34. CORA
CORA
The power would go out—that’s just the kind of luck I’ve had recently.
Or maybe it’s a sign from the universe to keep my mouth shut?
“This happen a lot?” Lane asks, looking around as the safety lights kick on. They give us enough light to navigate the arena.
"No. But sometimes the wind off the lake is brutal.” I glance around, then rub my forehead with my fingers. “The doors. Everything is electric. There’s master keys but I obviously don’t have one. So, we’re probably stuck until the power comes back on.”
Shit.
“Should you call your dad?”
“He left right after your morning practice. He had some scouting to do a few hours away. Won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”
Reality is setting in. I’m just stuck here? With the guy who can’t stand me ninety percent of the time and then makes me question it the other ten percent? Just what I wanted. I turn and skate away, trying to collect my thoughts.
And then Lane’s hand is on my forearm, spinning me toward him. “I do want you to answer my question from before. Why does it bother you that I’m around?”
His eyes burn with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. Part of me wants to close the distance between us. The other part wants to run.
My skin tingles beneath his gaze, and I can’t stop replaying that first night. The way he looked at me. The way he made me feel seen.
One look from him, and I’m right back there.
My resolve chips—the mask I’ve carefully curated and used to protect me from Lane, from the way he made me feel, starts to slip. I don’t have it in me to keep it up.
I look at his fingers gripping me and then back to his gaze—ink dark, like I want to drown in it.
“You make it impossible not to want you. Not to care,” I whisper.
It feels like I’m having an out-of-body experience, watching myself say the words to Lane.
He doesn’t move besides the slight shift of his head, a squint to his brows like he’s trying to listen.
“You’re impossible and I’m tired of fighting.
That’s all I’ve been doing—fighting. Clawing to get myself to the next spot, and—”
Lane cuts me off with a kiss more commanding than questioning, his lips slanting over mine with a hunger that blankets all of me. It’s raw, urgent, the kind of kiss that says he’s done holding back.
I’m kissing him back just as hard, like he’s a lifeline. I’ve been craving this for too long. My hands grab the front of his shirt, my fingers curling and pulling him closer.
Lane skates, pushing me back until I’m at the edge of the rink. Effortlessly, and without breaking the kiss, he lifts me and sets my ass on the ledge. His arms wrap around my waist, his hands splayed against my back.
My hand goes from his shirt to the side of his face, until it’s in his hair.
I push my fingers through it as his tongue sweeps the seam of my lip, needing more—which I happily give.
When he tastes me, Lane groans, and it immediately hits me in the chest. Time slows and it feels like this moment is significant.
He must feel it too because he stops, creating a tiny bit of space and saying, “Fuck it. I don’t want to fight you anymore, Cora. Unless I’m fighting for you.”
His nose touches mine and he softly brushes his lips to mine.
My phone rings, startling both of us, and I almost fall of the ledge. I grab it out of my pocket and see my dad is calling.
“Hey, Dad,” I greet him, giving Lane a heads up on who’s on the other line.
“Cora, are you okay?” he asks, panic coming through.
Nodding even though he can’t see it, I answer, “Yes. Everything’s fine. Lane’s here, too… he was doing speed drills.”
Lane’s face goes slightly pale, or maybe it’s the lights playing tricks on me. What Lane doesn’t know is that my dad can see who has used their code at the facility. He knew we were both here before I even said anything.
“They called and let me know it should be short lived. Maybe an hour and the power will be back on. So, just hold tight, okay? If it’s longer than that, let me know and the athletic director will come over with a key.”
“Sounds good, Dad. See you tomorrow.” I hang up the phone.
I give Lane the highlights, including letting him in on the secret of Coach knowing who’s here based on key codes. My hand finds his shirt again and I pull him to me, lips finding his, like he’s all I need.
His mouth moves from my lips to the soft spot under my jaw, until he’s kissing down my neck. Heat pools in my belly and I tip my head to the ceiling. Lane is like an electric current; whenever he touches me, sparks flood my body. I can’t remember a time with Freddy being even close to this.
In this moment, I vow to stop thinking of Freddy. He’s overstayed his welcome—mentally and probably physically.
Lane picks me up, sets me back on the ice, and grabs my hand.
“Come on,” he coaxes, his voice soft as velvet while the look on his face is devilish.
I don’t even want to ask where or why—I simply want to follow him. It feels like I’m trying to proactively get in front of my need for control. The way to set myself up for the best outcome. All I need to know is the way Lane makes me feel is unmatched.
We skate to the penalty box. He stops, kneels in front of me, and starts unlacing my skates. He pulls each one off, lightly setting them on the wall of the rink. “You won’t need these,” he says, giving me a smirk—the same one that had me fucking him the first night we met.
He opens the door and pulls me inside. His hands are massive as they grip my sides, covering most of my ribcage. I wrap my arms around his neck and soak in the feeling of him holding me like this. I know he has muscles everywhere, but even his hands are strong.
Lane’s hands trail from my sides, deliberate and unhurried, until they settle low on my hips.
The heat from his palms seeps through the fabric of my shirt, branding me before he grips harder and slides down to cup my ass.
The rough squeeze pulls a groan from deep in his chest, a sound that vibrates low and raw against my mouth, like it belongs to me alone.
I could live off that sound, let it play on repeat in my veins.
Adrenaline floods me, sharp and dizzying, making every brush of his fingers and every shift of his body against mine spark brighter. My skin hums beneath the contact, hypersensitive and needy.
I put my face in the crook of his neck and take a breath—he smells like peppermint. Lane sits on the bench in the box and looks up at me, his eyes dark brown and molten, so beautiful it’s almost unfair.
“Are you ready to be a good girl, Cora?” His voice crawls up my spine, each syllable making me needier.
I have a feeling I’ve got no idea what I got myself into.
But I can’t wait to find out.