13. LANE
LANE
The air in the rink is sharp, cold enough to bite, and it feels like home. The scrape of blades across fresh ice, the echo of pucks hammering off the boards, the thud of bodies hitting the boards—it’s the one place I don’t think, I just do. Out here, everything else burns away.
“Let’s go!” Troy’s voice booms across the ice as we cycle through a breakout drill. He’s got the lungs of a drill sergeant but he's more bark than bite. He has an easy way of leading the team, and I don’t mind him being my captain at all.
I drive hard, cutting wide to the left and taking the feed clean on my tape. One quick pivot and I burn past a defenseman who’s half a second too slow. Stick down, shoulders low, eyes on the goalie. Wrist shot, top corner, and the net ripples
“That was silky fucking smooth!” Leo calls, skating up and clapping me on the back. Then he glances over his shoulder. “Troy, you see that? You see how pretty that was?”
“I saw it,” Noah jumps in with a raised hand, always on Leo’s side.
Troy doesn’t miss a beat as he loops back to center ice. He lightly punches Leo. “You’d know pretty if you ever scored one yourself.”
They laugh and trade jabs like they’ve probably done a hundred times. Leo groans, clutching his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “Unbelievable. I tee Lane up for the compliment, and I’m the one catching strays.”
The fact that Leo is almost baiting Troy to hype me up makes me want to shrink a little. But there’s this soft part of me which appreciates how he’s just trying to be a good teammate. Where the fuck did that soft part even come from?
Troy turns to me. “It was pretty. Hope you’ll be just like that in a real game.”
I keep quiet but tip my head as I grip my stick tighter, already itching for the next rep. Compliments don’t mean much to me. Results do.
We roll straight into the same drill, switching the positions. Coach’s whistle slices the air every thirty seconds. I dig in, legs burning, lungs stretching against the cold. I want to prove it every shift—prove I belong here.
That Coach taking a chance on me wasn’t a mistake.
Practice ends with the whistle echoing off the rafters. My lungs are burning, legs heavy, but it’s the type of exhaustion that feels earned. The kind that tells me I gave everything I had.
“Solid practice,” Coach calls out. Sticks tap the ice in response before everyone drifts toward the tunnel.
I’m about to follow when his voice cuts through the air. “Maxwell. Hang back a sec.
Helmet still clipped under my chin, I glide over.
“You look good,” Coach compliments, his steady eyes on me. “I see it. But don’t get comfortable. Every guy out here wants the same spot you do. You’ve got the skill—but the little things will separate you. Stay low in transitions. Sell your fakes harder. Work on your weak side when you can.”
It’s not criticism—it’s a challenge. And I eat it up.
“Yes, Coach.” My voice is clipped, but inside I’m burning with want. With the certainty that this—this grind, this rink—is where I belong.
“Good. Now get out of here before the Zamboni runs you over,” he says, dismissing me with a flick of his hand.
I tug off my helmet and push through the gate, sweat dripping cold down my neck. The others are already half undressed, chirping each other in the locker room. My chest feels light, alive.
Until I step into the hall.
Through the pane of glass beside the offices, I spot her.
Cora.
She’s perched on the edge of a chair in her dad’s office, hands flying as she talks to someone I can’t see. She looks comfortable there. At home. Like she belongs in the space.
The coil in my gut snaps tight. I should keep walking. Shouldn’t even look. But I can’t stop the way my chest seizes, how fast the fire in my veins curdles into something sharp and bitter.
The knot ties in my stomach and pulls, making even my chest tight. My heart thumps like it’s running away from something, and it all punches me right in the gut.
Helmet in my fist, I shoulder past the office door without slowing, without giving her the satisfaction of knowing she got under my skin.
But she did.