26. CORA
CORA
Numbers are easy. They are honest and true. When someone gets Lane’s stat line wrong, I’m correcting it before I can internally tell myself to keep my mouth closed.
Every head turns toward me, and for half a second I wonder if I’ve crossed some invisible line.
People nod in understanding as pens start moving again and cameras click. The moment passes like it never mattered and everyone turns their attention back to the team sitting behind the table. My dad winks at me from a few people away.
I don’t need to look at Lane. I can feel the tension rolling from him, the way the attention slides back toward his chair like a spotlight he didn’t ask for. This time, it feels bigger.
When the conference portion wraps, the room empties fast. Reporters drift out. Boosters linger, trying to talk to my dad or one of the players, before everyone moves on to the next. Chairs scrape back as laughter echoes down the hall.
Lane stays.
By the time I look again, he’s the last player left at the table. He twists the cap off a water bottle, jaw tight, shoulders coiled.
I should leave it be. But I don’t. That would be too easy.
“You’re welcome,” I chide.
He lets out a breath through his nose. “I didn’t say thank you.”
“No,” I agree, “you didn’t.”
His voice twists with a sarcastic laugh. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
He stands suddenly, chair legs screeching against the floor. The sound bounces against the walls in the now-empty room.
“You don’t get it,” he hisses, stepping closer. “I just wanted it to be over.”
“Can you give the tortured hockey player act a rest?” I fire back. My sharpness surprises me.
Lane scoffs, eyes wide. “What did you say?”
I step closer. “You heard me.”
He steps in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. I don’t know why I’m pushing him like this. Yeah, him acting like a simple correction is the worst part of his day is dramatic, but I know I’m making it worse.
His eyes pin me where I stand. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Even though it feels like my feet can’t move, my mouth has no problem. “Poor Lane. Being on the team must be so hard.”
Lane’s lips mash together, his head tilting, and I swear there’s the slightest hint of a grin. “You can’t stop thinking about it, can you?”
“Thinking about what?” I scoff.
“Me. Hard.”
That lands. I don’t flinch but I put a finger in his chest. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Quick, Lane grabs my finger, holding it between us. The air crackles and sparks, energy pulling tight around us.
His breathing changes. Slow. Deep.
“You’re the know-it-all. You tell me.”
The words aren’t defensive. It’s honest. Awkwardly honest for the heaviness between us.
For a second, neither of us moves. We’re standing in the middle of an empty press room, the air between us humming, everything unsaid pressing in.
We’re closer than we should be. I know that. But I can’t help it.
His voice drops. “Cora.”
My pulse jumps as the door opens behind him.
“Hey. There you are.”
Coach’s voice. My dad.
We jump apart like we’ve been caught doing something worse than arguing.
Lane turns first, shoulders squaring. “Yeah, Coach?”
"Pictures?” my dad asks, glancing between us before gesturing outside the door he’s holding open. His eyes linger just long enough to make my stomach twist. “Can’t get out of it that easily.”
“I was just—” Lane starts.
“I promise, this is the last part,” Coach interrupts, clapping him once on the shoulder and offering him a wink.
Lane nods, mutters something polite, and falls into step behind my dad. Just before they turn the corner, he looks back at me—long enough that my pulse stutters, long enough to feel like we’re still in the middle of something we didn’t finish.
I’m left standing there with my heart racing, knowing two things with absolute certainty.
Correcting that stat was the right call.
And wanting him like this is the wrong one.