Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
HANNAH- TWO YEARS LATER
I know Stanford has won the national championship when six very large men stop behaving like human beings.
The horn sounds.
Red explodes around me.
Confetti.
Screaming.
Bodies pouring onto the court.
I barely get one foot over the barrier before Noah sees me.
His eyes widen.
“Oh, no.”
I point at him.
“Do not—”
Too late.
He grabs me around the waist and lifts.
“Noah!”
“GET HER.”
That is apparently the command.
Eli appears from nowhere.
Then Jalen.
Vale barrels toward us still wearing half his uniform, hair soaked with sweat, championship hat crooked on his head.
Suddenly my feet aren't touching anything.
“Put me down!”
Nobody listens.
Naturally.
The five of them carry me onto the court above their heads like I personally scored the winning basket.
“BOOKWORM.”
“SECRET WEAPON.”
“WE DID IT.”
“I DID NOTHING.”
Vale looks up at me.
“Lies.”
“I wrote anthropology study guides.”
“And told me to stop admiring my first rebound.”
“You were still doing it!”
“I fixed it!”
The cameras are everywhere.
Two years ago I would have panicked.
Hidden.
Demanded somebody put me down before the internet got another picture.
Tonight?
I throw both arms over my head.
The crowd roars.
I laugh so hard my glasses start sliding down my nose.
Then Kane reaches us.
Everything else disappears.
Championship hat backward.
Net hanging around his neck.
Eyes bright.
That smile.
Mine.
“Give me my girl.”
Noah clutches me tighter.
“No.”
Kane points at him.
“I will end you.”
“We won.”
“I don't care.”
Vale steps between them.
“Shared custody.”
“I hate all of you.”
I reach toward Kane.
“Get me down, Haverhill.”
His whole face softens.
There it is.
Even now.
Thousands of people.
Cameras.
The biggest night of his career.
He still checks me first.
They lower me.
The second my sneakers touch hardwood, Kane pulls me against him.
His arms lock around my waist.
Mine go around his neck.
“You did it.”
His forehead drops to mine.
“We did it.”
“No. You did.”
“You were there.”
His voice turns quieter beneath the chaos.
“Every part.”
My chest tightens.
Then Vale crashes into us.
“Group hug.”
“No.”
Too late.
Everybody piles on.
Again.
* * *
The afterparty is worse.
Much worse.
Someone has champagne.
I don't ask how.
I am twenty now and still surrounded by men who require supervision.
I walk through the hotel ballroom carrying my shoes because my feet gave up an hour ago.
The team spots me.
Mistake.
Noah grabs a bottle.
I freeze.
“No.”
His grin spreads.
“Don't.”
“Bookworm.”
“Noah.”
The cork pops.
I run.
Champagne hits me directly between the shoulder blades.
I scream.
Then everybody joins in.
Cold bubbles soak my hair.
My dress.
My glasses.
Vale catches me around the waist when I try to escape.
“You traitor!”
“Champions don't run.”
“I'M NOT ON THE TEAM.”
“You've been secretly coaching us for two years.”
“Consulting.”
Another spray catches my face.
I rip off my glasses.
“My lenses!”
Eli takes them.
“I've got them.”
“Protect those with your life.”
“I know.”
Kane appears through the crowd.
He takes one look at me.
Soaked.
Barefoot.
Hair dripping.
And starts laughing.
I stare at him.
“You.”
“What did I do?”
“Control your animals.”
“They're champions.”
“They're idiots.”
“Both can be true.”
I reach for the nearest bottle.
His smile disappears.
“Hannah.”
I spray him directly in the face.
The room loses control.
Kane wipes champagne from his eyes.
Then he looks at me.
Slowly.
“Oh, you're dead.”
I run.
He catches me in three steps.
His arm hooks around my waist and lifts me from the floor.
I kick uselessly.
“Kane!”
“Apologize.”
“Never.”
He spins me once.
My laugh comes out breathless.
Then he puts me down and kisses me in the middle of the party.
Champagne.
Sweat.
My hands in his damp hair.
His palms around my face.
The guys start pounding tables.
Someone yells, “GET A ROOM.”
Kane pulls back just enough to look at me.
“I love you.”
That still gets me.
Two years.
Thousands of times.
Still.
“I love you too.”
Then Noah sprays us both again.
Kane turns.
“I am going to kill him.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?”
I pull him back.
“Tonight we're champions.”
His grin breaks free.
“Yeah.”
He kisses me again.
“Tonight we are.”
Life gets quiet afterward.
That's the strange part nobody tells you about huge moments.
Eventually the confetti gets swept away.
The trophy goes into a case.
The videos stop looping every ten seconds.
Classes restart.
Laundry accumulates.
Someone forgets to buy toilet paper.
Kane leaves socks everywhere.
I still complain about his music.
He still steals my Twizzlers.
Except Twizzlers have competition now.
Cracker Jack.
It started at a baseball game Noah dragged us to.
Sweet.
Salty.
Prize inside.
Superior engineering.
I now keep boxes in Kane's room.
He calls it my second addiction.
I call it nutritional diversification.
Kane stayed.
That surprised everyone.
After our first year together, people assumed he'd declare.
Then the projections climbed higher.
He still stayed.
One more year, he told reporters.
One more year, he told his parents.
One more year, he told me.
But one night, when it was only us, he gave me the real answer.
“I want to be ready for the life, not just the league.”
He wanted another year with his degree.
Another year with Coach.
Another year learning how to lead instead of merely being the best player on the floor.
Another year being Kane before somebody put millions of dollars around his name and expected him to remain sane.
He grew.
Not into someone different.
More into himself.
The guy who wants the contract and the school.
The endorsements and the scholarships.
The NBA and the kids on cracked courts who haven't met the coach who might change their lives yet.
Now it's time.
The draft is coming.
His interviews have started.
Workouts are scheduled.
His agent calls constantly.
And I still have another year at Stanford.
That part scares me if I let myself look directly at it.
New city.
Flights.
Road games.
His life accelerating while mine stays here.
But I don't wonder whether Kane Haverhill is permanent anymore.
He is.
He's in my mother's group chat.
He calls Dad on Sundays.
Sometimes about basketball.
Usually not.
He has a drawer at my place and I have half his closet.
His mother sends me birthday gifts three weeks early because she doesn't trust shipping.
Dad has already asked whether Kane's future school needs a director of player development.
I told both men to stop planning my employment.
Progress is not always linear.
Still.
Whatever comes next, Kane is in it.
I know that much.
* * *
Three weeks after the championship, Kane takes me to the beach.
“Why are we here?”
“Date.”
“We had dinner yesterday.”
“People can date more than once a week.”
“Suspicious.”
He opens my door.
Two years and he still does it.
I climb out.
The evening is warm enough for a sweater but cool enough that the breeze raises goosebumps along my legs.
Cars are lined up on the sand facing a giant temporary screen.
String lights mark the entrance.
Food trucks sit farther down the beach.
I stare.
“A drive-in?”
“Beach edition.”
“You planned this?”
“I have skills.”
“Debatable.”
His hand finds mine.
I squeeze it.
Our truck is backed toward the screen.
Blankets fill the bed.
Pillows.
A cooler.
And—
I stop.
“Kane.”
He looks innocent.
“What?”
“There are six boxes of Cracker Jack.”
“You have a problem.”
“You enabled it.”
“I know.”
I climb into the truck bed.
“This might be your best date.”
“Better than Bellwether?”
I hesitate.
“Don't push it.”
“That place had terrible poetry.”
“It had Kevin.”
His eyebrows pull together.
“The sourdough starter?”
“You remember.”
“I remember everything from that night.”
My heart does the stupid little thing it still does around him.
I sit beside him.
The movie starts.
An old romantic comedy I've seen at least four times.
Kane claims he hasn't.
I don't believe him.
Halfway through, I open the third box of Cracker Jack.
“That's your second.”
“False.”
“I watched you finish the first.”
“That doesn't prove ownership.”
“Hannah.”
I dig through the caramel popcorn.
“There's no prize.”
“What?”
“The prize.”
I shake the box.
“Cracker Jack has prizes.”
“Maybe it's at the bottom.”
“I am at the bottom.”
“Tragic.”
I push my hand deeper.
Something catches beneath my fingers.
“There.”
I pull out a small packet.
Except it isn't paper.
It's a box.
Tiny.
Deep red velvet.
My brain stops.
Completely.
“Kane.”
He doesn't answer.
I look at him.
He isn't beside me anymore.
He's standing outside the truck bed.
Then he lowers onto one knee in the sand.
No.
No.
My hand flies to my mouth.
“Kane.”
He looks nervous.
Kane Haverhill.
National champion.
Future NBA player.
A man who can take a free throw with twenty thousand people screaming at him.
His hands are shaking.
“Hannah Goodwin.”
My eyes immediately fill.
“Oh, no.”
His mouth curves.
“That's not the answer I'm looking for.”
“I'm going to cry.”
“That's allowed.”
He reaches for the little box in my hand.
Opens it.
My breath disappears.
The diamond is heart-shaped.
Not delicate.
Not remotely subtle.
A bright center stone held above a narrow band covered in tiny diamonds that catch every strand of light around us.
I stare.
“Kane.”
“I know it's a lot.”
“A lot?”
“Stella helped.”
“That explains everything.”
He laughs.
Then his face changes.
Softens.
And suddenly I'm eighteen again.
Tortoiseshell glasses.
Twizzlers.
A boy calling me Footnote because he had no idea I was about to become the whole story.
“You were never supposed to happen,” he says.
My throat closes.
“I was supposed to play basketball, get drafted, keep everything simple, and never trust anyone enough to screw up the plan.”
A tear slips down my cheek.
Kane reaches up and wipes it away.
“Then this weird freshman crashed an athlete mixer.”
“Against my will.”
“Gave me a fake name.”
“You were obnoxious.”
“Stole my seat.”
“You stole mine.”
“Destroyed my game.”
“Improved.”
“Made me chase her through campus.”
“Your cardio benefited.”
He laughs.
Then takes my hand.
“And somewhere in all of that, you became the person I wanted at the end of everything.”
My chest aches.
“Every game.”
His thumb moves across my knuckles.
“Every win.”
Another tear.
“Every loss.”
His voice roughens.
“Every version of my future.”
I squeeze his hand.
“Kane.”
“You were my Footnote when I thought you were some irritating detail I could ignore.”
I laugh through the tears.
“Accurate.”
“Then you became my Endnote.”
His eyes hold mine.
“The thing waiting at the end of every page.”
That breaks me.
My free hand covers my mouth.
He smiles.
“But that's wrong too.”
“What?”
“I don't want you waiting at the end.”
His thumb strokes my hand.
“I want you through the whole damn thing.”
My heart pounds.
Kane glances toward the sky.
I follow.
For one second, nothing happens.
Then tiny lights rise beyond the beach.
Drones.
Dozens.
Maybe hundreds.
They climb into the dark and spread above the ocean.
People around us start noticing.
Voices rise.
The lights gather.
Shift.
A heart appears.
My breath catches.
Then the heart dissolves.
Letters form slowly across the sky.
HANNAH GOODWIN
I start crying harder.
“Kane Haverhill.”
“Keep watching.”
The letters move.
Reform.
BE MY ENDNOTE FOREVER?
I laugh through a sob.
“That is so corny.”
“I had two years to commit.”
“You put it in the sky.”
“Harder to say no.”
“You are terrible.”
“Is that a yes?”
I look at him.
The boy from the street court.
The athlete I swore I'd never date.
The man who flew to Chicago because he refused to let basketball stand between me and my father.
The person who waited when I needed time.
Who stayed when he could have gone.
Who never asked me to shrink so he could take up more space.
My future.
I slide out of the truck bed and drop into the sand in front of him.
His eyebrows shoot up.
“Hannah?”
I catch his face between both hands.
“Yes.”
His whole body stills.
“Yes?”
“Yes, Haverhill.”
His smile breaks.
Huge.
Uncontrolled.
Mine.
“I'm going to marry you.”
I kiss him before he can answer.
His arms close around me so hard my feet leave the sand.
I laugh against his mouth.
People around us start cheering.
Someone whistles.
Phones appear.
Two years ago, I would've noticed every single one.
Tonight I don't care.
Kane lowers me.
Barely.
He takes my left hand.
His fingers are still shaking when he slides the ring onto mine.
It fits perfectly.
I stare at it.
Heart-shaped diamond.
Tiny diamonds surrounding my finger.
Ridiculous.
Beautiful.
Mine.
“Kane.”
“You hate it?”
“I love it.”
Relief flashes over his face.
“I was told heart-shaped was risky.”
“By whom?”
“Vale.”
“You took jewelry advice from Vale?”
“I ignored him.”
“Excellent start to our engagement.”
He laughs and pulls me against him.
Behind us, the drones change again.
The words disappear.
A book appears in lights.
Its pages open.
On one side:
BOOKWORM
On the other:
HAVERHILL
Then one final line forms underneath.
THE END IS JUST THE BEGINNING.
I stare up at it.
“You've become disgustingly sentimental.”
“You did this to me.”
“Take responsibility.”
“I plan to.”
His arms tighten.
“For the rest of my life.”
My eyes burn again.
I rest my head against his chest.
The movie continues behind us.
Nobody is watching it anymore.
The ocean rolls against the shore.
My Cracker Jack is spilled across the blanket.
The ring catches light every time I move my hand.
I think about the girl who came to Stanford because she wanted to find out who she was when nobody else planned her future.
Turns out she found her.
Not all at once.
Not because of a boy.
But beside one.
I chose my school.
My work.
My team.
My dreams.
And now I choose this too.
I look up at Kane.
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“You realize I still have another year.”
“I know.”
“And you're going to be traveling constantly.”
“I know.”
“And we're not getting married tomorrow.”
His eyebrows lift.
“Define tomorrow.”
I smack his chest.
“Kane.”
“Fine.”
He kisses my forehead.
“We have time.”
That word used to scare me.
Time meant someone could leave.
Change their mind.
Find something better.
Now?
Time feels like something we get.
I slide my fingers through his.
“Good.”
“Good?”
I look at the ring.
Then at him.
“Because I have a wedding to plan.”
His grin widens.
“And a dissertation to finish.”
“Less exciting.”
“And you have an NBA team to convince you're worth millions of dollars.”
“Easy.”
“Arrogant.”
“Engaged.”
I smile.
“Very.”
He kisses me again under a sky that still has our story written across it.
Footnote.
Endnote.
None of it fits anymore.
Kane was never the story I got pulled into.
He became part of mine.
And I became part of his.
Not the ending.
Not the beginning.
Every page in between.