Page 17 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)
nine
LEA
I hate hockey.
I’ve hated it ever since Mike dragged me to his first game at age ten, where I spent the entire time with my hands pressed over my ears trying to muffle the sounds of bodies slamming into the Plexiglas, the crack of sticks against the ice, and the roar of the crowd…
Yuck.
But here I am, squeezed between Em and Ping on the cold metal bleachers of the Pine Barren rink. I promised Mike months ago I’d come to this game, and I promised Em and the other girls I’d join them only a few days ago, but now there’s a million other places I’d rather be.
“Oh. My. God. There’s Declan the Dick,” Em’s voice cuts through the screams of the Pine Barren faithful as number fourteen flies across the ice in a blur of scarlet and black. “I mean, I know we’re mad at him, but damn he’s?—”
“Not helping,” I grumble. “Stop ogling the enemy, Em. He’s dead to us. ”
“Dead, but still hot,” she says with a shrug. “It’s tragic, really.”
I pull my coat tighter around me, the frigid arena giving me yet another reason to hate the sport. “This is seriously worse than hell.”
“Well, either way, your brother and his friends are warming me up…” Em shrugs, taking a sip from her supersized soda. “I still can’t believe you kissed him.”
“Do we have to keep bringing that up?” I stare daggers at her. “I’m trying to forget that night ever happened.”
“Sure, but you guys were practically soulgasming over how much you both love art, and then?—”
“And then he turned out to be a lying asshole who thinks my art has no soul.” I cut her off. “End of story.”
If only.
In the few days since Declan knifed me in the art class, again revealing his true colors, I know I’ve been an insufferable cow to Em, Ping, and Marnie—who was sitting with us, until she moved off to find Trevor and his perfect jawline elsewhere in the stands.
So instead of subjecting Em and Ping to another dose of Declan hate with just a pinch of self-loathing, I just cross my arms over my chest as Declan takes the puck, and keep my thoughts to myself.
It’s not just that he lied about being on the hockey team. It’s not just that he wrote that scathing critique on my drawing. It’s that I let myself believe, for one stupid night, that I’d found someone who really saw me, who understood me.
Technically proficient but lacks soul.
Safe choices.
No risks taken.
The words still sting, mainly because they hit home in ways I’ve been afraid of for years. Was that why I didn’t get into RISD, or why my European sketches never quite captured what I felt when I was there?
His words have me doubting myself.
So fuck you, Declan Andrews.
Declan the Dick.
On the ice, Declan intercepts a pass, his movements fluid and precise, like he’s painting with his body.
The crowd around us roars their approval, and a few rows down from us, one particularly enthusiastic group of bimbos is wearing tiny skirts and matching crop tops with “PUCK ME” emblazoned across their chests, each shirt featuring a different player’s number.
“Looks like Declan has some other options, anyway,” I snort. “I think they’re more on his level, although I don’t know how they’re not freezing.”
“They’re just blind drunk,” Ping says. “Pregaming is an essential part of the hockey experience.”
The Puck Me Squad is passing around what looks suspiciously like a flask disguised as a water bottle.
One of them notices me staring and gives me a once-over before whispering something to her friend.
They both laugh, and I resist the urge to flip them off.
Clearly, gossip about Declan and me has spread to some corners of the college community…
“I just wanted to settle in, attend some cool classes, and meet some cool friends…” I grumble. “Why do I feel like I’m back in high school?”
“Because jocks will always be jocks, and groupies will always be groupies,” Em replies philosophically. “It’s the circle of life, Simba. ”
I snort into my hot chocolate. “So where does that leave us?”
“Off to the side, judging everyone else while secretly enjoying the spectacle.” Em grins. “Best seats in the house.”
I sigh and settle back into silence as Em and Ping chat.
Again, I find myself watching him skate, the controlled power in his movements, and the grace with which he handles the puck.
It’s annoying, actually, how beautiful he makes it look.
How he transforms something violent and chaotic into something almost… artistic.
And then I immediately hate myself for the thought.
He’s an asshole. And I hate him. And that’s that.
“Good pass by Mike,” Em elbows me in the side. “Not that you saw…”
“I did!” I protest, but I didn’t.
Em raises her eyebrow. “Mike’s number twenty-six…”
“I knew that.”
“So why are you staring at number fourteen…” She laughs. “He’s got you good.”
I can feel my face grow warmer. “Shut up.”
“You know,” Ping says thoughtfully, “I read somewhere that hatred and attraction light up the same parts of the brain.”
“GOAL!” Em screams as the crowd erupts, jumping to her feet. “Did you see that? Mike nailed it, Lea!”
I reluctantly stand with everyone else, more out of obligation to Mike than any real excitement.
The scoreboard flashes Pine Barren 2, Princeton 1.
When I look down at the ice, Mike is being mobbed by his teammates, including Declan.
They’re all grinning, laughing, and thumping each other on the back.
“They’re actually pretty impressive together,” Em comments .
“I guess,” I concede. “Mike’s been playing with Declan for three years now.”
“And Declan never met you before?” Em’s eyes narrow. “Seriously?”
“Nope,” I shrug. “Or my parents.”
“Come to think of it, where are your parents?” Em’s question hits me like a bucket of ice water. “They only live about an hour away, right?”
I fidget with my gloves, suddenly very interested in a loose thread. “They’re, uh, not big hockey fans.”
“They raised a hockey player and aren’t hockey fans?” Em’s eyebrows arch so high they practically reach her hairline.
“They didn’t raise a hockey player. They raised a future doctor who happens to be excellent at hockey.” I let out a sigh. “At least, that’s how they see it.”
“Oh.” Em’s voice drops. “One of those situations.”
I’ve managed to mostly avoid telling Em about my family thus far, besides Mike.
It helps that Em comes from what she calls a “sprawling French dynasty” full of quirky characters and hilarious cousins she loves to talk about.
But looking at her expectant face, I realize I can’t avoid the subject forever.
“My parents are… fine with Mike playing hockey,” I say, choosing my words carefully as Princeton’s offense makes a run at Pine Barren’s goal. “But they’ve never been shy about telling him they hope he chooses med school over going pro after graduation, although I think there’s zero chance of that.”
“But he’s so good!” Ping chimes in, gesturing toward the ice where Mike has just stolen the puck from a Princeton forward.
“They think medicine is more stable and mature.” I sigh. “Which is ironic, since I’ve never met anyone more devoted to anything than Mike. ”
“So they’re OK with him playing now, but not as a career?” Em asks, clearly trying to understand.
“They see it as an extracurricular that looks good on med school applications. ‘Demonstrates teamwork and discipline,’” I mimic my mother’s clinical tone.
On the ice, the action back underway, Declan receives a pass and nearly scores, the puck ricocheting off the goalpost. The crowd groans collectively, and the “PUCK ME” crew squeal encouragement, jumping up and down yet somehow avoid giving themselves concussions with their bouncing chests.
“Mike spent the whole summer lifting, running, and practicing, in between attending a training camp out in Colorado,” I continue. “I think he feels like he’s got a lot to prove.”
“But he just scored,” Ping points out, confused. “And maybe if your parents showed up, he’d?—”
“Not going to happen.” I grimace. “The one time my parents actually showed up to watch him play, freshman year, it was his worst game ever.”
Em winces. “Ouch.”
“It didn’t help that neither of them understands the game. They actually confused Declan for him and started cheering for the wrong player.”
Em’s mouth drops open. “That’s… mortifying… even before we found out Declan was a dick.”
I tuck a curl behind my ear. “Mike was crushed, even though he tried to play it off as funny.”
As Princeton scores, tying the game, the crowd around us deflates.
I watch Mike slam his stick against the ice in frustration, his shoulders hunched.
Even from this distance, I can see how much it matters to him.
But a moment later, he’s the captain again, cheering on his guys, patting backs, and giving high-fives.
“At least they’re consistent,” I say, wrapping my scarf tighter around my neck. “They give me the same grief about art.”
I feel a pang of regret saying it. I don’t mean to sound bitter, and I realize I don’t like talking about this with my new friends, especially after I’ve done nothing but talk about Declan the Dick for the past few days.
I’m supposed to be making a fresh start here, not dragging around all my old baggage.
“They think art classes are a waste of your time?” Em asks, her normally vibrant voice subdued.
“My Dad thinks I should be doing something more stable and practical,” I explain, watching as the players reset for a face-off, my eyes once again—frustratingly—drawn to him . “And my Mom thinks if I’m going to waste my time on art, I should at least do it the ‘right way’—like my grandmother did.”
I haven’t told Em much about my grandmother, whose shadow I’ve been living in since before I was old enough to hold a crayon. How could I explain that the woman I’m supposed to idolize, the woman whose talent supposedly runs in my veins, is also a giant weight on my shoulders?