14. CORA
CORA
I said yes because it was easy.
Ryan leaned against my desk after class, a cocky grin in place. “You seem like you’d be fun outside of textbooks. Wanna grab a drink sometime?
Normally, I would’ve brushed him off—rattled an excuse about teaching spin, or studying, or grading someone else’s notes just for fun. But I didn’t.
Because he wasn’t Freddy. He wasn’t Lane. And being asked out, being noticed—it felt good. Damn. That sounds so pathetic, even when I’m only thinking about it.
So here I am, at Shore Thing, perched in a booth sticky from spilled beer, staring at a guy who doesn’t care about school because he doesn’t have to.
“My dad’s firm is already holding a spot for me,” Ryan says with a shrug that screams easy life. “New York. Finance. Probably a corner office by twenty-six if I play it right.”
His smirk is smooth, confident, and sneaky—the type I know women fall for.
He’s handsome in the polished way finance bros usually are: fresh haircut, pressed shirt, expensive cologne.
He has everything lined up, so why should he care about exams or papers or trying?
He jokes about having “notes” from previous years, which is typically code for some sort of in on the exam questions.
I nod, swirling the melting ice in my glass. My own life is just work layered with more work. He speaks like his life is a done deal, while I’m just hoping I can hold on to everything—keep the plates from falling off the ledge, the pile I feel like I add to each day.
His eyes dip low, blatantly tracing the length of my legs to where my skirt hits mid-thigh. He doesn’t even bother to look guilty when he knows he’s caught.
I should feel something—fluttery, excited, at least a little smug. Instead, my stomach knots.
Because while he’s staring, my brain goes rogue. I see Lane. That first night. I feel him.
The way his hand slid along my jaw, warm and sure. The scrape of stubble when he bent closer. The heat of his mouth on mine—rough, almost careless, but so electric it left me dizzy. It wasn’t sweet. I wasn't careful. It was a lightning strike
I press my lips together hard, trying to shake it.
“Anyway,” Ryan continues, ordering another beer with a wave, “tell me more about your dad. He’s the hockey coach, right?”
“But you already knew that,” I say, sharper than I intend, through a saccharine sweet smile.
“Sure, but he used to be in the NHL, right? That’s wild.”
I nod. “Yeah. Guess you could say that.” I take another drink.
“Crazy. So, like—you get perks, don’t you? Suite tickets, Frozen Four hookups?” He grins, tilting his head. “Bet you could get us into any game. Meet the players, hang in the box seats.”
There it is. He didn’t ask me out because he wanted me. He wanted a shortcut. A connection.
“I’m a huge fan and have never won the student lottery.” He tries to be charming but it just comes off as the pick-me version of a man. Hilarious that someone of his stature isn’t able to find tickets. I laugh to myself, thinking about the irony of it all.
I smile—tight, practiced, the one I’ve worn since middle school. “I don’t hand out tickets.”
“Touchy,” he teases, leaning closer like we’re in on some joke.
I take a drink instead of replying, the syrupy sweetness making me wish I’d ordered something stronger. He winks like he didn’t mean what he said, but I know that’s bullshit.
This is my one night off all weekend. My one night to breathe. And I’m spending it with a guy who looks at me like a seat upgrade and talks about himself like he’s already won a competition only he knows about.
I should’ve stayed home. Or gone out with Brinn. Or studied. Anything but this.
The door swings open, allowing a cool rush of the night air to sweep in, laughter following. I turn, already knowing. I can feel him before I see him. My traitorously eager heart stutters before my brain catches up.
Lane.
His damp hair pushed back, shoulders filling out a dark long-sleeved shirt that clings in all the ways I hate noticing. His eyes scan the room, sharp and restless, and suddenly the bar feels smaller.
I grip my glass tighter. Of course he’d show up tonight. My one night off, wasted with someone like Ryan, and Lane is here to make it even worse.
Because even across the bar, all I can think about is the memory of his mouth on mine.