Page 39 of What We Knew Then
Believe me, I know it.
Chapter 24
CORA
Aftermyfivea.m.spin class, I expect the house to be quiet when I walk in. That’s my usual Sunday.
Instead, my dad’s in the living room, the game playing on our seventy-five inch TV. The players look almost life-sized. We got in at a decent time last night after opening weekend, but apparently he didn’t waste any time digging back in.
The Otters won both games, but it didn’t feel like it.
He’s wearing his glasses, notebook open on his lap, an empty coffee cup sitting on the table. I grab it on my way to the kitchen, refill his and pour one for myself, then drop onto the couch beside him.
“A win’s a win,” I say, wrapping my hands around the mug.
He pauses the film, rewinds a few seconds and watches the shift again. Then he turns, mouth tugging into a smirk as he looks at me over the top of his glasses. “Don’t act like I didn’t teach you that.”
We settle in, watching the second period from the first game. It’s not bad, honestly. There are good stretches. Moments where things click. Early games are always messy like that.
But one thing is obvious. Lane struggled.
He looked slow. Hesitant and like he didn’t trust himself out there. The spark which usually makes him dangerous is gone.
And the worst part is his team. They keep waiting for it to show up. For him to be the version of himself they remember playing against.
It never does.
I swear my dad flinches when Lane is a second late getting to his spot, breaking the rhythm of the play and turning the puck over. His fingersdrag across his forehead. “I’ve never seen him like this. He’s in his own head.”
“First game with a new team,” I offer. “Road game. Maybe it’s just nerves.” I hate the way something twists in my stomach, like I need to defend him, even here and now.
Dad shakes his head. “It’s more than nerves. He’s doubting himself. And he can’t afford that this season.”
He looks at me, really looks this time, as his expression goes serious. “He needs someone in his corner. Someone to remind him he belongs out there. That he’s still the player I thought he was.”
I stare at the screen as Lane skates back to the bench on the replay, shoulders hunched, stick tapping the boards. It’s strange seeing someone who’s supposed to be a star look so… small.
I’mskatingslowcircles,the rink echoing under my blades. It’s so quiet I can hear the scrape of my edges on the ice and the hum of the lights overhead. The guys have practice in an hour, but Lane and I agreed to do some baseline data before. I peek at my watch—Lane's running out of time. The guys have a light practice, one I think is mostly so the coaching staff can try and correct some of the easy mistakes.
The door to the gate bangs open, and he steps onto the ice just as the clock hits the hour.
I can’t help myself. “Wow. Cutting it close.”
He doesn’t rise to the jab—just glances at me briefly, then stretches his neck side to side. “I’m on time.”
The way he says it—flat, no spark—makes me straighten a little. Usually there’s a smirk, at least. He slowly starts skating, doing laps andgetting his body ready. It’s quiet enough that I find myself holding my breath.
Lane stands in front of me, eyes barely meeting mine. “You ready?” I ask, skating to the top of the circle where I’ve placed a few pucks.
He skates over, slower than usual. “Yeah. Whatever you need.”
That’s… not encouraging.
“Okay,” I say carefully. “Thirty wrist shots from the right circle. Like we talked about—same setup every time. I’ll track speed and placement.”
He grunts something that might be an agreement and sets up for the first shot. It comes off his stick awkwardly, wobbling wide of the net.
I frown, but keep my voice neutral. “Alright, reset. Try again.”
