Page 18 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

“The ‘right way’? What does that even mean?” Em’s indignation on my behalf warms me more than my hot chocolate.

“According to my mother, it means being wildly original and taking risks.” I shrug, trying to keep my tone light. “You know, dropping out of college to stage your own exhibition.”

“That sounds…”

“Terrifying? Irresponsible? Completely unrealistic for anyone who isn’t independently wealthy or willing to starve for a decade?

” I scoff. “The irony isn’t lost on me. They want Mike to go to med school because it’s stable, rather than pro hockey, where he can earn millions.

And they want me to be a starving artist.”

Em laughs. “Well, I was going to say ‘badass rebel artist with an attitude,’ but your version works too.”

“My grandmother was an incredible artist,” I admit, “but she was also incredibly lucky. And she had connections. And she lived in a different time.”

On the ice, Declan makes a beautiful pass to Mike, who shoots and—misses.

I can see my brother’s frustration even from here, the way his body language screams disappointment.

I haven’t watched many of his games, but his body language is all off, and again I find myself wondering what’s wrong with him.

“That’s rough,” Em says softly. “For both of you.”

“It’s fine,” I insist, suddenly embarrassed by how much I’ve revealed. “They’re good people. They just worry. They want us to have secure futures.”

Em looks unconvinced. “Still, it’s got to hurt.”

“Look who’s suddenly the psychologist,” I tease, desperate to lighten the mood.

“I’ve got a minor in Calling Out Bullshit,” Em corrects with a grin. “And what I’m seeing is two very accomplished parents trying to force their kids into boxes that don’t fit, rather than letting them flourish at what they love doing and are good at!”

“Maybe,” I concede. “But at least they care enough to want what’s best for us, even if they’re wrong about what that is.”

“Fair enough.” Em bumps my shoulder with hers. “Though for what it’s worth, I think your art has plenty of soul.”

I turn to her, surprised. “You haven’t even seen my art. ”

“I saw your sketchbook on your desk the other day.” She has the grace to look slightly guilty. “I might have peeked.”

“You snooped?” I ask, but there’s no real anger in my voice.

“I prefer ‘conducted reconnaissance,’” she says primly. “And my findings confirm that Declan the Dick is full of shit.”

“Thanks,” I say, and mean it.

“Anytime.” Em raises her soda cup. “To our parents’ disappointment, and to doing what we love anyway.”

I clink my hot chocolate against her cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

As we turn our attention back to the game, I catch sight of Declan looking up into the stands—looking directly at me. From the look on his face, he’s surprised I’m at the game at all, and as our eyes lock, something passes between us.

Fury and anger and hurt.

Well, fuck him.

I don’t look away, and keep my face as hard as granite, until Mike calls to him. Declan turns away, and I’m left wondering why my heart is suddenly racing in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.

“What about your parents?” I turn to Em, desperate for conversation. “You’ve barely mentioned them…”

“Not much to tell.” She shrugs. “Mom’s a tailor, my Dad writes books. They love me. They support me. The end.”

“Must be nice,” I laugh, struggling to totally hide the bitterness.

“I mean, they weren’t thrilled with me taking some time off after high school, but I needed a year because of some… personal stuff… and they eventually got with the program.

“I can’t imagine growing up like that,” I admit. “Having parents who respect your choices. ”

“And I can’t imagine parents who make you second-guess everything.” Em’s voice softens. “No wonder you’re always apologizing for having emotions.”

I blink at her, stunned. “What do you mean?”

“Every time you get upset or excited about something, you backtrack, like you’re afraid of feeling too much.” She shrugs. “I noticed it the first day we met.”

The truth of her observation hits me. “They treat me like I’m made of glass because I like art. Like being creative means I’m extra sensitive or something.”

“That sucks,” Em says simply.

“They think I’m overly emotional when I’m just… reacting normally to things,” I continue, the words spilling out now. “Like after Chris dumped me, my Dad tried to cheer me up by telling me there were ‘plenty more fish in the sea,’ like I’d lost a goldfish instead of having my heart torn out.”

“Ouch.”

“And my Mom said I was ‘too sensitive’ and ‘too trusting,’ like it was my fault.” I scoff, avoiding Em’s eyes. “Mike was the only one who got it. He helped me get through it all, and he never once made me feel stupid for being upset about everything.”

“Your brother sounds like a gem,” Em says, smiling softly. “Everyone needs someone like that.”

“He’s great,” I agree, glancing at him on the ice. “He may be overprotective, but he’s never invalidated my feelings. When I’m upset, he just… lets me be upset.”

The buzzer sounds, making me jump. Pine Barren has scored again—Mike’s goal, with an assist from Declan. Without thinking, I leap to my feet, tears pricking my eyes from the memory of Chris and the gratitude I feel for my brother .

“GO MIKE!” I scream, the words ripping from my throat with surprising force, drawing looks from around me, including the “PUCK ME” bunnies.

Em jumps up beside me, her voice joining mine. “WOOOOOO! ALTMAN FOR THE WIN!”

Down on the ice, Mike looks up into the stands. Even through his helmet and mouth guard, I can tell he’s grinning. He raises his stick in acknowledgment, and a strange lightness fills my chest. But when he sees Declan looking up at me, he barks at the team—or, really, at Declan—to keep focused.

When we sit back down, my cheeks are flushed with excitement and the unexpected emotion. “He makes up for our crappy parents,” I murmur.

Em gives me a thoughtful look. “So how do you think he’d react if he found out what Declan said about your art?”

I hadn’t thought about that angle. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he sounds like a protective big brother,” Em says, watching as the players reset. “What would he do if he knew Declan insulted your work? Do you think he’d break into a mid-game fight? Throw him against the wall in the locker room? Challenge him to a duel with pistols at ten paces?”

The image is almost comical—Mike confronting Declan over an art critique—but knowing my brother’s temper when it comes to people hurting me, it’s not entirely far-fetched. And Declan did hurt me twice in a week, which isn’t something I’d really banked on during my first few weeks of college.

“We’ll never have to find out,” I say firmly, “because I’m done with Declan the Dick for good.”

“True,” Em concedes. “Plus, if Mike punched him, Declan might get even hotter—bruises are in right now—and that would make it harder to hate him …

Despite everything, I laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Just keeping it real,” she grins. “Besides, we can mess with him in more creative ways. I’ve got connections in the chemistry department. Just saying.”

“Tempting,” I admit, “but I’m trying to be a mature adult.”

“Overrated,” Em declares. “Being petty is much more satisfying.”