49. LANE
LANE
I step out of the lecture hall with the rest of the crowd, the hallway outside buzzing with that post-class shuffle—backpacks, coffee cups, people half-talking about assignments they didn’t start yet.
I’m halfway down the hall toward the athletic study center when I spot a few of the guys from the team gathered near the stairwell, talking like they’ve all had three energy drinks.
Leo points at me the second I get close. “There he is.”
“Scouts tonight,” Troy says, like he’s dropping breaking news. “Three of them.”
We start walking toward the study hall and when I don’t say anything, they keep going.
“For you,” Troy continues, falling into step beside me.
I push open the door to the study room and drop my bag on the table. “They’re here for whoever has a good night.”
“Lane,” Matty groans, pulling out a chair. “You’re leading the conference in goals.”
“Which means absolutely nothing if I play like shit tonight.”
Leo grins. “Confidence. Love to see it.”
I shrug and grab a textbook from my bag, pretending like the idea doesn’t stick somewhere in the back of my head. “Just another game.”
“Sure,” Matty drawls. “Except there are NHL scouts in the stands.”
“Then I guess we should give them something to watch.”
It’s the only way I know how to react before I slip into a spiral. Ever since Coach told me about the scouts, I’ve kept it to myself. It felt like a dick move to bring it up to the guys, so I haven’t. Plus, I didn’t want it to feel too real.
But it is.
And I hope I don’t fuck this up.
After telling Cora about Oliver—including the night of the accident—I’ve felt lighter. Like it’s different not being the only person who knows the truth. Well, Oliver doesn’t count, because he’s not here.
Right now, I kind of wish he was. There’s been a few times this season when I look around at my teammates, or at something that’s happening, and there’s a rush of wondering what it’d be like if it was still me and him. Not even just missing him, but wishing we were still playing together.
The guys would love him. He’s just that kind of person. I can almost envision him and Leo going back and forth.
I’ve been keeping up on his season, how he’s playing. It’s not as solid as the Otters but they’re winning enough games to still have a handle on their season. My stomach flips when I think about playing him in a few weeks.
We’re playing at home and it will be the first time we’ve see each other since I left for Michigan. Part of me wonders if I should reach out, clear the air. Maybe answer his call or call him back.
Cora’s asked more questions about what it was like staying with the Knights. How me and Oliver were together. She’s curious and I don’t blame her.
No matter what, I’m grateful for the Knights. They saved me. They know it. I know it. It’s part of the reason why I did what I did that night.
I keep drifting to a time in the future where we’re together and all of this is behind us. Maybe we’re at one of Oliver’s games when he’s in the NHL? Or one of mine? It makes me feel stupidly optimistic.
I should know better.
Because life has never really worked out for me like that.
I do my best to shake off the memories and push those thoughts to the side. Today’s not the day for it.
The arena is deafening before the puck even drops.
Our student section is on their feet, pounding the glass; the music seems louder than I ever remember. I glide a slow circle during warmups, rolling my shoulders loose, forcing myself not to look into the stands where the scouts are supposed to be sitting.
Just another game. That’s what I keep telling myself. Otherwise I might fucking throw up on this ice in front of everyone.
I’m trying to catch my breath when I spot Cora.
Tonight, she’s out of the press box and doesn’t have a clipboard or tablet for notes.
Coach wanted everyone that wasn’t essential to be in the stands so they could have fun.
She’s sitting behind the bench, wearing an Otters jersey with her first name on the back.
Anyone who is part of the coaching staff or support team gets their own jersey each season.
When her eyes lock on mine, it lightens the weight I’m skating with.
We’ve talked at length about the scouts—she knows how important tonight is.
When she wasn’t reciting my stat line, trying to convince me how I could have a mediocre night and it’d still be scout worthy, she kept asking me what I needed, if there was anything she could do to help.
Her. I needed her. Knowing she’s cheering for me in the stands makes me feel even more capable. Like I can for sure fucking do this.
She claps in my direction and kisses the air. The simplest of gestures, but one that makes my heart pick up.
I’m fucking gone for her.
Midway through the second period, the puck kicks loose along the boards and Troy taps it out to me at the blue line. The lane opens for half a second—just enough.
I pull the puck in, cut inside the defender, and shoot.
The red light flashes before I even fully register the sound of the puck hitting the back of the net.
The arena explodes.
My teammates crash into me near the boards, helmets knocking against mine while the crowd roars loud enough to feel in my chest. I skate past our bench and Coach catches my shoulder as I glide by.
“Perfect read,” he says, voice low but sharp with approval. “Keep playing exactly like that.”
I nod once, trying to act like my heart isn’t trying to break through my ribs.
Because tonight is just another game.
After the final buzzer, the locker room is chaos—music, shouting, guys reliving every play like it already belongs in a highlight reel. I’ve barely finished unlacing my skates when Coach pokes his head inside.
“Maxwell,” he calls. “Couple people want to say hello.”
A few minutes later, I’m standing in the hallway outside the locker room, hair still damp and in my team sweats. Two men in suits introduce themselves, clipboards tucked under their arms.
They ask about the game, about the goal, about how I’m feeling this season. I keep my answers short, steady—like this isn’t the kind of conversation I’ve been imagining since I was a kid.
One of them nods toward the rink behind me. “That was a hell of a performance tonight.”
“Thank you, sir,” I reply.
“Think you can keep this up the rest of the season?” the other prompts.
Looking around, I can’t fight the smile on my lips. “I really hope so.”
The two of them laugh. I try to channel a calm and collected sort of mood. Inside, though, everything feels sharp and electric. Because for the first time in a long time, it actually feels like it might be possible.
A few months ago, I couldn’t even think ahead to the next week. Now? I can almost feel the NHL jersey on my skin.