Dad senses it, I think. He clears his throat, flipping the paper back open like a shield. “She’s managing. Let her be.”
Relief trickles in, though it’s fleeting. Because I know he doesn’t see the full picture either. No one does. “Managing” is a far cry from thriving—and if last night is any indication, my definition of managing is starting to unravel.
Mom leans against the counter, studying me with a soft, careful look that sees too much. “Are you still doing the research project with basketball? Or did you find something else?”
“No, not doing it with basketball.” I leave it at that, not needing to bring up Freddy again. I’ve had enough and my stomach is a little weak at the moment. “The idea is easy to transition. Could do it with almost any other sport.” I take a drink of my coffee, the mug warm in my hands. I tip it far enough that it covers my eyes, needing a mini break.
My dad takes a sip of his coffee and then nudges me. “The stats research? You could use a hockey player, yes?” His voice was quiet, recognizing that my mom left the kitchen.
I nod in agreement, kind of reveling in the feeling of him being on my side. He knows I don’t want to get into it with my mom. She’ll just try to get me to make it work with Freddy and I don’t want that.
“Well, how about Lane?” He suggests this like it’s no big deal, a typical breakfast table conversation. My skin prickles at the mention of this name. I start to cough, almost choking on a piece of bacon. “The guys are barely warming up to him. He could use a friend.”
“I mean, is it a good idea? The season’s starting soon—”
“Even more reason to do it. We need to get him more comfortable as soon as possible.” This isn’t the first time he’s mentioned it. Lane on the ice is sort of skittish, like he’s almost afraid to interrupt the other guys flow or something. But in order for him to be effective, he has to be aggressive. We all know it. It’s surprising that Lane is sitting back—I neverwould’ve guessed it.
My dad squeezes my shoulder. “I think it’s sort of perfect. You’re at the rink all the time already. Plus, you’re friendly enough for him to drive you home? Right?”
The flush that creeps over my cheeks is impossible to hide. If by friendly you mean having a one night stand where I used a fake name and now it’s like we hate each other but still can’t seem to stay apart?Sure, we’re friendly.
There’s no way I can say no to my favorite person. To the guy who has always had my back. Cheered me on, no matter what. So I smile, like the dutiful daughter I am. “Sure, if it’s okay with him.”
I know my dad’s right. Letting hockey and this project overlap is the best thing that could happen to my schedule. Part of me, the logical and carefully curated chunk, is hoping that Lane has an excuse and says ‘no.’
But the other part is hoping he says yes.
Chapter 21
LANE
Thecoldoftherink should be a relief, but as sweat burns down my neck, one thing is clear. I am sucking. Hard.
Coach has us skating sprints. Blue line, back. Red line, back. All the way down the ice. My legs feel like cinder blocks, every push heavier, slower. By the time I hit the far blue line, the guys are already flying past me, cutting clean lines through the ice while I trail behind.
“Get it going, Maxwell!” Coach’s voice snaps across the rink. Clipboard smacks. Whistle shrieks. It’s not the first time he’s had to say something like this during practice, and it fucking stings.
I try to dig deep, find an edge, get some speed under me. Instead, I start dragging again, falling behind while my lungs burn for air.
“Jesus, Lane!” Troy’s voice cuts louder than the whistle. “You’re skating like dog shit.” He blows past me.
Some of the guys laugh, and I can take the chirps. Usually. It’s worse when they’re right.
I grit my teeth and try to push harder, but my body won’t listen. Every stride comes up short. Ugly. Every mistake feeds Troy’s grin.
“I thought you were supposed to be fast?” my captain calls over his shoulder, and the guys start to snicker, low whistles slipping out.
I’ve got nothing to say. Because he’s right.
Heat flares in my chest. Shame, anger, all twisted together. I slam my stick against the ice, the crack echoing off the boards. The lights above feel like spotlights, catching every stumble, every failure. I’m not just losing the drill. I’m losing their respect. And I can’t skate fast enough to catch it back.
I wish this was my only problem. One bad skate, one rough drill, and I could shrug it off. But it’s not.
Yesterday, Coach ran us through a control drill. Cones lined from blue line to blue line. Tight turns, quick cuts, keeping the puck glued to your stick. Everyone else wove through like it was nothing. Heads up. Easy rhythm.
Me? The damn puck slid off my blade every other turn. I fumbled, doubled back, heard the groans behind me as the line stacked up. My gloves felt like bricks, my hands clumsy, like I’d never stickhandled in my life.
Troy made a big show of miming it after, “Oops—lost it again!” while the guys laughed. It was like I'd never done this before—the muscle memory was nowhere to be found. I know they’re tough on everyone, it’s not just me, and it makes me want to figure the fuck out. So, you could say it’s effective.
