Page 12 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)
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DECLAN
A floor hockey ball whizzes past my head as I enter Mike’s apartment.
“Dammit, Maine! Stop with the street hockey!” Linc’s voice echoes from the kitchen, along with the clatter of pots. “You’re ruining my vibe!”
I follow the sounds of chaos, and the scene that greets me is pure mayhem: Maine wielding a hockey stick like a broadsword, Mike ducking behind the couch using a pillow as a shield, and Linc in the kitchen, brandishing a wooden spoon like he’s ready for combat.
“It’s not street hockey.” Maine grins, unrepentant. “It’s apartment hockey. Totally different sport.”
“Yeah.” Mike pops up from behind the couch, lobbing a ball at Maine’s head that misses by only a little bit. “Much more refined.”
“I will end both of you.” Linc points his spoon at them threateningly. “Dec, back me up here.”
I grin. “Sorry, but I’m Switzerland. Neutral territory.”
“Traitor.” Linc’s eyes narrow, then he jabs the spoon at Mike and Maine. “You two! Set the damn table before I give your food to the freshman downstairs!”
“Trevor?” Mike stands from behind the couch. “The guy with the Che Guevara tattoo who tried to convince the dean that grades are a capitalist construct?”
“That’s the one.” Linc laughs. “The guy espousing the benefits of socialism while living in his old man’s fourteenth property…”
“Shit.” Maine drops his hockey stick entirely. “He’d probably just put it in the trash because it’s got meat. Where are the plates?”
Linc points to a cabinet with his spoon. “Top shelf. And Mike?—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Mike heads for the drawer of silverware. “I’m moving.”
I lean against the door frame, smirking as I watch the controlled chaos unfold. “Need any help, Linc?” I say.
“Keep those two—” Linc gestures at Mike and Maine with his spoon “—from breaking anything else. And maybe grab the salad from the fridge?”
I open the refrigerator and spot the massive bowl of greens. Next to it sits a mixing bowl with... “Is that cookie dough?”
“Don’t.” Linc’s voice carries a warning note. “Mike already got into it. Like some sort of animal.”
Mike doesn’t even try to look guilty. “You left it unguarded.”
“It was in the fridge!” Linc throws his hands up. “Behind the salad!”
“Amateur move.” Mike grins. “You know I always check behind the healthy stuff. That’s where people hide the good food. ”
I grab the salad bowl, trying not to laugh at Linc’s expression of betrayal. “You know, these team dinners were your idea,” I say.
“Yeah, well.” Linc’s sigh sounds like defeat. “Someone had to step up. Half the guys can’t cook anything that doesn’t come with microwave instructions.”
“I can cook!” Maine protests.
“Protein shakes don’t count as cooking, bro.”
“What about my nachos?—”
Linc cuts him off. “Dumping cheese on chips isn’t cooking either.”
I set the salad on the counter, out of the line of fire. “Don’t stress so much, Linc. It’s just dinner, not Thanksgiving at your grandmother’s house...”
“First of all, nothing is as stressful as Thanksgiving at my gran’s. And second—” He tastes whatever’s in the pot, adds more seasoning “—I’m not stressing.”
“You’re not…” Mike repeats flatly.
“Correct,” Linc says. “I’m trying to create an ambiance. A vibe. A mood. Not that you animals appreciate it.”
“The only mood I’m getting is ‘stressed chef about to murder his teammates.’” Maine dodges the dish towel Linc throws at him.
“What’s on the menu anyway?” I say, as Maine almost drops the plates, then proceeds to lay them out.
“Chicken Marsala.” Linc’s pride is evident in his voice. “Plus garlic bread, salad, and—if certain people hadn’t gotten into it—chocolate chip cookies for dessert.”
“Raw cookie dough is better anyway,” Mike chimes in, as he sets out forks with surprising precision for someone who just used a throw pillow as armor.
“So, Dec,” Linc’s voice drops as Mike and Maine argue about who is responsible for putting out the drinking glasses. “Where’d you disappear to last night?”
I swallow hard, because I’d hoped to avoid this conversation. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb. You vanished, man.” He stirs the sauce, the rich aroma of Marsala wine filling the kitchen. “Let me guess. You went home to sketch.”
“Actually...” I hesitate, warmth spreading through my chest at the memory of Lea’s smile. “I… uh…”
“Fuck off!” He scoffs. “You met someone!”
I sigh. No point in denying it. “I met someone.”
Linc’s eyebrows rise. “At a party? You?”
“Hey, I go to parties,” I protest.
“Uh-huh.” Linc tastes the sauce again. “So who is she?”
Before I can answer, the front door bangs open, and Rook’s voice booms through the apartment. “Smells amazing!”
“And something looks amazing.” Simon, one of the second line guys, trails in after him, phone in hand. “Check out this girl from my Bio class who just swiped?—”
The rest of the team piles in behind them, a wave of noise and movement that drowns out any chance of continuing my conversation with Linc.
He shoots me a look that clearly says we’ll talk later before raising his voice over the chaos.
I nod, glad for the reprieve, and with no intention of bringing the topic up again.
“Alright, animals!” He points his spoon at the dining room. “Food’s ready. Try to act civilized!”
The team descends on dinner like a pack of starving wolves.
Within minutes, the dining room table—which I’m pretty sure Mike got from IKEA his sophomore year—groans under the weight of plates, glasses, elbows, and Linc’s truly impressive spread.
And the table doesn’t even fit the team, with some of the guys relegated to the bench, the sofa, or even the floor.
I end up between Linc and Simon, across from Mike and Maine. Rook, our freshman goalie, claims the seat at the end of the table like it’s a throne. The rest of the guys fill in the gaps, elbowing each other and stealing rolls before Linc can even finish setting down the last dish.
“OK.” Mike taps his water glass with his fork, the sharp-pitched ring cutting through the chaos. “Before we eat?—”
“Come on, Cap!” Maine protests. “The food’s getting cold!”
“Tradition, assholes.” Mike’s voice carries that edge of authority that makes him a good captain. “First dinner, go around the table, give goals for the season.”
A collective groan rises from the table, but there’s no real resistance. We’ve been doing this since freshman year, when our then captain—Tommy Rubisky, now playing in the NHL—started it. It’s cheesy as hell, but it works, getting us focused and helping us think about what we want to accomplish.
“I’ll start.” Maine grabs a dinner roll, ignoring Linc’s death glare. “This season, I want to make Coach Barrett laugh at a hockey joke.”
“Impossible.” Simon snorts. “The man has no sense of humor.”
“Challenge accepted.” Maine’s grin turns wicked. “I’ve been working on material all summer. What do you call a monkey who wins the Stanley Cup?”
The table falls silent, waiting, eyes already glazing over.
“A chimp-ion!” Maine beams like he’s just solved world hunger.
There’s another groan all around the table, and someone throws a napkin at his head, then Rook chimes in. “That was terrible,” he says.
“Your face is terrible,” Maine shoots back, but he’s still grinning. “Alright, Simon. Your turn. What’s your goal?”
Simon leans back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. “Well, there’s this girl in my Bio class...”
“We know,” half the guys in the room chorus, everyone sick of hearing about the girl he calls his muse.
“And I really want to get all...” He thrusts his hips suggestively. “Biological with her, if you know what I mean...”
Someone mutters “Jesus Christ” under their breath, then the banter—and revealing of less than serious goals—continues until Mike clears his throat. The table falls silent again, every single one of us respecting his role as captain, even off the ice.
“My turn.” Mike’s expression grows serious, and something in his voice makes me sit up straighter. “This is my last season as a Devil.”
The weight of those words settles over the table. Mike’s been our rock for three years. Our leader. The guy who pulls us together when we’re falling apart. But he’s in his senior year, and if all goes to plan, he’ll be off to the league to find fortune and fame.
“I want to give it everything,” he continues. “Win more games. Leave it all on the ice.”
“And score more chicks!” Rook adds with a grin.
Mike lobs a dinner roll and hits Rook square in the face. “Nice save, keeper…”
The table roars with laughter, meaning Mike’s earnest statement never gets the attention I think it deserves. I can see that there’s some pain behind his forced smile, like he wanted to share his goals with the guys and leave the bullshit for just a moment. I’ll have to talk to him later.
“OK!” Linc raises his voice slightly, calming the horde. “Food’s getting cold. We can finish the attestations after we eat.”
No one argues. The clatter of forks against plates fills the air, along with the usual team dinner chaos—jokes, laughter, stories about summer adventures, and failed hookups. I’m halfway through my second helping of chicken Marsala when Linc leans closer.
“So.” His voice is low enough that only I can hear, but his eyes are locked onto me like a tractor beam. “About this girl...”
I groan inwardly, because I don’t want to talk about it, but I know if I change the topic it’ll become a bigger deal. I glance around, and see everyone else absorbed in their own conversations, so there’s a small chance I’ll be able to limit the exposure to Linc.
“We met at that party,” I say quietly. “We talked, then we went to Marie’s to get a bite to eat…”
“Wait, you didn’t take her home, like, at all?” Linc’s eyes widen. “Damn. Must be special…”
“She is.” The words come out before I can stop them, and I feel heat creep up my neck. “I mean... we just clicked, you know?”
“Over what?” Linc’s voice is still low, but his interest is clear. “Please tell me you didn’t bore her with hockey stats.”