Like it’s not a burden. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He makes it dangerously easy to love him.
Love.
The word flashes through my brain before I can stop it. I sit a little straighter in my chair as my mind thinks of the word I’m afraid to say. I think he feels the same way, but I’m in no shape to take any more losses.
Brinn leans her elbows on the counter. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
With a hand on her hip, she says, “The quiet spiral thing.”
“I am not spiraling.”
Not right now, at least.Okay, fine, maybe it’s a mini spiral but not one I’m ready to face.
Piper jokes, “You laughed at your own hypothetical academic downfall five minutes ago.”
“That’s called coping.”
“Sure.” Piper nods as Brinn takes another coffee order.
She slides the mocha closer to me. “Drink your whipped cream therapy.”
I take a sip, careful not to get whipped cream on my face.
Chapter 53
LANE
I’mneverherebeforeCora. 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.
