24. CORA
CORA
After my five a.m. spin class, I expect the house to be quiet when I walk in. That’s my usual Sunday.
Instead, my dad’s in the living room, the game playing on our seventy-five inch TV. The players look almost life-sized. We got in at a decent time last night after opening weekend, but apparently he didn’t waste any time digging back in.
The Otters won both games, but it didn’t feel like it.
He’s wearing his glasses, notebook open on his lap, an empty coffee cup sitting on the table. I grab it on my way to the kitchen, refill his and pour one for myself, then drop onto the couch beside him.
“A win’s a win,” I say, wrapping my hands around the mug.
He pauses the film, rewinds a few seconds and watches the shift again. Then he turns, mouth tugging into a smirk as he looks at me over the top of his glasses. “Don’t act like I didn’t teach you that.”
We settle in, watching the second period from the first game. It’s not bad, honestly. There are good stretches. Moments where things click. Early games are always messy like that.
But one thing is obvious. Lane struggled.
He looked slow. Hesitant and like he didn’t trust himself out there. The spark which usually makes him dangerous is gone.
And the worst part is his team. They keep waiting for it to show up. For him to be the version of himself they remember playing against.
It never does.
I swear my dad flinches when Lane is a second late getting to his spot, breaking the rhythm of the play and turning the puck over. His fingers drag across his forehead. “I’ve never seen him like this. He’s in his own head.”
“First game with a new team,” I offer. “Road game. Maybe it’s just nerves.” I hate the way something twists in my stomach, like I need to defend him, even here and now.
Dad shakes his head. “It’s more than nerves. He’s doubting himself. And he can’t afford that this season.”
He looks at me, really looks this time, as his expression goes serious. “He needs someone in his corner. Someone to remind him he belongs out there. That he’s still the player I thought he was.”
I stare at the screen as Lane skates back to the bench on the replay, shoulders hunched, stick tapping the boards. It’s strange seeing someone who’s supposed to be a star look so… small.
I’m skating slow circles, the rink echoing under my blades.
It’s so quiet I can hear the scrape of my edges on the ice and the hum of the lights overhead.
The guys have practice in an hour, but Lane and I agreed to do some baseline data before.
I peek at my watch—Lane's running out of time.
The guys have a light practice, one I think is mostly so the coaching staff can try and correct some of the easy mistakes.
The door to the gate bangs open, and he steps onto the ice just as the clock hits the hour.
I can’t help myself. “Wow. Cutting it close.”
He doesn’t rise to the jab—just glances at me briefly, then stretches his neck side to side. “I’m on time.”
The way he says it—flat, no spark—makes me straighten a little. Usually there’s a smirk, at least. He slowly starts skating, doing laps and getting his body ready. It’s quiet enough that I find myself holding my breath.
Lane stands in front of me, eyes barely meeting mine. “You ready?” I ask, skating to the top of the circle where I’ve placed a few pucks.
He skates over, slower than usual. “Yeah. Whatever you need.”
That’s… not encouraging.
“Okay,” I say carefully. “Thirty wrist shots from the right circle. Like we talked about—same setup every time. I’ll track speed and placement.”
He grunts something that might be an agreement and sets up for the first shot. It comes off his stick awkwardly, wobbling wide of the net.
I frown, but keep my voice neutral. “Alright, reset. Try again.”
He takes another. Same thing—off target, barely any snap in his release.
We go through ten, maybe twelve. Each one is worse than the last. Lane doesn’t curse, doesn’t crack a joke, just resets with his jaw tight.
“Lane,” I finally sigh, lowering my clipboard. “Stop.”
He straightens, breath coming a little hard, but doesn’t meet my eyes.
“This isn’t…” His eyes find mine and there’s something there. Something heavy. Something dragging him. “This isn’t going to work.” My voice is gentle.
He presses his lips together, nods once like he’s bracing for a hit, and skates a slow circle without answering.
I watch him, the pen loose in my fingers, wishing I knew what to say, how to pull him back to himself. Not for me or the project, but for him. For his team.
“It’s the start of the season. You’ll find your rhythm,” I encourage.
Lane lifts his chin, tilting it slightly, brows drawn together. “What are you doing?”
The question throws me. “It seems like you’re being hard on yourself. But the team won both games and—”
“I don’t need you to do whatever this is.” He gestures between us, his hand dropping to his thigh with a sharp slap.
“Lane.”
“Lee. Oh wait, Cora.” His voice cuts through the room, but it doesn’t break the tension. The way his jaw flexes makes my stomach drop.
Back to this again. That first night. The mistake that gave me whiplash, perfect in the moment and a complete disaster after. Lane sure knows how to hold a grudge.
I scoff. “Go ahead. Be an asshole. Something you’re consistently good at.”
Lane skates over and stops right in front of me, his hair falling across his forehead. “Yeah, I’m the asshole. While Freddy’s grabbing you like you’re something he owns. And I’m the one making sure you get home safe after your disaster of a date with whoever the fuck.”
“I didn’t ask you to do any of that.” My voice echoes through the empty rink, irritation clawing at me.
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His hands plant on his hips, jaw tight as he slowly shakes his head.
He just stares at me, pinning me in place, like I don’t get to move until he decides I can.
“You’re right. You didn’t ask.” He takes a big breath, holding it for a few seconds, and gruffly sighing it out.
The way he agrees with me feels like a catch, like I’m about to fall in a trap.
“Just like I didn’t ask for the after school special on how there’s time for me to bounce back or whatever the fuck you were about to do. ”
The rage that rushes in my stomach has my heart racing, pounding in my ears.
Asshole.
We’re close enough that I know he can see the quick rise and fall of my chest. “Right, Lane Maxwell, he doesn’t need anything or anyone. He’s got it.” I lift my hand in fake understanding.
He presses his lip in a thin line, the scar on the left side more prominent. The movement is slow, meticulous. “Unfortunately for you, I’m not this thing you can study. There’s no books with the answers. You’re out of luck, Coralee Banks.”
The way he says my full name is like a jab—enunciating every letter.
He turns, headed for the tunnel, and the blood leaves my face. His back is to me as he calls over his shoulder, “We’re done here, right?”
“Obviously,” I snap, looking down at the useless data on my clipboard.
Fuck.