Page 19 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

ten

DECLAN

I hate running.

I especially hate running at dawn when it’s forty-three degrees and my lungs feel like they’ve been scraped with steel wool, and I’m surrounded by my sweaty, miserable teammates who all want to murder me—or would, if they had the energy.

“That’s twenty-four! One more lap!” Coach Barrett’s voice booms across the track. “And remember this next time you decide to blow a lead!”

My legs burn and my lungs scream for mercy as I round the final curve. The whole team has been doing punishment laps, courtesy of our embarrassing loss to Princeton last night. A loss that, judging by the side-eyes I’m getting between gasps for air, everyone knows is my fault.

I’d played a solid game until I spotted Lea in the stands during the third period. After that, everything went to shit. I’d missed three perfect assists from Mike, and my sloppy defense led to Princeton’s game-winning goal with just two minutes left .

The crowd’s disappointed groans still echo in my head. We’d been so close to a crucial win, only to watch it slip away because I couldn’t keep my head in the game, because I’d had Lea on the brain. Even now, just thinking about her makes my jaw clench.

“Move those asses, ladies!” Coach Barrett shouts, and I swear his voice actually rattles the chain-link fence surrounding the track. “This isn’t a tea party!”

Maine drags himself up next to me, his tall frame slumped in exhaustion. “Is it just me,” he pants, “or does Coach seem extra pissed today?”

“It’s not you.” I push myself to keep pace. “He’s definitely channeling his inner drill sergeant.”

“Well, someone fucked up, and in war that shit gets you killed.” Maine gives me a pointed look. “And it wasn’t me.”

“Subtle, Maine.” I sigh. “Real subtle.”

“What happened out there last night, man?” He wipes sweat from his forehead. “You were killing it, and then suddenly you… weren’t.”

I debate what to tell him. The truth is that I got distracted by the girl who tore into me in art class, who happens to be my teammate’s sister, who also happens to be the only person who’s made me feel something real in longer than I can remember.

Yeah, that’ll go over well.

“Just lost focus,” I mutter instead.

“Well, whatever it was, fix it.” Maine’s breathing is labored, and he falls behind.

I’m glad he can’t keep up with me, because I don’t want to continue the conversation. And as we finish the final lap, Coach Barrett stands at the finish line with his arms crossed and legs planted, his face set in that particular grimace that means someone’s about to take a shot.

And I’m pretty sure I know who that someone is.

The team collapses onto the grass in various states of agony. Mike drops to his knees, sucking in air like he’s just been rescued from drowning. Rook lies flat on his back, arms spread-eagle. Linc doubles over, hands on his thighs, looking like he might vomit. The others are wiped.

I remain standing.

Might as well face the firing squad on my feet.

Coach’s gaze finds me immediately. “Andrews!” His voice cuts through the morning air like a bullwhip. “Care to explain what the hell happened last night?”

Exhausted eyes shift to me, including Mike’s. His expression is unreadable, but the rigid set of his shoulders tells me everything I need to know about where we stand. Since that day in the hallway of his building, things have been tense, and at the end of the game…

…well, he was pissed, let’s leave it at that.

“I lost focus, Coach.” My voice comes out raspy from exertion as I repeat the half-assed excuse I gave Maine. “It won’t happen again.”

“Damn right it won’t.” Coach steps closer. “You know what I saw last night? I saw a leader on this team playing like he’d rather be anywhere else.”

My teammates watch in silence. Public floggings aren’t Coach’s usual style; he typically saves his most cutting observations for the privacy of his office. But he keeps this treatment in reserve for special occasions, and apparently, I’ve earned it.

He continues, his voice rising. “You think NHL scouts are going to waste their time on a player who zones out in the middle of a game?”

“No, Sir,” I manage.

“This team depends on you, Andrews.” He jabs a finger at me. “Every guy here depends on you. So whatever’s distracting you. Fix it. Now.”

“Yes, Sir.”

No one says anything as we watch Coach stalk off toward the athletic center, leaving us in a cloud of collective misery. Then Maine groans theatrically as he rolls onto his side. A few halfhearted chuckles break the tension as guys begin dragging themselves to their feet.

But Mike doesn’t join in.

He stands abruptly and walks off without a word or a glance in my direction.

And that silence hurts worse than Coach’s public dressing down.

“Dude,” Linc appears at my side. “That was brutal.”

“I deserved it,” I say flatly.

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean you needed an audience.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get a shower then a coffee before classes…”

I shake my head. “You go ahead. I need a minute.”

He looks at me with concern, then shrugs, and joins everyone else in the march toward the locker room. I sink onto the grass and stare up at the sky. The sun has fully risen now, painting the clouds in shades of pink and gold that would normally have me reaching for my sketchbook.

Instead, I just feel hollow.

The truth is, Coach’s disappointment is nothing compared to the guilt churning in my stomach. Mike stormed out of the locker room without a word after last night’s game, and this morning’s silence hurts more than any shouting match would have.

It seems like everywhere I turn lately, I’m disappointing someone. Coach’s disappointment is evident in every word. Mike’s cold-shoulder treatment makes it clear that his patience is wearing thin. Even my art professors have noticed my distraction lately.

In all aspects of my life, I’ve become hesitant and uncertain.

And it feels like it’s all because of one girl.

What had started as a perfect connection has turned into a complete disaster, throwing everything off balance. With each passing day, my anger grows. Not just at her for blowing up at me in class, but at myself for letting her get so far under my skin that she’s derailed my life.

I pull myself to my feet, wincing at the soreness already settling into my muscles. And as I trudge toward the locker room, I try to convince myself that this day can’t possibly get any worse. But given my recent luck, I’m probably wrong about that too.

At least I’ve got the life drawing class this afternoon to look forward to. Two hours of pure focus, where hockey and disappointed teammates don’t exist. Just me, my charcoal, and a blank page teeming with possibilities, so long as I sit as far away from Lea as humanly possible.

The stairs to the fine arts building might as well be Mount Everest.

Each step sends fire through my quads, a fresh reminder of Coach’s torture this morning. It was probably what I deserved after winning a gold medal in the ‘how to choke away a sure victory in the last period of a hockey game’ Olympics, but my teammates are still pissed.

And Mike is at the top of that list.

And I can’t blame him, because he’s got everything riding on this season.

With a sigh, I bury that thought and keep climbing, ignoring the protest of muscles that weren’t designed for this kind of punishment after a game. And by the time I reach the studio door, I’m moving with all the grace of an eighty-year-old who’s misplaced his walker.

But as soon as I’m inside Professor Lucas’ classroom, it feels like home. It feels like the one place on campus where no one gives a shit that I’m number fourteen, that we lost to Princeton, that I screwed up an easy defensive play, or that I missed not one but two easy shots.

Here, I’m just Declan Andrews, artist.

Or I would be, if a certain green-eyed nightmare wasn’t also in this class.

I scan the room. In the far corner, furthest from the instructor’s platform, is an empty spot. Perfect. I make a beeline for it, situating myself so that Lea isn’t even in my peripheral vision. She’s close to the door, bent over her sketchbook, curls falling forward to hide her face.

She hasn’t looked at me, and I don’t want to look at her.

I unpack my supplies, pulling out my favorite drawing pad and a tin of graphite pencils. The low hum of pre-class chatter washes over me, comforting in its normalcy. For the first time since I spotted Lea in the stands last night, I feel like I might actually be able to focus.

To forget about hockey, Mike, and the way my stomach clenched when her eyes locked with mine .

More students trickle in, filling up the spaces around the center platform where our model usually poses. I know most of them by sight if not by name, and share a polite nod or smile with a few of them—the surly girl who smokes outside between classes, the quiet guy…

Professor Lucas walks in precisely on time, but there’s something wrong. Usually, she escorts our model into class, keeping them comfortable as they take up position and disrobe. But today, she’s alone, and she stands at the front of the room clutching a manila folder.

Uh oh…

“Good afternoon, I have an announcement before we begin today’s session,” she says, her voice carrying that hint of a British accent. “You spent the first class working individually, which has been my norm in this class. But I’ve decided to change it up for the next month or two…”

Double uh oh…

She opens the folder, pulling out a sheaf of papers. “For the next six weeks, you’ll be working in pairs.”

My stomach drops like I’ve just hit a patch of bad ice at full speed. Pairs? In art class? The whole appeal of art—beyond the creative outlet—is the solitude, the fact that it’s just me, the blank surface, whatever’s in my head, and whatever’s in my hand to bring it to life.

“I’ll be assigning partners based on complementary abilities and approaches,” she continues.

“You’ll complete five practice pieces in different styles, one per week, culminating in a final shared piece that will count for thirty percent of your grade.

That piece will also weigh on my choices for the select seminar. ”

Jesus, that’s a lot of trust to put in a stranger…

“Each pair will meet outside of class at least once per week to develop your collaborative vision for the final shared piece,” she says. “You’ll choose between pastels, charcoal, or watercolor pencils for your final piece, and you’ll need to select your own model or still-life arrangement.”

The requirements pile up, each new detail evaporating what little hope I had for a peaceful afternoon. I glance around the room, mentally sorting potential partners. Maybe quiet guy. He seems low-maintenance. Or paint-splattered overalls girl—her work is solid, if a bit chaotic.

Hell, anyone.

Anyone but her.

Professor Lucas begins circling the room, handing out papers with the full assignment details. When she reaches me, there’s something in her expression—a slight tightening around her eyes—that makes my shoulders tense. She’s clearly still annoyed at me from the other day.

Join the line, lady , I think, but don’t dare say it.

“Mr. Andrews,” she says. “You’ll be working with Ms. Altman.”

My brain stutters, processing her words in slow motion.

Ms. Altman.

Lea.

Of course.

“Professor,” I start, not entirely sure what I’m going to say but knowing I need to say something.

“This isn’t negotiable,” she cuts me off, her voice dropping so only I can hear. “Consider it an opportunity to show that maturity we discussed after last class.”

She moves on before I can respond, handing out materials and partners to the rest of the class, leaving me staring at the assignment sheet. Paired Life Drawing: An Exercise in Creative Perspective . The irony isn’t lost on me. Right now, my perspective is that I’m screwed.

I look up from the paper just in time to see Professor Lucas approach Lea. She hands her the assignment sheet and says something I can’t hear, but I don’t need to. Lea’s reaction says it all, and it’s clear she wasn’t expecting me as a partner any more than I was expecting her.

Her head snaps up, eyes widening in disbelief before narrowing. Her gaze locks on me, and if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under with a hockey stick through my chest. For some twisted reason, I’m almost pleased by her reaction, because at least I’m not the only one suffering.

“Is there a problem, Ms. Altman?” Professor Lucas asks, loud enough for the entire class to hear.

Lea tears her eyes away from me. “Professor, with all due respect, I don’t think that I’m the best partner for?—”

“You don’t think you can work with Mr. Andrews?” Professor Lucas interrupts, her tone clinical. “It would be disappointing to give you a zero for your grade…”

A few curious glances dart between us. Great. Just what I need—to be the subject of art class gossip on top of hockey team gossip. I’ve already got the PUCK ME crew in the stands of every game, but now there’s a whiff of scandal around Lea and me…

“I just think I might work better with someone else,” Lea says, her voice tight.

“As would I,” I add, finally finding my voice.

Professor Lucas looks between us, a smile playing at her lips that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Project partners will not be reassigned simply because the partners don’t like each other.

In fact,” she says, addressing the entire class now, “some of the best art comes from suffering, so you’ll need to make it work. ”

Someone in the back of the room stifles a laugh.

I don’t see the joke, personally.

When neither Lea nor me responds, Professor Lucas nods, clearly satisfied with our capitulation to her terms, and continues her circuit around the room. The buzz of conversation resumes as students process their assignments and partner pairings.

I stare down at my blank page, my head pounding.

This is my future on the line.

The select seminar isn’t just another class.

It’s the class.

The one that could be my gateway to professional art, to a life beyond hockey if that’s what I want, or if I don’t get drafted. And now my chances rest partly in the hands of Lea Altman, who currently looks like she’d rather set fire to me than collaborate with me.

Fucking great.