21. LANE
LANE
The cold of the rink should be a relief, but as sweat burns down my neck, one thing is clear. I am sucking. Hard.
Coach has us skating sprints. Blue line, back. Red line, back. All the way down the ice. My legs feel like cinder blocks, every push heavier, slower. By the time I hit the far blue line, the guys are already flying past me, cutting clean lines through the ice while I trail behind.
“Get it going, Maxwell!” Coach’s voice snaps across the rink. Clipboard smacks. Whistle shrieks. It’s not the first time he’s had to say something like this during practice, and it fucking stings.
I try to dig deep, find an edge, get some speed under me. Instead, I start dragging again, falling behind while my lungs burn for air.
“Jesus, Lane!” Troy’s voice cuts louder than the whistle. “You’re skating like dog shit.” He blows past me.
Some of the guys laugh, and I can take the chirps. Usually. It’s worse when they’re right.
I grit my teeth and try to push harder, but my body won’t listen. Every stride comes up short. Ugly. Every mistake feeds Troy’s grin.
“I thought you were supposed to be fast?” my captain calls over his shoulder, and the guys start to snicker, low whistles slipping out.
I’ve got nothing to say. Because he’s right.
Heat flares in my chest. Shame, anger, all twisted together.
I slam my stick against the ice, the crack echoing off the boards.
The lights above feel like spotlights, catching every stumble, every failure.
I’m not just losing the drill. I’m losing their respect.
And I can’t skate fast enough to catch it back.
I wish this was my only problem. One bad skate, one rough drill, and I could shrug it off. But it’s not.
Yesterday, Coach ran us through a control drill. Cones lined from blue line to blue line. Tight turns, quick cuts, keeping the puck glued to your stick. Everyone else wove through like it was nothing. Heads up. Easy rhythm.
Me? The damn puck slid off my blade every other turn. I fumbled, doubled back, heard the groans behind me as the line stacked up. My gloves felt like bricks, my hands clumsy, like I’d never stickhandled in my life.
Troy made a big show of miming it after, “Oops—lost it again!” while the guys laughed. It was like I'd never done this before—the muscle memory was nowhere to be found. I know they’re tough on everyone, it’s not just me, and it makes me want to figure the fuck out. So, you could say it’s effective.
One bad practice, you can shake. Two in a row? That starts to define you. And the last thing I can afford is to be defined by failure.
Our first game is coming up, and every day I skate like an asshole or fall behind in a drill, my teammates get one step closer to giving up on me altogether.
Everyone has bad stretches. But this is the first time I’m dealing with one alone. Usually Oliver was the one who pulled me out of it. Ran drills with me after practice until we couldn’t lift our arms to hold a stick. He did it for me, I did it for him. Neither of us ever asked. We just showed up.
Now it’s just me.
The realization claws at my chest, sharp enough it could draw blood.
Coach’s whistle cuts through the noise. “Get out of here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He dismisses the team, but before I can skate off, he calls, “Lane, get over here.”
I skate over, meeting his eyes like I was taught. “Yes, Coach.”
He crosses his arms and takes a slow breath, letting it out before he speaks. “Is everything okay? You’re playing like a shitty freshman. Not a senior with a shot at the NHL.”
I drop my head, searching for something to say, but I come up empty. “I don’t know what it is. I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Are you hurt? I’d rather you tell me so we can get you treated and back on track.”
“I’m not hurt,” I cut in. “Swear.” I lift a hand like that’s enough to prove it.
His brows pull together, like he’s trying to read something I’m not saying.
“Look, I’ll get it together. I’m just… trying to figure it out.”
He gives me a small smile. It should settle the nerves buzzing under my skin, but it doesn’t. It just reminds me how much he put on the line for me to bring me here. To give me this shot.
And it feels like I’m blowing it.
“I believe you.” He nods once. “This isn’t about practice. I need a favor. Cora has a research project she wants to do her senior year. It was supposed to be with the basketball team, but…”
But she’s not dating that guy anymore.
“But things have changed. It’ll require a little more time on the ice for you, but it shouldn’t interfere too much. It’d be a big help.”
Fuck. This is not a good idea.
“Plus, it seems like extra time on the ice wouldn’t hurt.” I wait for the laugh, or the joke, but it doesn’t come.
This girl is going to be the death of me.
“Sure, Coach. I’ll make it work.” I agree, hoping he'll drop it and let me put an end to this practice.
When he lets me make my way into the locker room, I let out a slow breath. Fuck, I'm in trouble. In more ways than one.
My table is covered with textbooks because even though I’m here for hockey, I still have to graduate. That’s the rule. Or, that was the rule. It feels like it’s something I still need to follow, not just for my eligibility, but because I made a promise.
My phone buzzes.
Cora
i was really hoping you’d say no
I look down at the screen, unable to move.
Me
what do you need from me
need to get some baseline stats this week
before or after practice. Your pick
before
let’s aim for thirty minutes before practice
ok
I turn my phone off, trying to get back to the task at hand. But it doesn’t matter. The only subject I can think about is Cora, and it’s the one that needs the least amount of attention.