Page 120 of What We Knew Then
"Lane Maxwell," Head Coach Patrick O'Connor says warmly as he extends his hand. "We've been looking forward to meeting you."
Lane stares at the outstretched hand for half a second before taking it.
Standing beside him, I can see the disbelief still lingering in Lane’s expression. Just months ago, he thought he'd lost any chance of playing professional hockey. He'd convinced himself that one decision, one mistake made for the right reasons, had cost him everything he'd worked for since he was a kid lacing up skates for the first time.
"You—you sent a scout earlier this season," Lane stammers. His words stumble over each other, disbelief making him sound years younger than the confident player who just led his team to a championship.
Coach O'Connor laughs, the sound warm and easy. "You're right. I did."
Lane blinks.
Coach O'Connor glances toward the general manager before looking back at Lane. "Then we kept watching.”
A grin spreads across Lane's agent's face, revealing he already knows exactly how this conversation ends.
"Hell," Coach O’Connor continues, folding his arms across his chest, "we had people at your championship game. Even some of our players."
Lane looks genuinely stunned as he asks, "You did?"
"We did." The coach’s smile softens as he looks at Lane. "And if we're being honest, I've been hoping we'd get the chance to have this conversation for a while now."
“Yes, sir,” Lane replies.
I can’t breathe. I’m terrified to move.
Coach O’Connor points a finger at Lane and chuckles. "And first things first—stop calling me sir. That's not necessary."
A ripple of laughter moves through the room.
"Coach," he corrects. "I was hoping you'd call me Coach.”
Lane lets out a breathless laugh and shakes his head, like none of this feels real. His gaze finds mine for a moment before shifting back to the two men standing in my parents' kitchen—the men who are about to make his childhood dream a reality.
I catch my dad discreetly wiping at his eyes. Coach Knight has an arm slung around his shoulders, both of them watching Lane with matching expressions of pride.
"Wait," Lane says, his voice rough with emotion. "Are you serious?"
Coach O'Connor laughs. "It's the only reason I've spent the last hour hiding out in a guest bedroom." The room chuckles with him, but his expression quickly turns sincere. "Lane, you're the only free agent we're talking to right now. We'd like to offer you a roster spot with the Chicago Frost."
For a second, Lane just stares at him. The room goes completely silent and then Coach extends his hand. "We'd love to have you."
Emotions flashes across Lane's face so quickly I almost miss it—shock, relief, gratitude, and something that looks a lot like disbelief. He takes a step forward and clasps Coach O’Connor's hand.
"I'd be honored," he replies, his voice steadier now. "And I won't let you down."
The coach's grin widens. "I'm counting on that."
The room erupts. Applause and cheers bounce off the walls, drowning out everything else. Somewhere behind me, a champagne cork pops, followed by my mom's excited laugh as she starts pouring glasses.
Lane releases Coach O’Connor's hand and turns toward me.
"We did it," he says.
Before I can answer, he pulls me into his arms and kisses me. The excitement rolling off him is contagious, impossible to resist. When we finally break apart, I can't stop smiling.
"No," I counter, shaking my head as I cup his face. "Youdid it."
For a moment, he just looks at me, surrounded by the people who love him most, standing on the edge of the future he's worked his entire life for. And I've never seen him look happier.
