dad: On Thanksgiving?
Me: Travel tutoring. The hours are good.
Not a lie.
Just missing several important details.
Dad: I thought you worked with the kids.
Me: I do both.
Dad: Christmas then.
I pause.
Me: Christmas.
The word looks like a promise.
Dad sends a thumbs-up.
Then: