“Transferring during your last year of eligibility is tough. I know that. I have to prove I belong here, on the ice, with these guys.” I swear, I feel my teammates relax their shoulders, whether it’s the fact that I’m admitting my struggle or how they know I respect them, no matter what. “But I know how to win. I’m good at it. Some of these guys remember that last game—” I look down the line of guys sitting in front of me and feel better when the room slips into light laughter. “Hoping to end up on top for another season, this time in a Great Lakes U jersey.”
I take a drink of the water sitting in front of me. I look to the ceiling, needing a break from watching everyone watch me. When I come back to the people in front of me, some of them nod their heads, almost like I’ve won them over. Maybe.
Or maybe I’m fucking delusional.
“Last season,” a new voice calls, “you finished with twenty-eight goals. How do you see your role evolving here in your final NCAA year?”
Twenty-eight? Wrong. It was twenty-nine.
I know, because I chased thirty like it mattered. Because Oliver and I had a bet about who would get to thirty first.
In no world am I correcting this person. I don’t want to stretch this out. I don’t want to look defensive or draw any more attention to myself. The sooner this is over, the better.
I clear my throat, but when I go to speak, Cora’s voice cuts in. “It was twenty-nine.” The correction is confident and clear.
The room shifts; eyes move to her as she stands on the edge of the room.
“It was twenty-nine goals,” she continues evenly. “Twenty-two at even strength, three power play, and four short-handed. Six of those were game winners.”
She recites my stat line like it’s something she’s known her whole life.
And not once did she glance down at her clipboard.
Chapter 26
CORA
Numbersareeasy.Theyare honest and true. When someone gets Lane’s stat line wrong, I’m correcting it before I can internally tell myself to keep my mouth closed.
Every head turns toward me, and for half a second I wonder if I’ve crossed some invisible line.
People nod in understanding as pens start moving again and cameras click. The moment passes like it never mattered and everyone turns their attention back to the team sitting behind the table. My dad winks at me from a few people away.
I don’t need to look at Lane. I can feel the tension rolling from him, the way the attention slides back toward his chair like a spotlight he didn’t ask for. This time, it feels bigger.
When the conference portion wraps, the room empties fast. Reporters drift out. Boosters linger, trying to talk to my dad or one of the players, before everyone moves on to the next. Chairs scrape back as laughter echoes down the hall.
Lane stays.
By the time I look again, he’s the last player left at the table. He twists the cap off a water bottle, jaw tight, shoulders coiled.
I should leave it be. But I don’t. That would be too easy.
“You’re welcome,” I chide.
He lets out a breath through his nose. “I didn’t say thank you.”
“No,” I agree, “you didn’t.”
His voice twists with a sarcastic laugh. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
He stands suddenly, chair legs screeching against the floor. The sound bounces against the walls in the now-empty room.
“You don’t get it,” he hisses, stepping closer. “I just wanted it to be over.”
“Can you give the tortured hockey player act a rest?” I fire back. My sharpness surprises me.
Lane scoffs, eyes wide. “What did you say?”
