32. CORA
CORA
I’m walking outside campus and the October weather is aggressive.
The air is strong and errant, whipping my hair around me.
It smells like a bonfire, even though it’s still light out.
The trees have branches clinging to leaves, which are quickly turning to the golds and reds that make fall so colorful.
Finding a bench, the one that had an envelope for us during the scavenger hunt, I sit for just a minute. Everyone else hurries to class, or work, or off with their friends. I luck out when it’s just me.
I let the wind crash around me. The rustle of leaves and branches are loud, the faint sound of waves breaking at the lake. Goosebumps break over my skin and I hold my hands in my lap, digging my fingers into each other.
My bones are tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally.
I feel like I’m stuck in this strange limbo.
I’m back at home, Freddy isn’t part of my day-to-day life anymore, and somehow I’ve never been harder on myself than I am right now.
I look around, taking in the campus stretched out in front of me.
The buildings, the energy, even the way the seasons shift.
There are only so many of these moments left.
Am I so busy beating myself up that I don’t even notice it? Don’t even care?
I know the answer. It just feels like one more way I’ve let myself down.
I breathe in the crisp fall air, letting it fill my lungs and steady me. When I was younger, if I were getting over being sick or just going through something, my parents would drive me out to the lake. They always said the lake air could cure just about anything.
And I believed them.
I try to believe it now. Try to let it soften something in me; ease the sting of all the ways I feel like I’ve fallen short.
I glance down at my phone to check the time, already knowing there’s somewhere else I can go. Somewhere that feels a little more like me. Somewhere I might be able to find the pieces I’ve been missing.
I wait until all the scheduled practice and workout windows are done.
Then I use my code to get into the facility, backpack over one shoulder, skates slung in a separate bag.
It’s Thursday, which means the guys have early practice tomorrow.
The Zamboni will clean the ice before then, so I’m not doing any harm.
When I was little, my dad taught me to skate as soon as I could walk. It’s one of the first things I remember us doing together as a family. There are photos of me out on NHL ice, tiny and bundled up, skating with him after games or after one of his practices.
Now I move quietly through the arena, listening for any sign that someone else is here.
Nothing.
I’m not breaking the rules. I have a code that gives me access, same as the team.
I keep most of the lights off, only needing one to see enough to skate. I pull my skates on and as I lace them up, I feel a smile start to creep across my face. My headphones cover my ears, playlist queued, and I step onto the ice purely for fun for the first time in a while.
The overhead light I left on blazes down, reflecting off the ice in a thousand sharp flashes, but today it doesn’t hurt.
There’s no pressure behind my eyes, no warning pulse at my temple, no quiet countdown to a migraine that will send me hiding in a dark room.
Just cold air filling my lungs and the smooth rhythm of skating, my edges carving soft arcs across the ice.
I lean into the next turn, faster this time, a quiet laugh slipping out because this is usually the kind of place my body steals from me.
But not tonight. Tonight, I get to have it.
The first lap always feels like coming home.
It pulls me back to some of my favorite memories with my dad, back to when I believed anything was possible.
My muscles loosen, the cold air rushing past my face like a reset.
I lean into each turn, testing the edge of my skates and pushing harder, each stride easing the knots in my body until they start to unravel.
I don’t know how long I’m out there, but my cheeks begin to ache from smiling.
I slow near center ice, coasting along the edges of my blades, and that’s when I feel it. The faintest shift in the air, like the room changed without warning. My shoulders tighten. It’s a strange, heavy awareness, one that creeps in when you know you’re not alone even if you can’t see anyone.
The hairs on the back of my neck lift.
I glance toward the glass, half expecting to catch a shadow watching me. For a second, there’s nothing. Just the echo of my own breathing, too loud in the empty rink.
Until Lane steps out onto the ice.