Chapter 21
Twenty-One
KANE
Christmas without Hannah is bullshit.
There.
Holiday spirit achieved.
My mother has spent forty-eight hours trying to convince me otherwise.
She baked enough cookies to supply a preschool.
Dad dragged three plastic tubs of decorations from the attic.
There’s a tree in the living room, garland around the staircase, lights across the porch, and some ceramic village my mother rearranges every December like tiny porcelain people have zoning disputes.
I’m home.
I should be happy.
Instead, I’ve checked my phone eleven times during breakfast.
Mom sets a plate of cinnamon rolls in front of me.
“You’re pathetic.”
I look up.
“Merry Christmas to you too.”
“You haven't heard a word I've said.”
“I heard cinnamon rolls.”
“What did I say before that?”
I take one.
“Something loving and maternal.”
Dad laughs behind his coffee.
Mom points at me.
“Hannah.”
That gets my attention.
“What about her?”
“Exactly.”
I tear off a piece of cinnamon roll.
“I miss her.”
Mom’s expression softens immediately.
“Then tell us about her.”
They've heard pieces.
A freshman.
Archaeology.
Chicago.
Glasses.
Smart enough to terrify half my basketball team.
They do not know all of it.
So I tell them.
The beach.
Sandy.
The giant tortoiseshell frames.
How she looked horrified when she found out I played basketball.
Dad laughs.
“She gave you a fake name?”
“Several versions of one.”
“What were the others?”
“Hannah Banana came later.”
Mom smiles.
“You call her that?”
“Absolutely not. I enjoy living.”
I tell them about the seminar.
Her stealing my seat.
Her calling out the flaw in my game before anyone else explained it in a way that clicked.
Following her.
Dad interrupts.
“You followed a freshman girl across campus?”
“It sounds worse when you say it.”
“It sounds bad when you say it.”
“I know.”
Mom points at Dad.
“Let him finish.”
I tell them about the gym.
Her kids.
How she walked onto that court and became someone else.
No.
Not someone else.
More herself.
Then the part that matters.
Ryan.
Her father.
The years Hannah spent sitting in a gym because she wanted her dad’s attention and he mistook that loyalty for a shared dream.
How Ryan used her to get closer to Coach Goodwin.
How she came to Stanford already convinced every athlete eventually wanted something.
Mom’s smile disappears.
“Oh, honey.”
“She hates when people pity her.”
“I’m not pitying her.”
“I know.”
Dad leans back in his chair.
“So her father never realized what was happening?”
“Not then.”
“And now?”
“They’re trying.”
I tell them about Thanksgiving.
The disastrous turkey.
The diner.
The tutoring arrangement.
The fact that half the team now texts Hannah after games like she's a private basketball emergency hotline.
Dad laughs.
“You don't like that.”
“I hate it.”
“Because they take advantage?”
“Because Eli asked her to date him.”
Mom nearly spits out her coffee.
“What?”
“He was kidding.”
“Was he?”
“I threatened him.”
“That sounds healthy.”
“It works for us.”
I take another bite.
Then get quieter.
“She went home for Christmas because she wants to fix things with her dad.”
Mom watches me.
“And you let her.”
“She asked me not to come.”
Dad looks over the rim of his cup.
“Why?”
I hate how quickly the answer comes.
“Because he'd stop seeing her.”
Neither parent says anything.
I stare down at the icing melting across my plate.
“If I walk into Coach Goodwin's house, I know what happens.”
Dad nods.
“He knows you.”
“He knows Kane Haverhill.”
“Different thing.”
“Exactly.”
I push the plate away.
“She said I'd be the present under the tree he'd always wanted.”
Mom winces.
“And she's probably right.”
“Yeah.”
“She isn't ashamed of you.”
“No.”
“I didn't think she was.”
“She just wants one Christmas where he asks about her classes instead of my assist numbers.”
Dad puts his cup down.
“So make sure that's what happens.”
I look at him.
“How?”
He shrugs like it's obvious.
“You go meet the man.”
I laugh.
“That is literally the opposite of what she asked me to do.”
“No. She asked you not to show up at Christmas and let basketball swallow her family again.”
“That sounds a lot like don't come.”
“Then don't show up as the basketball player.”
I stare at him.
Dad leans forward.
“Go to his gym.”
“What?”
“Man to man.”
Mom is already smiling.
I point at both of them.
“This feels like a trap.”
Dad ignores me.
“You go to his gym. You tell him you're in love with his daughter. You tell him why.”
“I am not telling Coach Goodwin our entire relationship.”
“You don't have to.”
He folds his arms.
“Tell him it isn't about her basketball knowledge. Tell him you want to spend Christmas with Hannah and her family, but you're not willing to do it if your presence turns the holiday into a three-day film session.”
I stare.
Dad continues.
“Make him understand the rules before you walk into that house.”
“Rules.”
“Yeah.”
“You want me to give my girlfriend's father rules about Christmas in his own house.”
“You're scared.”
“I am not.”
“You look scared.”
Mom smiles into her coffee.
“He looks terrified.”
I point at Dad.
“She is going to kill me.”
Mom reaches across the table and pats my wrist.
“No.”
“She specifically said—”
“She’s going to understand why you did it.”
“You have not met Hannah.”
“I don't need to.”
Mom's expression turns serious.
“You aren't forcing yourself into her holiday, Kane. You're trying to fix the part she doesn't know how to bridge.”
That shuts me up.
Dad nods.
“She shouldn't have to choose between the man she loves and repairing things with her father.”
The man she loves.
The words hit differently every time.
Mom smiles.
“Go.”
I look between them.
“This is a terrible idea.”
Dad lifts his coffee.
“Probably.”
I stand.
Mom's face lights.
“Are you going?”
“No.”
I pull out my phone.
“I’m checking flights.”
Dad grins.
“That's my boy.”
Chicago is trying to kill me.
This cannot be normal.
The second the airport doors open, cold punches through my coat like it has a personal issue with California.
“Fuck.”
A woman passing with two suitcases looks at me.
“First winter?”
“That obvious?”
She laughs and keeps walking.
I buy another pair of gloves before leaving the terminal.
I am already wearing gloves.
Apparently Chicago requires backup gloves.
Then a beanie.
Then hand warmers from a kiosk because the guy behind the counter sees my face and says, “You’re going to need these.”
Hannah finds this hilarious.
She has no idea I'm here.
We've been texting all morning.
Hannah: Mom made me decorate six dozen sugar cookies.
A picture follows.
She is standing at a kitchen island wearing a red sweater, glasses, and flour on one cheek.
My chest immediately aches.
Me: You look domestic.
Hannah: Never say that again.
Me: Cute though.
Hannah: Better.
Another picture.
A tray of snowmen.
One appears to have suffered severe facial trauma.
Me: What happened to that one?
Hannah: Dad decorated it.
Me: He should stay with basketball.
Three dots.
Then:
Hannah: We talked last night.
I stare at the message from the back seat of a rideshare heading toward the address I looked up before leaving California.
Me: Yeah?
Hannah: Really talked.
I wait.
Hannah: It was good.
Then:
Hannah: Not fixed. But good.
Relief moves through me.
Me: I'm glad.
Hannah: He apologized again. I told him more about Ryan.
That one surprises me.
Me: How'd he take it?
Hannah: Quiet.
A minute later:
Hannah: Then he went into the garage for twenty minutes. Mom says that's where he goes when he's trying not to cry.
I look out the window.
Snow covers everything.
Roofs.
Cars.
Lawns.
Tree branches.
A white Christmas.
I never understood why people cared.
California Christmas means mild air, palm trees, and my mother complaining that holiday music sounds wrong when it's seventy degrees.
This looks like a Christmas card.
If Christmas cards could cause frostbite.
Me: Snow is kind of magical.
Hannah: You're saying that because you don't have to shovel it.
I smile.
She still thinks I'm three thousand miles away.
Me: Send more pictures.
Hannah: Needy.
Me: Your boyfriend misses you.
A pause.
Hannah: Your girlfriend misses you too.
I close my eyes for half a second.
Worth the frozen toes.
* * *
The gym is exactly how Hannah described it.
Old brick school.
Blue double doors.
Parking lot lined with dirty snowbanks.
The hallway smells like floor wax and old heat.
I can hear basketballs before I see the court.
Bounce.
Whistle.
Sneakers.
A man's voice cutting across the noise.
“Again. Strong hand through the finish.”
Coach Goodwin.
I stop outside the doors.
This suddenly feels much less intelligent than it did in my parents' kitchen.
Too late.
I open them.
The gym looks like it has existed since basketball involved peach baskets.
Blue bleachers.
Old championship banners.
Scuffed hardwood.
Maybe thirty boys spread across three baskets wearing camp shirts.
Parents sit high in the stands.
Coach Goodwin stands near half court with a whistle around his neck.
Hannah isn't here.
I knew she wouldn't be.
She's home destroying snowman cookies with her mother.
Good.
I can do this without her stopping me.
I unzip my coat.
Then another layer.
Then the Stanford hoodie underneath.
I peel off my beanie.
Gloves.
Scarf.
It takes long enough that a kid on the nearest court starts watching me.
Then another.
Recognition moves across his face.
His eyes widen.
“Yo.”
I hold one finger to my mouth.
Too late.
“YO.”
Several heads turn.
“Kane Haverhill?”
A basketball rolls away unnoticed.
“That's Haverhill.”
“No way.”
Phones start coming out.
I raise both hands.
“Put them away.”
Nobody moves.
“Seriously. No pictures.”
Something in my voice must work.
One by one, screens disappear.
A kid shoves his phone into his pocket.
Another sits on his.
Smart.
Coach Goodwin hears the commotion.
Turns.
His eyes find me.
He doesn't react immediately.
Just looks.
Head to toe.
Taking inventory.
I know that look.
Hannah does the same thing when she's analyzing a possession.
Then recognition lands.
“Kane Haverhill.”
I grin.
“Coach.”
His gaze shifts toward the registration table.
Then back to me.