20. CORA
CORA
The kitchen smells like bacon, coffee, and cinnamon toast. The holy trinity of weekend breakfasts in the Banks household. Usually it’s comforting. This morning, with my head pounding and my stomach still trying to settle, it feels more like a personal attack.
Our house isn’t fancy. Not the kind of place you’d see in a glossy magazine spread.
It’s big enough. Four bedrooms. Plenty of space when I was younger to tear through the halls with whatever group of hockey kids had taken over for the day, or now to host team dinners when Dad insists.
But it’s nothing over the top. Practical.
Comfortable. A coach’s salary doesn’t exactly stretch to granite countertops and wine cellars, but that’s never been my dad anyway.
He wanted us close enough to campus that he could walk to the rink in ten minutes if he needed to.
I take a sip of the coffee Mom slides in front of me, trying to ignore the way it sloshes too close to the rim. The bitterness makes my stomach lurch, but I cling to the warmth. Anything to quiet the echo in my head. I’m never drinking again.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I didn’t drink alcohol until my twenty-first birthday, and that was a choice.
Not because anyone was hovering or watching me too closely, but because I was terrified of breaking the rules.
Terrified of disappointing someone. Good girl syndrome, my freshman year roommate called it.
She wasn’t wrong. I spent most of that night at the bar with a Coke in my hand, quietly proud of myself for doing it “right.”
And now? Now I’m nursing the kind of headache that makes me want to crawl back into bed and hibernate until finals.
“So…” Mom’s voice is gentle, but there’s a certain lift to it which makes me tense. She sets down the spatula and gestures at the plate of scrambled eggs between us. “Any updates on Freddy?”
The fork in my hand stills. My stomach twists harder than the coffee did. I keep my eyes on the plate. “Mom. We’re not together. Remember?”
Her smile flickers, something almost guilty passing through her eyes. “I just thought… all that time you spent together.
There it is—the comment that hits like a pebble in my shoe. Small, but sharp enough to hurt. I stab a piece of toast, my jaw tight. “We broke up for a reason. I’m not going backward.”
Dad lowers his newspaper, his voice cutting clean through the quiet. “She’s right. He didn’t know what he had. Good riddance.”
My head snaps at that, surprised by the steel in his tone. He folds the paper, sets it on the table, and looks right at me. “You can have whoever you want, Cora. As long as it’s not a hockey player.”
“Wow. Subtle,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitches. He’s half-joking, but the other half is all too real.
He shrugs unapologetically. “I know what I’m talking about.”
The silence stretches, thick enough that Mom clears her throat, trying to steer us back to safer waters. “What about classes? Everything going okay this semester?
“Fine,” I answer, but the word tastes like ash. Fine. The most useless word in the English language.
Her voice isn’t judgmental—it’s worrying. The kind of worry that comes from a mom who still texts me when it snows to ask if I have boots. “Are you getting enough sleep? And work? You’re not overdoing it, are you?”
My chest tightens, like I’m thirteen again and have been caught sneaking extra chapters of a book past midnight.
“I’m managing.” I nod, forcing my lips into a smile.
I don’t mention the late nights at the tutoring center, the hours swallowed by spreadsheets, the hollow exhaustion that seems like it's part of my personality.
The truth to her question is uglier: I don’t know if I am.
Dad senses it, I think. He clears his throat, flipping the paper back open like a shield. “She’s managing. Let her be.”
Relief trickles in, though it’s fleeting. Because I know he doesn’t see the full picture either. No one does. “Managing” is a far cry from thriving—and if last night is any indication, my definition of managing is starting to unravel.
Mom leans against the counter, studying me with a soft, careful look that sees too much. “Are you still doing the research project with basketball? Or did you find something else?”
“No, not doing it with basketball.” I leave it at that, not needing to bring up Freddy again.
I’ve had enough and my stomach is a little weak at the moment.
“The idea is easy to transition. Could do it with almost any other sport.” I take a drink of my coffee, the mug warm in my hands.
I tip it far enough that it covers my eyes, needing a mini break.
My dad takes a sip of his coffee and then nudges me. “The stats research? You could use a hockey player, yes?” His voice was quiet, recognizing that my mom left the kitchen.
I nod in agreement, kind of reveling in the feeling of him being on my side. He knows I don’t want to get into it with my mom. She’ll just try to get me to make it work with Freddy and I don’t want that.
“Well, how about Lane?” He suggests this like it’s no big deal, a typical breakfast table conversation. My skin prickles at the mention of this name. I start to cough, almost choking on a piece of bacon. “The guys are barely warming up to him. He could use a friend.”
“I mean, is it a good idea? The season’s starting soon—”
“Even more reason to do it. We need to get him more comfortable as soon as possible.” This isn’t the first time he’s mentioned it.
Lane on the ice is sort of skittish, like he’s almost afraid to interrupt the other guys flow or something.
But in order for him to be effective, he has to be aggressive.
We all know it. It’s surprising that Lane is sitting back—I never would’ve guessed it.
My dad squeezes my shoulder. “I think it’s sort of perfect. You’re at the rink all the time already. Plus, you’re friendly enough for him to drive you home? Right?”
The flush that creeps over my cheeks is impossible to hide. If by friendly you mean having a one night stand where I used a fake name and now it’s like we hate each other but still can’t seem to stay apart? Sure, we’re friendly.
There’s no way I can say no to my favorite person. To the guy who has always had my back. Cheered me on, no matter what. So I smile, like the dutiful daughter I am. “Sure, if it’s okay with him.”
I know my dad’s right. Letting hockey and this project overlap is the best thing that could happen to my schedule. Part of me, the logical and carefully curated chunk, is hoping that Lane has an excuse and says ‘no.’
But the other part is hoping he says yes.