5. LANE
LANE
The sun beats down on my back and I’d rather get kicked in the balls then go to this team meeting. Being the new guy fucking blows—especially when you come from a rival team and everyone is programmed to hate your guts.
I had checked the counter, the fridge, my front door before leaving—anywhere that Lee may have left her number. It was her idea not to stay over, and I happily followed along. We had fun but that was it.
I can’t stop thinking about the way her eyes bulged when she looked at my dick. The piercings always catches women off guard—some so much so that some panic and leave before anything fun can happen.
Not Lee. She stayed. And came. And came again. A perfect Friday night, if you ask me. Something I desperately needed to get through this Saturday morning.
My stomach pulls on itself with each step I take closer to the field house. Some colleges may have one to accommodate multiple sports, but at Great Lakes U, it’s for anything and everything hockey. If they had any trouble recruiting, this would be a check in the pro column.
I enter my five digit code at the door, the one which gets me into the training facilities whenever I want.
Or when I’m being forced—like today. I walk the hall, its walls covered in Great Lakes U moments of success.
Won’t find one for last season—that picture hangs in my old locker room back in Ohio.
A blip of sadness hits me; a miss of the familiar, the things I was forced to leave behind. Even if it wasn’t my fault. Fuck, maybe it was? Doesn’t matter. Especially not now.
Someone says my name and my spine goes razor straight at the sound. Coach Banks stands ahead of me, one of my teammates beside him, and it’s like my mouth is full of sand. I wipe my hands on my pants, not wanting to let on that I’m nervous.
He offers a hand and I grip it, strong and firm, just like Coach Knight taught me. “Coach Banks, thanks for having me.”
He’s what you hope you end up looking like after a long hockey career. You can tell he’s been through some shit but he can smile and it still reaches his eyes. I don’t see any scars, nothing like the one on my upper lip.
Coach nods. “This is Troy. Our senior captain.”
The introduction is unnecessary. I’ve played against Troy for most of my college career, and even a little before then.
He’s someone you’d expect to be a captain—never breaks the rules or gets his gloves dirty.
Don’t think I’ve ever seen him in the penalty box.
At least he can back it up and is a fucking terror on the ice.
One of the positives for this season is that I get to play with Troy instead of against him, but I’d never tell him that.
“I’ll see you in my office tomorrow morning. Eight. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply as Coach keeps his eyes on me, walking into the room where I’m guessing our meeting is.
Troy stands still, hands on his hips, and his eyes almost roll to find mine. “Coach loves to take chances on players. Even when they don’t deserve it.”
“I’m a charity case. Got it.” I turn for the meeting room.
Troy grabs my arm. “That’s not what I said. I want you to help us win this year, so maybe try and keep your shit together. Keep the self-implosions to a minimum.” He claps me on the back as he steps in front of me. “There’s no one else to save you if you fuck this one up.”
I hate that he’s right. He doesn’t even know how right he is.
He doesn’t know anything about what happened. Only one other person knows the truth. And that’s how it’s going to stay.
“We’re counting on you. Us losing last year was a fluke. We know how to win here,” Troy boasts, walking into the meeting room.
Following close behind, I tip my head down, looking at the floor while I try to get my shit together. I knew this would be weird, being on a team I’ve been programmed to hate most of my life, but I can do this. I’ve definitely been through worse.
Inside, Troy walks to his seat, and whispers begin floating around when everyone sees me.
“Only one transfer this season. I think you’re all familiar with Lane Maxwell.” Coach’s voice booms as he gestures to me, and the entire room falls silent. “He’s wearing number twenty-seven this year.”
I make eye contact with every player in the room. When I get to the end of the roster, someone half-lifts a hand and points to an empty seat beside him.
I’m heading to take a seat when Coach continues, “Lane’s a helluva player. I’m sure you remember. He’s going to be a great asset to the team and I expect you to treat him that way.” He looks down his nose, eyes hitting every player as I sit.
Letting my back hit the chair, I let out a slow breath. The air is seemingly made of glass—one wrong move and everything could collapse on itself.
This is brutal.
The player next to me turns and says, “I’m Leo. And I’m fucking glad I’m playing with you instead of against you.”
After hearing his name, I immediately know who he is.
Leo Dempsey. He’s a junior this year and one of the only other players besides Troy who required specific defensive strategies.
But unlike Troy, he’s a fighting enthusiast. He’s the type of guy who will take his gloves off, break open his knuckles, and grin ear to ear.
He and his family are hockey players through and through.
Like, we play at Dempsey Arena, which I learned isn’t a coincidence—his family donated the funds for the new facility.
“Me too,” I reply. And I mean it.
Leo nudges the guy next to him until he finally lifts his hand and offers, “I’m Noah.” Leo keeps staring like that’s not enough, so Noah adds, “Welcome to the team?” It lands like a question. Leo just shakes his head, and Noah shrugs.
We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore. Or Ohio.
This first team meeting makes it clear how different my old team was. Some of it feels so out there, I keep waiting for the punchline. There isn’t one. The guys just nod along like everything was normal.
What I still can’t wrap my head around is how they run pre-season. The players handle everything. Schedule, plans, how it’s laid out, even expectations. Coaches are around, but they only step in if things get out of hand.
At my old team, everything came from the coaches. Some of the guys were close, sure, but not like this. Not enough to run the whole thing themselves.
Afterward, the captains kick the coaches out and everyone gets to work planning pre-season. I hang back and watch, completely out of my element. No one jokes or half-asses it, and it has me itching to get on the ice.
Less than an hour later, everything is mapped out, and the guys split into groups while I head to the weight room. If there’s one thing I miss, it’s having go-to people. The guys you fall in with. The ones who want to lift, grab food, or just bullshit after.
Here, I don’t have anyone.
The next morning, I walk the hall to Coach’s office, my watch flashing 7:50 AM. Dick or not, Troy was right. Coach Banks is taking a chance on me, and it’s my last one. If I want a shot at the NHL, I need him on my side. He needs to think I’m worth something.
Getting here on time wasn’t hard. Last night, I wrecked myself at the gym, walked back to my apartment, and was in bed earlier than the retirement community.
Coach is reading at his desk when I knock. One of his jerseys is framed on the wall, covered in signatures. Maybe from his last NHL season. Fuck, that’s cool.
“Lane, grab a seat.” He probably gestures, but I drift toward the jersey and bump into it.
Coach laughs. “You don’t think it’s stupid? Hanging it like that?”
“No. I think it’s one of the coolest fucking things I’ve ever seen.”
He tilts his head when “fucking” slips out. I shrug an apology, and he waves it off.
“Just wanted to check in before things get going. The team might be tough on you, but I brought you here because I know you can take it. They’ll warm up eventually.”
I don’t know if that’s true, but I appreciate the effort.
“I’m not worried about it. I can be the bad guy.” I rub my hands on my pants, needing something to do.
“You’re not the bad guy. Or at least I hope not.” He stacks the papers on his desk and sets them aside. Leaning forward, he braces his forearms, hands clasped. “There’s no shame in needing a little help. Do you need any… support? We can keep it between us.”
His eyes are soft, a sharp contrast to the wear in his skin. Years in a brutal sport will do that to you.
“No, I’m good.” My voice comes out smaller than planned. “If that changes, I’ll let you know.”
Coach leans back in his chair. “I want you to do what’s best for you. I know you’ve got your eye on the NHL, and I’ll help you get there. But you have to help yourself first.”
“I appreciate that.”
“My door’s always open. If you need me, don’t hesitate to call. Transferring your last year can be tough.” He slides a card across the desk. “Follow the rules and we’ll have no trouble getting scouts to take a look. Might even beat your old team for a championship.” He laughs, and I match it.
It’s not like I’m on a revenge tour, but the idea of beating my old team pulls a smirk from me.
We stand at the same time and shake hands. His grip is firm, like he’s saying “don’t fuck this up” without saying it.
His eyes light up when someone stops in the doorway.
“Ah, Cora. What a surprise.”
A woman hurries in, her dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail.
“Morning, Dad.” She kisses his cheek. “You forgot this.” She holds up a folder, then turns toward the desk.
My blood runs cold, freezing my body like a fucking statue.
There stands Lee. Or Cora? My brain tries to unravel the strings but they’re flying off the spool.
“Ah, thanks. I appreciate it. Lane, this is my daughter, Cora.”
Her eyes are massive fucking pools, shockingly blue, and it’s like someone threw me in and I don’t know how to swim. “Lee,” is the only word she mutters before coughing into her hand, placing it on her chest after. “My name—it’s Coralee.”
“No one calls you that,” Coach laughs, brows squinting like he’s trying to figure her out.
He then looks to me and back to her. I force a smile and put out my hand to shake hers, as if my fingers weren’t playing her clit like the perfect fucking instrument it is the other night.
I bet Coach Banks would see me a hell of a lot differently if he knew I’d been in town less than a week and had already fucked his daughter.
Lee—Cora—takes my hand, shakes it, and slips on the same “nice to meet you” mask.
Why didn’t she say anything? Why didn’t she give me her real name? And why can’t I stop thinking about my teeth dragging over her skin? Keeping my face neutral is harder than holding it together when someone squares up on the ice, running their mouth.
“Cora’s helping with stats this season. You’ll be seeing a lot of her,” Coach explains with a laugh. Then he opens the folder and sits down, already on to the next.
Fucking great.
Looks like our secret’s safe.
For now.