Page 60 of What We Knew Then
I clear my throat, try to play it off, but it comes out rougher than I mean. “I’ve got… a desk. A chair. Internet.” I shrug, skating a slow little circle near her feet. “Pretty solid paper-writing setup, if I do say so myself. Plus, I have some of your migraine-safe foods.”
“You do?” She grins as she leans closer to me.
I do. I’ve paid attention to the things she stays away from, or the foods which may be a migraine trigger. She’s obsessed with caffeine but stays away from things with artificial sweeteners; she’ll pick up an apple or banana instead of a citrus fruit.
“Of course I do,” I answer.
Cora raises a brow. “And you’ll just… let me work? No distractions?”
The way she says it is teasing, like she already knows the answer. I shift my stick from one hand to the other, suddenly very aware of how warm my neck feels under my collar.
“I can be very disciplined,” I insist, then add with a crooked grin, “sometimes. Plus, I have some homework to finish, too.”
Her laugh is soft, not the kind that fills the rink, but it still finds its way straight into my chest
“So this is a study session?” she asks with glinting eyes, light blue like the beach in the summer.
“If that’s what gets you through the door,” I confirm. “We’ll call it that.”
Cora shakes her head, like she’s humoring me, but the smile doesn’t fade. “Fine. I’ll come by after practice.”
For a second, I forget to breathe. That low-grade buzz of adrenaline which usually comes with a solid shift on the ice has nothing on this.
“Yeah?” I ask, just to make sure I didn’t mishear. My voice comes out a little too eager, a little too hopeful.
“Yeah,” she answers, almost shy herself. “But I’m bringing my laptop. Paper comes first.”
“Totally,” I agree quickly, like that was the plan all along. “We’ll be… quiet. Productive.”
Her grin sharpens. “You? Quiet?”
I rub a hand across the back of my neck, trying not to grin too widely. “Oh, Peaches. You’re the one who is known to be awfully noisy.” I wink at her.
Cora shakes her head again and flips open her notebook like she’s done talking, but I catch the way the corners of her mouth stay lifted.
And just like that, I’m skating off to my starting spot on the ice like I just scored the winning goal—nervous as hell and grinning like an idiot.
Chapter 38
CORA
ItellmyselfI’mjust walking, but my pulse keeps arguing. Lane’s last text is still on my screen, two stupid words that feel like a decision:You coming?I could turn around. I don’t.
It feels different when you know you’re crossing a line. Not loud. Not dramatic. Quieter than that. Like stepping just past where you’re supposed to stop and hoping no one notices the shift in your balance.
Every rule I’ve ever lived by shows up at once—my dad, the team, the careful version of me that’s always known how to stay on the right side of things.
Lane is a secret. One I’m not supposed to even consider. The kind you keep folded up in your chest and pretend isn’t there until it starts pressing on your ribs.
This is a bad idea. It’s like I’m walking up to a clear, bold line. One I shouldn’t put a toe over—that’s not what Cora Banks does, right?
My feet cross it anyway.
The night air bites at my cheeks as I walk up to Lane’s door, dry leaves skittering across the walkway like they were in a hurry to get somewhere warmer. October in Michigan has a way of sinking into your bones. I pull my jacket tighter around me and climb the steps to Lane’s apartment, trying to quiet the nervous flutter in my stomach.
I’ve been here before—not that I remember much about the apartment. Lane, on the other hand? Yeah, I can recall a detail or two.
Lane opens the door a moment after I knock. His hair is damp from his shower, a few strands falling onto his forehead, and a soft oldT-shirt—the kind you want to run your hands over—covers his chest. He gave me a quick, almost self-conscious smile.
