Page 11 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

He manages a weak smile of gratitude before stumbling inside, navigating through the crowded tables with all the grace of a drunken giraffe. I watch him nearly take out a couple seated at a table before he finally collapses into a corner booth.

The line moves at a glacial pace, giving me plenty of time to contemplate my brother’s impressive hangover. Mike’s usually more careful about his drinking during hockey season, but for some reason he let

it all hang out last night and got hammered.

By the time I reach the counter, Mike has his head down on the tabletop, which can’t be sanitary. I order his usual hangover special—bacon, egg, and cheese on an everything bagel—and get myself a whole wheat with cream cheese .

“Extra napkins,” the cashier says knowingly when she sees me glancing at Mike. “If he hurls, you guys are cleaning it up.”

“That obvious, huh?”

She grins. “Let’s just say I’ve seen that look before. Usually when hockey players go to frat parties…”

Her tone of voice suggests she knows exactly who Mike is, and I need to remind myself that he’s a local celebrity.

Hockey captain, eligible bachelor. I can barely hold back my sigh, knowing the cashier is just trying to help, even though from the look on her face she’d love to take care of Mike, hangover or not.

When the food is ready, I bring our order to the table. Mike has graduated from face-down-on-table to slumped-in-chair, the triple-beverage approach seemingly putting some caffeine, sugar, and water into him. He’s on his phone, so he doesn’t notice me approaching.

“Let me guess, hook up from last night?” I ask, sliding his plate over. “Tell me you didn’t hurl on her…”

He shakes his head, then regrets the movement. “I was a perfect gentleman with… what was her name again? Nah, just organizing team dinner at my place…”

Horror floods through me. “Please tell me you’re not cooking.”

“What’s wrong with my cooking?”

“Let’s see,” I put my plate down and scratch my chin in fake contemplation. “Your penchant for undercooked pasta? The time you boiled a pot of water dry? Oh, wait, I know—how about that time last summer when you gave me food poisoning with raw chicken that you swore was cooked?”

“OK, OK,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged, your honor…”

“I haven’t eaten poultry since.” I unwrap my bagel. “ Seriously, Mike. Order pizza or something. Don’t poison your team.”

He gets the paper off his bagel, though it takes way more coordination than it should. “Relax, Lea. Linc’s cooking. He’s good at it.”

“Oh thank God.” Relief floods through me. At least someone on the team has basic life skills.

“He’s been planning it for weeks.” Mike takes a massive bite, and talks around it like he was raised in a barn. “Like it’s the culinary Olympics or something.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Gross. Chew and swallow, then talk.”

He makes a show of complying with my request, then washes it down with orange juice. “Better?”

“Marginally.” I study him over my coffee cup. “So how can you be this hungover and still have practice later?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” He grins, looking more like himself. “The second I hit the ice, the hangover disappears. It’s just science.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Science.”

“Yep. The cold air, the adrenaline…” He waves his hand vaguely. “Plus, the tequila really helps with the pain.”

Something in his tone makes me pause. “What pain?”

Just like that, his expression shutters. The easy smile vanishes, replaced by something harder, more guarded. “You know hockey’s a contact sport, right?”

But there’s something off about his response. How his fingers tighten around his coffee cup and how he won’t quite meet my eyes. Something’s wrong with him, and he doesn’t want to tell me…

“Mike—”

“Speaking of practice,” he cuts me off. “I should head out. Need to shower before I subject the team to… this.”

The abrupt subject change is about as subtle as a brick to the face, but I let it slide. Whatever’s going on with him, he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. And as someone who’s used to putting my emotions in a box and hiding them away, I need to respect that.

“Right.” I watch him gather his drinks, noting how he winces when he starts to stand, so obvious that I can’t really ignore it. “And you’re totally fine.”

“Never better.” He grins down at me, the perfect big brother who needs to stop the little sister from worrying smile. “Hey, are you coming to the Princeton game?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say. “Someone has to document your spectacular wipeouts.”

“You could paint them. Make a million bucks…” He laughs. “Speaking of that, how’s the art thing going? Meet any pretentious hipsters yet?”

I throw a napkin at him. “Says the guy who thinks he’s the next Wayne Gretzky or something.”

“That’s different.” He grins. “I actually am the next Gretzky.”

I snort. Mike’s ego is always the size of Madison Square Garden. But there’s something off about his smile, a tightness around his eyes that wasn’t there last season. Before I can ask about it, his phone buzzes again. This time when he checks it, his expression darkens.

“Mike,” I say again, trying to be more gentle this time. “Are you sure you’re OK?”

“I’m fine, Leanndra,” his voice takes on a serious tone. “Please, just drop it, OK?”

I nod, the meal—and the conversation—clearly over.

As we stand and head outside, I notice how he favors his right side, how his movements are just a fraction too careful.

Something’s definitely up with him, and knowing Mike, he’ ll keep dodging the subject until whatever it is becomes impossible to ignore.

“You know,” I say as we step into the crisp morning, “if you’re not OK, I’m here.”

“I know, Lea, OK?” His voice softens. “But seriously, I’m fine. Just a rough morning.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I have to fight to keep the smile off my face when I see Declan’s name on the screen.

But I decide not to read the message in front of Mike, in case he starts asking any more questions about exactly what happened last night.

I bite my lip at the thought of him, and?—

“Yo!” Mike waves his hand in front of my face. “Who’s got you grinning like that, anyway?”

“No one.” I shove my phone back in my pocket. “Just Em being… Em… you saw yesterday how over the top she can be.”

It’s not exactly a lie. Em has also been texting me this morning, with increasingly filthy suggestions about what I should do with Declan. And I must admit, some ideas aren’t too bad, and they’re very creative. But while Em is going to town with the knowledge, I can’t tell Mike about Declan yet.

Not when he’s been so protective since Chris…

“Right.” Mike doesn’t look convinced. “Well, want the campus tour before I head to practice?”

I nod, mostly because I want to make sure he’s OK for a little longer. And as we walk across campus, Mike points out various buildings and landmarks. The library with its imposing Gothic architecture. The dining halls. The other main dorms…

My phone buzzes again.

Declan.

“Seriously,” Mike says, “who are you texting? ”

“Just getting to know people,” I say vaguely. “You know, making friends…”

He studies me for a moment, then nods. “Good. That’s… that’s good.”

The unspoken “after what happened with Chris” hangs in the air between us after his carefully chosen words. Mike was my rock this summer, picking up the pieces when I came home from Europe early. When our parents didn’t understand why I was so devastated over a “summer fling,” Mike got it.

He held me while I cried, brought me ice cream in all different flavors, and never once told me I was being dramatic. But he’s also been hovering ever since, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if anyone so much as looks at me wrong, and now he’s got… whatever … going on, and it’s all a bit much.

“So,” he says, clearly desperate to get past the awkward silence. “Where did you end up last night?”

“Marie’s,” I say, keeping it vague.

His eyes light up. “Best French toast in town. Though I only found out about it last year from one of the guys on the team.”

“Well, I can vouch for it.” I smile at him. “Anyway, I should get going. I promised Em I’d have coffee with her…”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “Try not to fall asleep in art history.”

“Try not to die,” I say cheerfully.

As he laughs and walks away, I pull out my phone to check Declan’s message:

So this might sound a bit weird, but hypothetically, if I was to draw you, are there any obvious scars, tattoos or any other paraphernalia I should be aware of?

I grin and type back:

Bit too soon for that, Dec.

His response comes quickly:

I’m going to assume that means yes. I look forward to finding it. I’m headed out for dinner tonight with friends, but would you like to get a coffee later?

And just like that, I’m smiling again, warmth spreading through my chest. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I met him, but somehow texting with Declan feels as natural as breathing. Like we’ve known each other for years instead of hours.

If only I could tell Mike about him. But I know my brother—the second I mention meeting a guy, he’ll go into full protective mode. And right now, whatever this thing with Declan is… I want to keep it to myself, just for a little while, before the rest of the world gets involved.

Well, except Em.

I bite my lip, trying and failing to suppress my smile as I type back:

It’s a date.

His response makes my heart flutter:

An official one? Cool!