Page 2 of What We Knew Then
Her lips—light pink and pouty—have me staring, but just for a second.
“Nope. Just me.” I take a drink of my beer, my eyes still watching her over the glass.
A bartender taps the table. “Can I get you anything?”
Lee gives me a side look and I shrug my shoulders, putting the ball in her court.
“I’ll have whatever he’s having.”
The bartender is already reaching for a pint glass when I say, “You don’t even know what I’m drinking.”
“From here, it looks like a hazy IPA. One of my favorite types of beer.”
Damn, she’s good.
The bartender brings her a beer and nods, basically telling Lee she’s right. She offers her thanks and takes a drink, those light-blue eyes never leaving mine.
“From here, it also looks like you’re new,” she says, with less conviction than when she guessed my beer choice. Before I can respond, shecontinues. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” She mimics locking her lips with a fake key. “Any questions I can answer?”
“Any bars here without a borderline offensive pun in the name?”
She laughs and scrunches her nose. This is the kind of woman I should stay far away from.
Because Lee looks like fuckingtrouble.
Chapter 2
CORA
DidIknowIwas sitting across from Lane Maxwell, Ohio’s prolific hockey star slash bad boy and most recent Great Lakes U transfer? Yes, but not right away. It didn’t click until after the other guy left the table.
That’s when I saw the scar on the left side of his upper lip and I felt the shift from wondering to knowing. I know about Lane Maxwell because my dad is the coach who offered him a spot on the hockey team. Everyone else had been willing to let his career die a swift death in the transfer portal.
I thought about admitting I knew who he was, but then I’d have to own being Cora Banks, the head coach’s daughter. Tonight I’m looking for a break, considering I've had my ass kicked this summer. That doesn’t even include the research project I'm wildly behind on; if I think about it for too long, I'll literally get hives.
Do I feel a little guilty about telling him my name is Lee? Kind of, but that’s my ‘going out’ name when I need some separation—plus, my full name is Coralee, but I go by Cora.
Both of us had the opportunity to cut whatever this is short, but we didn’t. Instead, we each ordered another beer and have settled in. The bar fills as the night goes on, but somehow, it still feels like just the two of us.
“I’ve never met a math major. Or at least someone planning on legit graduating with it,” Lane says, pulling me back to the moment. “You must be smart.”
“Not math, data analytics. It’s different but you’re right, Iamsmart.” I take the compliment and let it wash over me.
His eyes, golden like honey, go wide as he shakes his head. “Whatever you say. Still sounds like math.”
“I balance it with a kinesiology major.” I’m not trying to discredit myself, I’m just itching to tell him more about me. Maybe it’s because I’m not the coach’s daughter right now.
“How’d you know this was an IPA?”
“It was hazy in your glass. It’s from the dry hops and the proteins coming together. Actually, it’s the polyphenol and protein reaction. I come here a lot and know what’s on tap, so I took a guess that it was an IPA.”
I take a long drink of the beer I just overexplained and wish I’d said less. Protein reactions are not attractive—no one fucks the know-it-all from summer camp.
Lane says nothing at first, just raises his eyebrows, taking in the haziness of his almost empty glass. “Seems like you’ve got the whole package. Brains and body.” His words pebble goosebumps on my skin and I hold back a shiver. "Why are you here alone?”
I take a drink of my beer, trying to keep my cool. “Maybe there was no one worth coming with.” I smirk, acting like I had options. That would require making plans, going out, and doing something. The most exciting part of my summer was listening to my dad agonize over picking up Lane—giving up the single remaining roster spot. Other than that, it was lots of long days in the library, looking at existing models for calculating win percentages of sports teams, and then going home to binge watch something on Netflix.
That’s what happens when your boyfriend decides to end things after eight years, using the words, “I’m just not feeling it anymore.” Bold words from a man who pulled me by the hand into a local jeweler to try on engagement rings a month before. The one who told me not to worry about getting an off-campus apartment because that was something we could do together.
