Page 36 of What We Knew Then
what do you need from me
need to get some baseline stats this week
before or after practice. Your pick
before
let’s aim for thirty minutes before practice
ok
I turn my phone off, trying to get back to the task at hand. But it doesn’t matter. The only subject I can think about is Cora, and it’s the one that needs the least amount of attention.
Chapter 22
CORA
“Thisisajoke,right?” Lane’s voice echoes through the rink. It’s just me and him before his practice starts.
I shake my head and instruct him again. “I need you to do twenty-five reps. Start at the left circle, wrist shot. Go on my whistle.”
“What am I trying to do?” He skates out to the spot, stopping right by the cone I set down for him.
I shift my weight on my skates, leaning into one hip. “Make it. Obviously. But don’t start until you hear the whistle.”
“Twenty-five times?” The annoyance is clear in his voice.
“At least twenty-five.” I press the whistle between my lips and watch Lane roll his shoulders, stretching his neck side to side.
I check that my phone is recording for research validation. When I blow the whistle, Lane takes off, head down, cutting across the front of the net from left to right before releasing his first shot.
He resets without being asked, and we go again. And again.
When he finishes the twenty-fifth rep, he skates straight to me instead of back to the cone. His hands rest on his hips as he looks at me, waiting.
“Water, then meet me at the bench.”
I hear him skate behind me, hopping over the boards. I grab the cone, no longer needing it, and tuck it away.
When I slide onto the bench beside him with my clipboard balanced on my knees, he watches me like I’m about to ask for a kidney.
“Okay,” I say, aiming for professional. “Now I want you to write down, step by step, how you’d take a wrist shot from the left circle.”
His mouth twitches. “Seriously? You want me to explain how to shoot a puck? I’ve been doing that since I was six.”
“Exactly. Which means you should have no trouble spelling it out.” I hold out the pen.
Lane takes it, twirling it between his fingers. “You’re for real.” It’s not a question, but he still waits for me to answer.
“Yes. I’m for real.” I hit the start and end of each word hard—overenunciating, trying to make my point.
“What's next? Draw you a diagram? Maybe some stick-figure players?” Lane’s voice is flat and he still hasn’t written a single word down on paper.
“That would be useful,” I reply sweetly.
He scoffs. “I don’t get it.” His eyes are locked on mine, all sharp and skeptical.
“It’s not your job to get anything yet. Just help me with the baseline stats. And you’re stalling,” I shoot back.
