53. LANE
LANE
I’m never here before Cora. I skate slow laps around the empty rink, not really going anywhere. Practice ended almost an hour ago, and we’re supposed to be working on her research project.
She’s been off since everything with the exam.
When she finally told me what happened, it felt like she had her hands in my chest, squeezing my heart.
That’s how bad it hit. I could see it happening in real time—her doubting herself, piece by piece, like she was handing parts of herself over and not even realizing it.
I tried to grab what I could, to hold onto it for her until she’s ready to take it back.
I get it. Cora is Type A down to her bones. She runs on control, on staying one step ahead, keeping everything exactly where she wants it.
I didn’t even think about the migraines. Didn’t know she had no accommodations, just assumed she would’ve already handled it. That’s on me. Not because I think they aren’t bad, but because it felt like something she would’ve taken care of. Still a shitty assumption.
Then she told me why. That she’s already the hockey coach’s daughter, already stands out enough. She doesn’t feel like she deserve anything extra. Like her life’s been too easy.
I’m the one who brought up the project. Asked when we were getting back to it. She didn’t say it out loud, but I could feel it—what’s the point?
I skate over to the bench and check my phone. No texts. No calls. Now she’s fifteen minutes late.
Maybe I screwed up the time?
I open my calendar app—where I keep everything hockey and Cora related—but before I even scroll to today’s schedule, the rink door thuds shut behind me.
Cora.
“Hey,” I call, pushing off the boards. “Was starting to worry I had the time wrong.”
She shakes her head. “No. You’ve got it right.”
Her voice is flat. There’s not a sliver of the bright, vibrant woman I’m used to seeing.
“Is everything okay?”
She shrugs like the question doesn’t matter and drops her bag onto the bench beside her tablet.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” She pulls at the hem of her shirt.
I look around the rink, making sure it’s still just the two of us. “You were late. I don’t think I’ve ever beat you here.” I try to make it sound like a joke.
“Relax,” she says, pulling her hair into a loose ponytail. “College kids are late all the time.”
I stare at her. Kind of waiting for an apology or an explanation. But neither of those things come.
Coralee Banks does a lot of things. Being late isn’t one of them.
She notices me looking and rolls her eyes slightly. “It’s not that big of a deal, Lane. I’m good.” She puts on a practiced smile, one that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I don’t answer right away because she’s right.
It’s not a big deal. Not really. No need to alert the authorities because she was fifteen minutes late to extra school work.
But the way she says it feels like someone swapped her out for a version of herself that doesn’t care.
Even after I picked her up from the bar last week, she was clearly upset.
This feels like nothing. And that’s the part that makes something in my chest tighten.
Cora opens the tablet and glances at something on the screen.
“Okay,” she sighs. “What drill are we on today?”
I glance out at the ice, waiting for her instruction. Typically, this is something she’d already know and be yelling out at me, stopwatch at the ready.
Today she just leans back against the boards like she’s watching a pickup game.
“I think we’re starting at the blue line today. Backhand shots.”
I skate out to where she asks me to and wait for her cue for me to start.
“How many times?”
She sighs out a breath, scrolling through her file on the tablet. “Thirty.”
I do what she asks. Skating from the blue line and backhanding it into the unguarded net. I keep track in my head, and when I’ve done it thirty times, I skate back to the bench.
“What’s next?” I ask while grabbing a drink from my water bottle.
Her icy blue eyes snap to mine and there’s a flicker of the spark I’m used to seeing.
She puts the tablet on the bench and then stands in front of me.
Her arms loop around my neck; before I can clock what’s next, she’s kissing me.
Her lips are soft but needy. She moans into my mouth and I can’t help the way my hands pull her closer to me.
She teases me with her tongue, licking at the seam of my lips.
I part them before I can even think about it.
Her tongue slips against mine, slow and testing, and the soft sound she makes in the back of her throat sends a rush of heat straight through my chest. My hands slide to her waist automatically, gripping the sides of her hips as I pull her closer until she’s pressed against me.
“Cora—” I start, but the word disappears when she kisses me again, harder this time. Like I’m the breath she’s trying to catch.
Her fingers tighten in the back of my hair as she tilts her head, deepening the kiss, and I feel the way her body melts into mine. The cold air of the rink bites at the back of my neck, but everywhere she touches is warm.
My thumb brushes along the curve of her waist and she shivers against me. That little reaction almost kills me.
I drag my mouth from hers for a second, my breath uneven. Her lips are flushed, slightly swollen, and her eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them.
“We shouldn’t do this here,” I mutter, eyes glancing around the rink, making sure it’s just us.
Cora pouts when I grab her hands and pull them from my neck. Then a wicked smile paints her lips.
“Then let’s get out of here.” She tips her head towards the exit.
I press my lips together, not believing the next thing I’m about to say. “What about the rest of the skate? We only did one rep.”
She playfully rolls her eyes, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “Consider today’s data session over. I’ve got other plans for you.” Cora points a finger in my chest.
I grab it and keep her from walking away from me just yet. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. One hundred percent. This”—she gestures to the rink—“we can do whenever.” Cora steps in closer to me. “You. I want now.”
Fuck. Hearing the woman you’re in love with say something like that is not for the weak. My knees wobble when she smiles in the way I’m used to. Easy. Bright. Fucking drop-dead gorgeous.
It’s not forced or the tight version she’s been wearing lately—the one she wears when trying to convince everyone, including herself, that she’s fine. This one reaches her eyes and settles the uneasiness in the back of my mind.
This is the Cora I know.
It’s the version of Cora that chirps at the guys from the press box. The one who argues stats with me, or really anyone, like it’s a competitive sport.
It’s the one who could get me to do almost anything. Fuck, I think any version of her could do that.
“Let’s get out of here,” I agree, grinning at her. When I give in, she lights up and it makes it hard for me to catch my breath.
We’re all going through shit. This might be one of Cora’s tough seasons but I’m going to do what I can to help her through it. Just like she’d do, and has done, for me.
She fucking deserves at least that much.