I can’t tell if I hate or love the idea. Deep down, it feels like a deep tie to all the players, past this team and into future ones. Bet I'd like it better if I weren’t stuck with a fucking extra and someone would’ve given me a heads up.
“You need me,” she insists, arms crossed, feet planted in front of the doors.
“And who are you today? Cora? Lee? Trying out a new personality?” I don’t look at her as I rip open the envelope.
She exhales. “You know it’s Cora. And why don’t you get over yourself?” She leans in, reading the paper upside down. Then she looks at me expectantly, tipping her chin forward like I’m supposed to say something. “Do you have any idea where this is?”
The clue might as well be in another language. I’ve got nothing. No idea where to even start.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought. Let’s go.” She takes off toward the center of campus.
I fall in step beside her. We don’t say a word. Good.
But if the guys included her, she’s not going anywhere. She’ll be part of my last season somehow. Coexisting will become just another survival skill.
We make it to the heart of campus. There’s a fountain that I’ve heard people call Little Lake and it seems like a popular spot. A deep stone walkway outlines the fountain, with a row of benches outside of that. Today, people sit on the edge, some lying back and soaking in what could be one of the last nice summer days. Classes are starting Monday; the end of August is hazy and warm.
Cora doesn’t say a word before she starts looking for a specific bench, one that she counts from the center. She crouches down, searching for something, and then I hear the sound of tape ripping.
There she is with a clue. It’s the same type of envelope, but it shows our starting number and a small two in the lower left corner. Immediately, she opens it and reads what’s next. It’s not until I start to read over her shoulder that she throws it in a trash can a few feet away.
“What are you doing?” I huff.
“I know where the next clue is.” She’s already moving, walking fast. “You don’t want to be last.”
“And if you are?” I don’t even know why I push, but here we are.
“If you’re last, I'm last, and that’s a hell no for me. So, why don’t you get your ass moving and let me try to catch up? You’ll notice there weren’t any other envelopes around. We’re still behind.”
Cora doesn’t wait for me to respond or do anything. Instead, she starts to run—not a jog, but a legit run. I follow her–what the fuck else am I supposed to do?
And then it hits me, like a punch to the face. If this were something we did at my old team, I’d be with Oliver. Best friends would typically pair together for some shit like this. But we haven’t talked since everything happened. Rage fills me, but I know there’s a bit of sadness mixed in. He was my go-to, ever since we were kids, and now it’s nothing.
I’ll take Cora’s word for it and follow her to wherever the fuck we’re supposed to be going, because I have no other option.
Chapter 8
CORA
I’mgoodatthis.Which is exactly why it’s a little tragic that Lane is the one who’s about to benefit from it.
I wasn’t supposed to be late to the facility. Spin class ran long. New riders. Clip-ins. The usual chaos of people panicking because their feet are suddenly attached to a moving object. It always takes a minute. And I’m not the kind of person who rushes someone out when they’re trying something new. It matters.
I definitely had someone else in mind when I pictured how this was going to go, but here we are. I pull my sunglasses from my bag and slide them on, even though the sky’s doing that half-committed Michigan thing where the sun can’t decide if it’s showing up or not. It’s not really that bright out, but it’s enough that I feel it. That faint, familiar pulse starting behind my right temple. A quiet warning that a migraine might be waiting for me to make one wrong move.
And I know better than to ignore it. One careless decision, and I’m trading a normal day for twelve hours in a dark room.
Lane notices immediately, because of course he would. He glances at the sky, then back at me, one brow lifting in his familiar, teasing way. “Bold move. Sunglasses during cloud cover. That tracks.”
I shrug like it’s nothing, adjusting the frames on my nose. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He scoffs and keeps walking, and I’m glad he’s moving on. Explaining would mean sharing the whole thing—the years of neurologist appointments, the emergency room visits, the way light can turn a normal afternoon into feeling like a spike is being driven straight through my skull. It’s easier to let him think I’mbeing dramatic or weird than to admit that sometimes my body decides the day is over before it’s even begun.
I can’t believe I'm stuck with someone who might hate my guts for one of my favorite parts of the season. For the most part, Lane’s quiet. He scoffs and grunts but doesn’t say much of anything outside of that. What would we even talk about? Maybe we could do round two of how I didn’t tell him I was the coach’s daughter and he could look at me like I was a contagious disease personified? I had so much fun the first time.
Why can’t I stop thinking about it?
My cheeks flush when I think about that night. Him touching me. His hands. Lips. His pierced cock. What college student has their dick pierced? To be fair, I'm a terrible person to ask, considering I've only been with one person—well, technically now it’s two. Freddy and Lane. And it’s hard to even put the two of them in the same conversation.
They’re vastly different—like fire and ice. But honestly, it’s hard to even pick which one Freddy was because hewasboring. I used to view it as consistency, something I typically like, but my surprise night with Lane opened my eyes a bit more.
