46. CORA
CORA
I’m finally caught up and back on track with this project. All the baseline data for Lane is done, and I might even have time to run it with another player in a different position. A comparison. Another data set. It’s a big jump from almost having nothing and needing to back out.
I met with my professor this morning, and she’s excited about what I’ve accomplished. The people pleaser in me can finally breathe.
The Michigan air cuts sharp, cold enough to sting as I stand outside Lane’s apartment. This is where I end up whenever we have a few hours that aren’t claimed by classes, work, or the team. Before I can knock, the door swings open.
Lane’s standing there, shoulders tight and jaw set. There’s a hint of a smile, but it doesn’t quite land.
My stomach drops. “What’s wrong?”
I step inside and he shuts the door behind me. Part of me waits for him to say it’s nothing. That it’s fixable. That I’m overreacting.
He doesn’t.
His hands drag through his hair as he starts pacing the room. I stay where I am, watching him, waiting for him to speak.
“What are we doing? You and me? I just had this meeting with Coach, your dad—” Lane stops talking. He falls into the couch with his head in his hands. “Your dad is my coach. I’m a fucking idiot.”
“You are not an idiot.” I sit next to him, trying to catch his eyes but he won’t look at me.
“No, I really am.” He pops up and when his eyes land on me, it hurts. I can see the panic in them instead of the look which usually makes me feel safe, put together. Time seems to slow for the two of us, making me feel like my skin is too tight for my bones.
Lightly, I put a hand on his knee. “What happened?”
Lane looks to the floor in front of him as he rambles.
“I had my meeting with Coach and he basically told me how thankful he is that I’m on the team.
How he knew I had it in me. How he went to bat for me to come here.
And then he asked about the scouts that have called.
Scouts. Calling for me? To watch me play? ”
My brows knit together. “Those all sound like great things.”
“They are. And then,” he pauses, “he asked me about you.”
I’m frozen in place, like the icy air from outside has infiltrated my veins. I’m afraid to move. All of the ways I was careful—don't show too much attention, don’t stare at the man, always have a place you were—seems like it wasn't enough.
I'm afraid to speak. So, I don’t.
“He asked if you’re back with Freddy.” Lane’s lips curl around my ex’s name.
“He did what?” Embarrassment runs over my skin like a dumped bucket of water.
“He asked if you were back with Freddy. Apparently, you’ve been gone a lot...” He rubs his hands together. “Obviously, I told him I didn’t think that was the case. But then he made sure it wasn’t someone on the team.”
Lane turns his head to face me. There’s an expression on his face that I can’t seem to put my finger on. It’s like anxiety and disappointment swirled together—he sort of shakes as he continues to fidget with his hand.
Buzzing on the table shifts our attention. Lane’s phone lights up with a few text message notifications from someone I don’t know: Oliver.
Lane’s face completely pales—he's white and his lips mash together. He takes in a deep breath and holds it. Leaning forward, it's like he’s double-checking who the messages are from before he grabs his phone and tosses it.
It slides on the carpet and Lane puts his head in his hands. Before I can ask a question or get any more information, he’s standing with his hands rubbing his eyes.
I don’t know what’s happening but I know we need to get out of here.
“Grab your coat,” I say, already standing. I pull it from the hook and hold it out to him. He just stares at it for a second, then at me, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m doing. I lift it a little higher, nudging him to take it. “I’m taking you somewhere.”
His jaw tightens, but he does take it. He slips it on without a word while I grab my keys, open the door, and wait for him to follow. There’s only one place I’m thinking of. The place that has seen me through everything—highs, lows, and the moments where it felt like there was nowhere else to go.
We’re going to the lighthouse.
I put the car in park, step out, grab the blanket, and start walking. Lane follows behind me quietly, not saying a single word. The drive over was the same—just the hum of the engine and the steady rush of heat filling the car, neither of us breaking the silence.
The wind hits the second I step onto the sand, sharp enough to steal the air from my lungs.
It smells like rain and the lake, cold and clean all at once.
I tuck the blanket tighter against my chest and keep moving, my boots sinking into the soft, uneven ground.
Lane stays a step behind me, close enough that I feel him there, but not close enough to touch.
Out here, with nothing around us, the quiet feels heavier somehow.
The sky hangs low with thick clouds, turning the afternoon dim, like the day is already slipping into night.
Waves roll and break in quick succession, white foam clawing at the shore like the lake itself can’t settle. I stop just short of the waterline, hair whipping across my face, and stare out at the dark horizon where everything seems to disappear.
“This way,” I say, nodding toward the pier. It’s the first thing I’ve said since we left his apartment.
Lane doesn’t respond, but he follows as we move along the shoreline.
The rhythm of the waves starts to match my breathing, steady yet uneven at the same time.
My thoughts crash just as hard. Why did my dad suspect anything?
When will Freddy finally be out of the picture?
Will Lane realize I’m not worth the fallout?
Is this all we’re ever going to get?
By the time we reach the door, my hands are cold as I punch in the code. The lock blinks green and clicks open. Lane watches me, then says, “Don’t tell me your family owns this lighthouse or something.”
It’s a weak attempt at a joke, but I take it anyway.
“No. I made friends with the people who are responsible for it. I do some light cleaning once a month in exchange for the code. I just like being here. It helps me think.”
We make our way slowly through the small space, taking the steps until we’re at the top of the lighthouse. A few pillows that I’ve brought and left here are already on the floor, indicating my favorite spot.
I sit, pat the one next to me, and Lane sinks beside me. I stare out the window, which makes it feel like you’re surrounded by water. There’s nothing but darkness as far as you can see.
Slowly, I take a deep breath, letting the coolness of the air push into my lungs. When I sigh it out, I start. “This is one of my favorite places. In the world. Not just on campus. It felt like this is where we should have this conversation.”
Lane nods and it pulls at my heart a little, like he understands the importance.
“You asked what we were doing. And I don’t have an answer.
You’re one of the first things I don’t have an answer for.
I tried not wanting you. You tried, too.
And now, we’re this—” I gesture to the two of us.
“You have me breaking the rules and that isn’t me.
” Each word feels like salt getting close to a wound—I'm just waiting for the sting. The pain.
“It’s not in the cards for me to have hockey and you. There’s no way I’m that lucky.” His words are meant to sound light, but they land heavily enough to knock the air out of me.
“Who says?”
Lane’s eyes lift to mine, his head tilting slightly.
“The world. Whatever you believe in. My life’s been a disaster, one thing after another, and there are only a few wins worth mentioning.
That’s how I got here. A coach who might actually believe in me.
A shot at my dream.” His gaze lingers on me and something unsettled moves behind it, like he’s trying to push away a thought he doesn’t want to sit with.
It reminds me of the way he reacted to Oliver’s messages.
The way his whole body shifted. I don’t know much about his life before Michigan.
Just that he talks about it like it’s something he had to escape.
Something he doesn’t go back to. The accident in Ohio is the only piece he’s ever let slip, and even that feels like a door he shut the second it opened.
“You don’t know that,” I quietly protest-. “The universe isn’t out to get you.”
He shakes his head, cutting me off before I can say more. “If you knew even half of it, you’d be agreeing with me.”
“Then tell me.” I reach for his hand. He tries to pull away, I feel it in the small recoil, but I hold on, my fingers tightening around his. “Who is Oliver? Why don’t we start there?”
He lifts his chin, takes a breath, then closes his mouth before anything comes out. His jaw shifts, his eyes flicking to the ceiling like he’s searching for an answer he’s not sure he wants to give.
“It’s complicated,” he says finally, quieter than before. “And it’s—”
I squeeze his hand again. “There’s nothing you can say that will make me not want to hear it.” The words come out steady, even though it feels like I’m balancing on something fragile. “I want to know your story.”
It’s the truth. From the first night I met Lane, there’s been something pulling us back to each other. He talks about the universe like it’s taken things from him, like it’s something to brace against. But for me, it feels like it gave me something instead.
It gave me him.
The one I didn’t see coming. The one I’m not ready to lose.