Chapter 21 #2
“I don't see your name on today's camp list.”
I blink.
“What?”
“Winter skills camp.”
He points toward the entrance.
“Sixty-five dollars.”
A few boys laugh.
I shove my gloves into my coat pocket.
“I'm good for it, old man.”
Silence.
His eyebrows rise.
“Did you just call me old man?”
I walk closer.
“Maybe someday future father-in-law.”
All color leaves his face.
Beautiful.
The whistle goes into his mouth.
One sharp blast.
“Water!”
Thirty boys scatter.
Then he points toward the office.
“Haverhill.”
I grin.
“Yeah?”
“Office. Now.”
This is going well.
* * *
Coach Goodwin shuts the door behind us.
His office is exactly what I'd expect.
Whiteboard.
Game schedules.
Two filing cabinets.
Old team pictures.
A shelf filled with basketball books.
Hannah is in several photographs.
Usually at the edge.
Never wearing a uniform.
Laptop.
Clipboard.
Book in her lap.
Always watching.
I take the chair across from his desk.
Coach Goodwin doesn't sit immediately.
He looks at me.
Then at his phone.
Then at me again.
“Does Hannah know you're here?”
“No.”
His eyebrows rise.
“You flew across the country without telling my daughter?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds questionable.”
“It is questionable.”
“Fair.”
He finally sits.
“Why?”
There it is.
I could bullshit him.
Talk about wanting to surprise her.
Christmas.
Young love.
Instead, I tell him the truth.
“Because she wouldn't bring me.”
His expression barely changes.
“I know.”
That catches me.
“You know?”
“She told us she's seeing someone.”
I lean back.
“She told you?”
“Her mother extracted details.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“I know it's basketball.”
I pause.
“How?”
“Hannah's mother is not subtle.”
“Did she tell you who?”
“No.”
He studies me.
“I figured you or Vale.”
My entire body tightens.
“Vale?”
“I watch Stanford.”
“Don't even get me started on Vale.”
For the first time, Coach Goodwin smiles.
Tiny.
Gone immediately.
“I saw the way she talked about your team.”
“What way?”
“Like she was trying very hard not to talk about your team.”
Fair.
He folds his arms.
“So why wouldn't she bring you home?”
I look toward the photographs.
One catches my attention.
Hannah at maybe fifteen.
Tortoiseshell glasses.
Hair in a ponytail.
Sitting behind the bench with a notebook while ten boys stand in front of her.
“She thinks you wouldn't see her if I walked through your door.”
Coach Goodwin goes still.
I continue before I lose my nerve.
“She thinks you'd see me.”
His jaw shifts.
“The player.”
“Yes, sir.”
Silence.
I look directly at him.
“I don't mean that disrespectfully.”
“Sounds disrespectful.”
“She loves you.”
That stops him.
“More than you understand.”
His eyes move toward the picture.
I know I'm pushing.
I didn't fly here to be polite.
“I think you missed a lot.”
His gaze snaps back.
“Careful.”
“I am.”
I lean forward.
“I think you might have missed how cool your daughter is.”
His face changes.
Not anger exactly.
Something heavier.
“You think I don't know my daughter?”
“I think you know the version who sat in your gym.”
That lands.
I keep going.
“She reads weird books for fun.”
His mouth twitches.
“She buys used books that smell like basements because apparently that adds character.”
A little more.
“She eats enough Twizzlers to qualify for medical research. She watches terrible movies just so she can complain about the historical inaccuracies.”
Coach Goodwin looks down.
“She irons sheets.”
His head comes up.
“What?”
“Yeah. I don't understand it either.”
A reluctant laugh escapes him.
There.
“I met her in class.”
I sit back.
“She didn't tell me who she was.”
“What does that mean?”
“She gave me a fake name.”
His eyes narrow.
“What name?”
“Sandy.”
He stares.
“Why Sandy?”
“No clue.”
“Hannah hates the name Sandy.”
“That makes this worse.”
He almost smiles again.
“She didn't tell me about you. Didn't tell me she knew basketball. Didn't tell me anything that could have helped me.”
His face gets serious.
“I liked her before I knew.”
“You're telling me you didn't give a shit when you found out what she could do for your game?”
I laugh.
“Oh, she gave me plenty of shit about my game, sir.”
Coach Goodwin's mouth twitches.
“I figured.”
“She still does.”
“Your left-side reads improved.”
There it is.
I point at him.
“No basketball.”
He blinks.
“What?”
“That's why I'm here.”
I put both hands on my knees.
“This game can kill you a thousand different ways.”
He goes quiet.
“You know that better than anybody.”
A slow nod.
“You can love it. Hate it. Try to leave it. Doesn't matter.”
I glance toward the court.
“It's in my blood.”
Then back at him.
“But Hannah's in my blood now too.”
Something shifts in his expression.
I swallow.
“I love your daughter.”
First time I've said it to anyone but myself.
Not falling.
Not almost.
Love.
“I love her.”
Coach Goodwin says nothing.
“I don't want to spend Christmas without her.”
My voice comes out rougher than intended.
“But I also don't want her spending Christmas worried that if she brings me into your house, she disappears again.”
His eyes drop.
That's the wound.
I found it.
Good.
“She wants you, Coach.”
His face tightens.
“She always did.”
The office goes quiet.
I look at the old photograph again.
“That girl sitting behind your bench?”
He follows my gaze.
“She didn't want your program.”
His throat moves.
“She wanted you.”
“I know.”
Barely audible.
That matters more than I expected.
He rubs one hand over his face.
“I know that now.”
I let the silence sit.
Then lean back.
“So here's what I'm asking.”
His eyebrows rise.
“I'm listening.”
“I want to stay for Christmas.”
“With us.”
“If you'll have me.”
“And Hannah knows?”
“No.”
“That part still bothers me.”
“Same.”
His mouth almost moves.
“But there are conditions.”
He stares.
“You came into my gym unregistered, called me old man, suggested you might become my son-in-law, and now you're giving me conditions?”
“When you say it all together, it sounds aggressive.”
“It is aggressive.”
“Still.”
I hold up one finger.
“No game film.”
His eyes narrow.
“Excuse me?”
“No draft talk.”
Another finger.
“No asking me about Stanford's offense.”
Another.
“No turning dinner into an interrogation about my shooting percentage.”
“This is my house.”
“Exactly.”
I lean forward.
“It needs to be about her.”
That shuts him up.
“I want to know her mom.”
My voice softens.
“I want to see her bedroom and whatever embarrassing childhood pictures she hasn't destroyed.”
“That collection is extensive.”
“Perfect.”
“I want to play Uno.”
He stares.
“Uno.”
“Checkers.”
“You play checkers?”
“No idea. I'll learn.”
His mouth twitches.
“Hallmark movies.”
Now he laughs.
A real laugh.
“You?”
“For Hannah.”
“She's going to torture you.”
“I expect it.”
I look directly at him.
“I want Christmas with your family. I want all of it. But I don't want to be the coolest thing that happened to you this holiday.”
The laughter disappears.
“Hannah should be.”
Coach Goodwin sits very still.
Then looks at the photographs again.
Several seconds pass.
Finally:
“You really love her.”
“Yeah.”
“You think she's the one?”
No hesitation.
“Yes.”
That surprises him.
Maybe me too.
I don't take it back.
Coach Goodwin leans against his chair.
“You're twenty.”
“I know.”
“You've known her a few months.”
“I know that too.”
“You're headed toward the NBA.”
“Hopefully.”
“Everything in your life could change in six months.”
“Probably will.”
“And you still think Hannah's the one.”
“I don't know where I'll play.”
I think about her sleeping in my bed.
Coaching those kids.
Laughing at sourdough poetry.
Standing in my kitchen making waffles.
“I know who I want beside me.”
Coach Goodwin looks at me for a long time.
Then exhales.
“You've got balls coming in here.”
“So I've been told.”
“She's going to be furious.”
“Also been told.”
He pushes himself up.
For one terrible second, I think I'm being thrown out.
Instead, he extends his hand.
I take it.
His grip is strong.
“Christmas Eve dinner is six.”
Relief hits.
“I'm in?”
“You're in.”
I grin.
“Thank you, sir.”
His hand tightens before releasing mine.
“One condition.”
“What's that?”
He nods toward the court.
“You're finishing my camp.”
I look through the office window.
Thirty kids are pretending not to stare.
“Hell yeah.”
“And you're paying the sixty-five dollars.”
I laugh.
“Seriously?”
“Rules are rules.”
“I'll Venmo you.”
“Cash.”
“You're enjoying this.”
“A little.”
He opens the door.
I follow.
Then he stops.
“Haverhill.”
“Yeah?”
“You think she's better than me?”
“At what?”
“Coaching.”
I grin.
“Guess we're about to find out.”
His eyes narrow.
“Don't get cute.”
“Future father-in-law.”
The whistle comes up.
“You're running first.”
Worth it.
* * *
By the time I reach Hannah's house, snow is falling again.
Big flakes.
The kind that stick to my coat and disappear against Coach Goodwin's shoulders while we climb the front steps.
I've been at his camp for four hours.
Four.
He made me pay sixty-five dollars.
Then used me as a demonstration dummy for twelve-year-olds.
I like him.
This is concerning.
He unlocks the door.
Warm air rolls out.
So does music.
Christmas music.
Somewhere deeper in the house, a woman laughs.
Then Hannah.
I stop.
Her voice does something to me before I even see her.
Coach Goodwin glances over.
“Still time to run.”
“No chance.”
He smiles.
“Good answer.”
We step inside.
The house smells like sugar, cinnamon, and something baking.
Family pictures line the wall.
Hannah at five.
Hannah missing a front tooth.
Hannah in glasses too large for her face.
Hannah holding a basketball almost as big as her torso.
I stop.
Coach Goodwin follows my gaze.
“She hated that picture.”
“I need a copy.”
“You're growing on me.”
A woman appears from the kitchen.
Hannah's mom.
I know immediately.
Same eyes.
Same mouth.
She sees her husband.
Then me.
Her hand flies to her chest.
“Oh.”
Coach Goodwin grins.
“Surprise.”
Her eyes widen.
She looks like she's trying not to scream.
Then footsteps rush toward us.
“Dad, did you bring the extra—”
Hannah rounds the corner.
Stops.
Everything in me lights up.
Red sweater.
Jeans.
Glasses.
Hair piled loosely on top of her head.
Flour on her cheek.