2. CORA
CORA
Did I know I was sitting across from Lane Maxwell, Ohio’s prolific hockey star slash bad boy and most recent Great Lakes U transfer? Yes, but not right away. It didn’t click until after the other guy left the table.
That’s when I saw the scar on the left side of his upper lip and I felt the shift from wondering to knowing. I know about Lane Maxwell because my dad is the coach who offered him a spot on the hockey team. Everyone else had been willing to let his career die a swift death in the transfer portal.
I thought about admitting I knew who he was, but then I’d have to own being Cora Banks, the head coach’s daughter.
Tonight I’m looking for a break, considering I've had my ass kicked this summer. That doesn’t even include the research project I'm wildly behind on; if I think about it for too long, I'll literally get hives.
Do I feel a little guilty about telling him my name is Lee? Kind of, but that’s my ‘going out’ name when I need some separation—plus, my full name is Coralee, but I go by Cora.
Both of us had the opportunity to cut whatever this is short, but we didn’t. Instead, we each ordered another beer and have settled in. The bar fills as the night goes on, but somehow, it still feels like just the two of us.
“I’ve never met a math major. Or at least someone planning on legit graduating with it,” Lane says, pulling me back to the moment. “You must be smart.”
“Not math, data analytics. It’s different but you’re right, I am smart.” I take the compliment and let it wash over me.
His eyes, golden like honey, go wide as he shakes his head. “Whatever you say. Still sounds like math.”
“I balance it with a kinesiology major.” I’m not trying to discredit myself, I’m just itching to tell him more about me. Maybe it’s because I’m not the coach’s daughter right now.
“How’d you know this was an IPA?”
“It was hazy in your glass. It’s from the dry hops and the proteins coming together. Actually, it’s the polyphenol and protein reaction. I come here a lot and know what’s on tap, so I took a guess that it was an IPA.”
I take a long drink of the beer I just overexplained and wish I’d said less. Protein reactions are not attractive—no one fucks the know-it-all from summer camp.
Lane says nothing at first, just raises his eyebrows, taking in the haziness of his almost empty glass. “Seems like you’ve got the whole package. Brains and body.” His words pebble goosebumps on my skin and I hold back a shiver. "Why are you here alone?”
I take a drink of my beer, trying to keep my cool.
“Maybe there was no one worth coming with.” I smirk, acting like I had options.
That would require making plans, going out, and doing something.
The most exciting part of my summer was listening to my dad agonize over picking up Lane—giving up the single remaining roster spot.
Other than that, it was lots of long days in the library, looking at existing models for calculating win percentages of sports teams, and then going home to binge watch something on Netflix.
That’s what happens when your boyfriend decides to end things after eight years, using the words, “I’m just not feeling it anymore.
” Bold words from a man who pulled me by the hand into a local jeweler to try on engagement rings a month before.
The one who told me not to worry about getting an off-campus apartment because that was something we could do together.
Yeah right.
What am I doing? How is it that Freddy is here—in my brain, not at the bar—stealing more energy from me, when he’s taken enough?
“Any girlfriend missing you back home?” I ask, eager to get more information and yank my brain from this spiral—it’s the distraction I desperately need to stop thinking about my ex.
“No. Definitely not.” Lane offers me a one-sided smirk, the scarred side of his lip pulling up, and I could melt into the floor.
I didn’t expect him to be charming. Everything I’ve heard about Lane describes a guy who couldn’t care less about anything besides his own stat line, with questionable judgement and a hell of a slapshot. Or, that’s how it’s been after the incident that ended his time in Ohio.
His hair is floppy and a chestnut brown, the perfect comparison to the color of his eyes. He’s sun-kissed, like he spent the summer outside. I swear there are a few freckles smattering the bridge of his nose, which is slightly crooked in a way you’d expect from a hockey player.
Someone walks in front of the table, wearing a Great Lakes U Otter shirt, and Lane can do nothing but read it and shake his head.
“GLU hockey is otter this world? Are you fucking with me?” He puts both hands flat on the table.
I can’t help but laugh—this man will never get away from the puns. Every hockey season, there’s a new shirt with a fresh slogan. The other sports kind of let hockey have this one thing, as in they don’t try to recreate it for their sport. But, that’s the thing about GLU—hockey is the biggest thing.
“I’m not fucking with you. But come on, the otter is cute, right?”
“Sure.” He rolls his eyes and his voice falls flat. “The otter is cute, I'll give you that.” He drinks the rest of his beer.
I nod to the hallway. “Let me show you something.”
I stand, and when I'm confident he’s going to follow me, I walk us to the hallway. My hips swish side to side, and I can practically feel his eyes on me. I don’t say anything, but stop and turn toward him, wanting to see his reaction.
His mouth hangs as his hand rubs his chin. Lane takes in the wall, says absolutely nothing, then rubs his eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh.
“What the hell am I looking at?”
I smile, taking in all six feet of him. “This,” I gesture to the wall, “is a campus staple. People bring in otter stickers from all over and stick them here.”
“But why?”
“Why not?” I retort, shrugging my shoulders before stepping closer to him. “School spirit? School pride? Sticker obsessions?”
The first time I saw this wall at the bar—thousands of otter stickers on a wall painted like a beach, really leaning into the shore theme—it made me smile. It felt like an inside joke.
“There was nothing like this back home in Ohio,” Lane shares, taking in the sight. I can’t tell if he’s about to smile or leave.
I'm quickly reminded it’s not just the two of us when someone bumps into me from behind and it catches me off guard. Even in my sneakers, I stumble forward until strong hands stop me. Lane holds me, his fingers clutching my elbows and upper arms.
Whoever bumped into me apologizes to both of us, and seems like they can’t get away from Lane fast enough, even though his eyes are focused on me.
My back lightly touches the wall as he turns us. The air is hard to hold on to—we’re close enough that my chest presses against his when I inhale. Being this close makes me feel like I can’t breathe.
I look from his eyes to that scar on his lip, and back again until I almost fall into him.
His eyes, like melted chocolate, send shivers down my body.
I bite my lip, pushing it through my teeth as I try to make sense of the man in front of me whose hands still grip me.
It’s like an itch finally being scratched and I don’t want him to let go.
I can’t place the way he looks at me. It’s nothing I've ever felt before. It’s almost as if he’s taking in every detail, every piece of me. He looks at me like he’s in awe; it’s overwhelming in the sense that I want to lean in closer, even though we’re inches away.
Lane takes a breath, as if he’s going to say something.
Instead, his mouth crashes into mine. Even though I felt it coming—or maybe I was just hoping it would—the ground shifts, as if the wall I'm leaning on is giving way, and the floor tilts.
His lips, warm and firm, fit perfectly against mine and my stomach flips.
My arms loop around his neck, pulling him down to me as he swipes his tongue across the seam of my lips.
His hands roam down my body, touching my ribs before sliding down further. There are practically sparks coming from the edge of his fingertips—but I want more. Need more. When he reaches where my tank top meets bare skin, he slows, but drags his fingers down to my hips and ass.
He puts one hand in my back pocket and the other across my lower back, his fingers digging into my hip on the other side. I feel like I could pass out—he’s everywhere. Lane kisses me like he has something to prove, and whatever it is, I’m buying it.
This is the type of first kiss I’ve dreamed of; it’s easy, effortless, and could set me on fire. I push my hips into his and he groans into my mouth. I almost crumble at the sound, the vibration of him pressing into me, and I feel my weight press into his arms as my knees start to give.
Our tongues touch and sweep, and I bite his lower lip. As we trade breaths, I can feel him smirking under our kiss. My hands are in his hair, scratching down the back of his neck.
Lane pulls away, his cheeks pink, our noses still touching.
“I shouldn’t have done that.” His eyes are dark and his brows wrinkle in the space between, almost like he’s in pain.
I’m practically panting in his arms. “I think you should’ve,” I laugh, trying to lighten his mood.
He presses another kiss to my lips, forceful and final. “I have to go.”
The words deflate me and I let my hands fall away from him, sadly landing at my sides.
I don’t say anything as he turns and leaves. Lane doesn’t look back; when I see the door open and close, I look down at the floor, trying to piece together what happened.
I’ve had a rule for as long as I can remember: never beg them to stay.
It applies to friends, partners, entire friend groups, even some of the clubs I’ve been part of.
And with the residual sting from Freddy, this is a rule I need to abide by now more than ever.
The thought of another rejection has my mouth feeling like sandpaper—I need a glass of water.
Even so, Lane has me almost breaking my own rule.