71. CORA
CORA
Seven Months Later
I'm not used to seeing Lane in my house. Per my dad's rules, he wasn't allowed here until we both graduated and he was no longer a Great Lakes U student-athlete.
Now we've both walked across that stage.
Lane graduated like it was just another step forward, even though I knew how much it meant to him.
I walked too, despite the failed class. Exactly as I’d feared, the missed exam had been too much to overcome.
For a while, I thought it meant everything was falling apart.
It didn't. I'll finish the class online this summer, and somehow the world kept turning.
I still graduated with my friends. I still crossed the stage.
Life didn't collapse beneath the weight of one mistake.
When I walk into the house, I find my parents practically glowing from the kitchen doorway as Lane kisses my cheek. “What’s going on?” I ask.
He shrugs. "No idea. Coach called and told me to come over. Since then, I've apparently been under strict orders to stay put."
My suspicion grows. "What have they been doing?"
"Laughing. Whispering. Being weird." He glances toward the kitchen. "Mostly hiding in there."
I try to peek around him but can't see anything.
Lane leans closer. "Do you think they're on something?"
Before I can answer, my dad sticks his head around the corner. "Hey. I heard that."
Lane doesn't even look embarrassed.
"And no, we’re not," my dad adds.
There's a flurry of movement behind him. He glances over his shoulder before looking back at us, a smile spreading across his face.
It's the same one he wore after the Frozen Four championship—the one from that unforgettable night when the team crowded around the trophy, shouting and laughing beneath the championship banner.
A look which says something very, very good is about to happen.
My dad rubs his hands together and waves us in. “Okay, we’re ready for you.”
Lane reaches for my hand, his thumb brushing over the inside of my wrist, pausing over the small peach inked there. I turn my hand slightly so his thumb rests against it fully, showcasing the matching one on his hand. We got them a few weeks ago and it’s still hard to believe it was his idea.
The moment the kitchen comes into view, my stomach drops. Gathered around the table and leaning against the bar are some very important people—Oliver, Coach Knight and his wife, Lane’s agent, and my mom. For a second, I can only stare. The room feels charged with something I can’t quite name.
My gaze shifts from face to face, and my heart squeezes.
They’re all looking at Lane with the same expression—pride shining in their eyes, smiles tugging at their mouths—as if they’ve been waiting for this moment.
The vibe sends a rush of nerves through me.
It feels significant, like I’ve walked into the middle of a scene that will divide life into before and after.
Oliver is the first to move. He crosses the room without a word and pulls Lane into a fierce hug, clapping him hard on the back. The gesture is so full of affection and care that it makes my throat ache. When he finally lets go, he gives me a quick hug before stepping aside.
Lane glances around the room, his brow furrowing as he takes in the unexpected gathering. “What are you guys doing here?” he asks, a hint of confusion in his voice.
No one answers, but the smiles spreading across their faces tell me they won’t be keeping the secret much longer. And whatever they're about to say, I have a feeling it's going to change everything.
Then two more people step out from the hallway.
For a second, I’m convinced I have to be mistaken. That my brain is filling in details which can’t possibly be real. But when I blink, they’re still there.
Standing in my kitchen are the head coach and general manager of the Chicago Frost.
An NHL team.
My pulse roars in my ears as I look from one face to the other.
These aren't scouts stopping by a game or recruiters evaluating talent from a distance.
These are the men responsible for building a professional roster; for deciding which players are given a chance to make the jump to the highest level of hockey in the world.
Beside me, Lane has gone completely still.
His eyes are locked on them, disbelief written across every inch of his face.
I know exactly what he's seeing in this moment.
Not just two executives standing in the kitchen, but every early morning practice, every bus ride, every injury, every sacrifice.
The years he spent working toward a dream he thought had slipped through his fingers.
"Lane Maxwell," Head Coach Patrick O'Connor says warmly as he extends his hand. "We've been looking forward to meeting you."
Lane stares at the outstretched hand for half a second before taking it.
Standing beside him, I can see the disbelief still lingering in Lane’s expression.
Just months ago, he thought he'd lost any chance of playing professional hockey.
He'd convinced himself that one decision, one mistake made for the right reasons, had cost him everything he'd worked for since he was a kid lacing up skates for the first time.
"You—you sent a scout earlier this season," Lane stammers. His words stumble over each other, disbelief making him sound years younger than the confident player who just led his team to a championship.
Coach O'Connor laughs, the sound warm and easy. "You're right. I did."
Lane blinks.
Coach O'Connor glances toward the general manager before looking back at Lane. "Then we kept watching.”
A grin spreads across Lane's agent's face, revealing he already knows exactly how this conversation ends.
"Hell," Coach O’Connor continues, folding his arms across his chest, "we had people at your championship game. Even some of our players."
Lane looks genuinely stunned as he asks, "You did?"
"We did." The coach’s smile softens as he looks at Lane. "And if we're being honest, I've been hoping we'd get the chance to have this conversation for a while now."
“Yes, sir,” Lane replies.
I can’t breathe. I’m terrified to move.
Coach O’Connor points a finger at Lane and chuckles. "And first things first—stop calling me sir. That's not necessary."
A ripple of laughter moves through the room.
"Coach," he corrects. "I was hoping you'd call me Coach.”
Lane lets out a breathless laugh and shakes his head, like none of this feels real. His gaze finds mine for a moment before shifting back to the two men standing in my parents' kitchen—the men who are about to make his childhood dream a reality.
I catch my dad discreetly wiping at his eyes. Coach Knight has an arm slung around his shoulders, both of them watching Lane with matching expressions of pride.
"Wait," Lane says, his voice rough with emotion. "Are you serious?"
Coach O'Connor laughs. "It's the only reason I've spent the last hour hiding out in a guest bedroom." The room chuckles with him, but his expression quickly turns sincere. "Lane, you're the only free agent we're talking to right now. We'd like to offer you a roster spot with the Chicago Frost."
For a second, Lane just stares at him. The room goes completely silent and then Coach extends his hand. "We'd love to have you."
Emotions flashes across Lane's face so quickly I almost miss it—shock, relief, gratitude, and something that looks a lot like disbelief. He takes a step forward and clasps Coach O’Connor's hand.
"I'd be honored," he replies, his voice steadier now. "And I won't let you down."
The coach's grin widens. "I'm counting on that."
The room erupts. Applause and cheers bounce off the walls, drowning out everything else. Somewhere behind me, a champagne cork pops, followed by my mom's excited laugh as she starts pouring glasses.
Lane releases Coach O’Connor's hand and turns toward me.
"We did it," he says.
Before I can answer, he pulls me into his arms and kisses me. The excitement rolling off him is contagious, impossible to resist. When we finally break apart, I can't stop smiling.
"No," I counter, shaking my head as I cup his face. "You did it."
For a moment, he just looks at me, surrounded by the people who love him most, standing on the edge of the future he's worked his entire life for. And I've never seen him look happier.
After the paperwork is signed and the champagne has been consumed, everyone gathers around the kitchen table.
"My dad tells me you're the reason half the league is rethinking how they train," Oliver says to me with a grin.
I groan. "That’s absolutely not true."
"It kind of is," Coach Knight insists.
I shake my head. "It was just a research project."
"It wasn't just a research project." The table goes quiet as Coach O'Connor looks up from his coffee. "I read your paper."
My mouth falls open. "You did?"
He nods. "Visualization, performance under pressure, confidence recovery after mistakes. It was good work. Important work. A lot of people have believed in the mental side of performance for years, but your research gave them data to back it up."
I glance at Lane. "I didn't think it would reach that many people."
"It did," Coach says, "and I think it's going to reach a lot more."
Heat creeps into my cheeks.
Across the table, Lane looks so proud I have to look away. I've cried enough tonight.
A little while later, people start gathering coats and saying their goodbyes. As Coach O’Connor heads for the door, he pauses beside me.
"Oh, congratulations on the ESPN job."
My eyes widen. "You know about that too?"
He laughs. "News travels fast."
I laugh with him.
"I hope we'll see you at a game or two this season."
"I think I can make that happen."
"Good." He grins. "I have a feeling you'll fit in just fine."
Soon the house empties, leaving just me and Lane in the kitchen.
"Coralee Banks." Lane pulls me into his arms and presses a kiss to my forehead. "I couldn't have done this without you."
The sound of my full name settles something deep inside me. The nerves, the uncertainty, the fear of what comes next—all of it fades beneath the pride and love filling my chest.
I loop my arms around his neck. "I'm so proud of you. I love you."
His cheeks turn pink, the way they always do when it's just us.
"I thought the NHL was the dream," he admits, pulling me closer. "Turns out, it was just part of it."
My heart swells.
For the first time, I truly feel like I’m not trying to control what comes next. Because maybe the point was never getting it right.
Maybe it was trusting what we knew then… and choosing it anyway.
THE END