Page 36 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)
twenty-one
DECLAN
The final buzzer wails as my shot hits the back of the net, and the Temple goalie never stood a chance. My teammates crash into me, a mass of sweaty bodies and overpriced equipment, screaming like we just won the Stanley Cup instead of a mid-season game against Temple.
Four to one.
Not too bad.
“Fucking beautiful, Dec!” Mike’s the first to reach me, hugging me with enough force that my teeth rattle. His eyes gleam with something desperate beneath his cage—a hunger I haven’t seen in weeks—and he’s elated. “Don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you’re a demon today…”
I grin and pat his helmet. “Nice feed.”
Around us, Maine is yelling some nonsense about how Temple can “suck his left nut specifically,” which raises questions about the right one that I choose not to explore. For his part, Linc is trading insults with their enforcer, who he put on his ass in the second.
The game had been full of fire that I don’t necessarily feel myself. But as we skate to center ice for the obligatory handshake line, I do enjoy the death glares of twenty-three Temple players, who probably think I’m an asshole for scoring with twelve seconds left.
They’re not wrong.
Usually, I wouldn’t have fired off, but they’ve been assholes all game.
In the locker room, the post-game high vibrates through everyone.
Maine gets his phone out, already coordinating some kind of celebration.
Linc fires up some music and starts dancing.
Rook sits in the corner with ice on both knees, looking simultaneously exhausted and exhilarated after he’d almost earned a shutout.
Only Mike seems subdued, methodically removing his gear with the precision of someone defusing a bomb.
“I’ve got a class first, but my place later?” Maine asks the room at large. “Pizza, beer, and the usual victory feast?”
“Count me in,” Linc says, whipping his jersey at Rook, who catches it without looking up. It’s his job to take all our shit to the equipment room for laundering.
“What about you, Andrews?” Maine turns to me, his blond hair plastered to his forehead. “Tell me you’re not bailing on a victory celebration again …”
As I take my gear off, I try to look casual, but I know where this is going. “I’ve got a catch-up for my art proj?—”
A collective groan rises from at least half the locker room.
“Your art shit again?” Maine flops dramatically onto the bench. “Come on, man. Aren’t we more important than some painting?”
“It’s not a painting,” I mutter, fastening my buttons. “It’s figure drawing and it’s worth thirty percent of my final grade…. ”
Maine. “Did you say figure? Like, as in, naked figure?”
Mike looks up from his meticulous gear-packing. “Maybe I should’ve taken art instead of biochem…”
The guys laugh, though not unkindly. This is just how it is—the gentle ribbing, the way they reduce art to “finger-painting” or “drawing stick figures.” I’ve always played along, for the most part, and downplayed how much it matters to me. But lately, I’ve found myself sticking up for it more.
“It’s not like that,” I say, though a flash of Lea’s body—all smooth curves and warm skin—hits me with the subtlety of a freight train. “But it’s important.”
The tone in my voice tells them to leave it, and they do, as I remove the last of my gear while the guys continue planning their night. Part of me wants to join them, to slip back into the easy camaraderie of post-game celebrations. That used to be enough.
Hockey, beer, and bullshitting with my teammates.
When did it start feeling so hollow?
Not that art doesn’t bring its own concerns.
Tonight is the second-to-last practice session for the project, and Lea has made the case that we should go back to drawing each other prior to the final sketch.
Over text, she’d argued that the select seminar we’re both trying to get into focuses on the human form, so we should focus on showing off our figure drawing skills.
I agree with the logic, and told her we could, but I’m worried.
Worried because if I have to stare at Lea for that long, and draw her with that sort of intensity again, I’m not sure if I can keep my feelings in a bottle.
I desperately want to respect Lea’s wishes and boundaries—and she’s made those crystal clear when she’d said we’d fuck it out and then walked away— but when every atom in my body is screaming at me to hold her, kiss her, and fuck her…
“Dec?” Mike interrupts my thoughts, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “Party?”
“Look, I’ll swing by after,” I offer, grabbing my towel, desperately wanting a shower. “The project shouldn’t take more than an hour or two.”
Even though I want it to.
Because it would mean more time with Lea.
We’ve settled into this strange holding pattern since that night.
Text messages that are cordial but distant.
When we do talk, it’s all about the project—technical discussions about composition and technique, like we’re just classmates.
Not like two people who saw each other naked and shared their bodies in ways that still make my blood rush.
The memory of her in my bed, morning light making her skin glow golden, her body moving against mine, and her breath catching as she came apart beneath me… It’s a dangerous place to let my mind wander, although in weaker moments I let it.
But then comes the pain.
The fact we’re talking just like classmates tells me all I need to know.
Lea did see it for just one night, and she has managed to fuck it out, even if I’m still obsessed by her.
But I’m not an asshole enough to ask her for more after all the pain I’ve seen her in and all the hell that other asshole put her through.
So I keep quiet and I survive.
Keep the topics of conversation purely focused on the art.
Sit on opposite sides of the classroom during lectures.
Make sure project catch-ups are only in crowded places.
And never— never —let myself be alone with her .
But the most effective trick to douse the flames of attraction has been thinking about Mike.
Because, if nothing else, getting all that pent-up attraction to Lea out of my system has helped my hockey.
I’m playing better than ever, and he’s no longer pissed at me, although I’m struggling to care as much.
But Mike is still neck-deep in his funk.
As if on cue, Mike speaks. “I just wanted to say you really showed up today. Glad to see you got over whatever was with you for a while.”
I should take this as a compliment. Mike’s not known for pep talks or being especially effusive, and I know I should be thrilled I played so well, but the compliment feels hollow, almost cruel in its irony, because I know he’d beat me to death with his hockey stick if he knew what I’d done with his sister.
“Thanks,” I mutter, avoiding eye contact. “Feels good to be back on track.”
Feels good to have slept with your sister. And I want to do it again.
“Oh, and Coach talked to me after practice yesterday,” Mike continues, his voice dropping even lower. “There’s a scout coming to the Rutgers game in a few weeks. Apparently, Coach told him to specifically look at you, me, and Linc, so make sure you’re on your game.”
A while ago, this would have been the best news ever. The validation I’d been working toward since I was fourteen, lacing up before dawn while other kids got to sleep in. But instead of excitement, I feel… nothing. Or maybe dread.
When I don’t respond right away, Mike narrows his eyes, studying me with the same intensity he uses to read opposing defenders. “You don’t sound thrilled.”
“No, I am, just…” I need a plausible excuse that isn’t I’d rather be painting, or fucking your sister . “Nervous, I guess. Lot of pressure.”
“You’ll be fine,” Mike says, clapping my shoulder. “It’s me they need to worry about. I’ve been playing like shit.”
“That’s not true,” I protest automatically, though we both know it is. He’s missed passes, fumbled shots… things Mike Altman just doesn’t do.
He gives me a look that says don’t bullshit me . “Come on. You saw those three assists you sent my way. I whiffed all of them.”
I shrug, trying to look casual. “Want to meet tomorrow? Practice some shooting or something?”
Mike’s brows lift suddenly in surprise.
“Those passes I made were awful,” I lie. “Came in too hot, bad angles. Need to work on my control if I want to make a good impression on that scout.”
A flash of gratitude crosses his face, and a knot of guilt tightens in my stomach. “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks, man.”
I nod, even though I know it’s bullshit. The passes were fine. Perfect, actually. But, drowning in guilt from my feelings for his sister and concerned for my friend, I’ll take one for the team. If it helps even a little to get Mike tuned-up before the scout comes, it’ll be worth it.
“What time works?” I ask.
“Seven? Before morning practice?”
I want to groan at the early start, but I nod instead. “Sure. See you then.”
Mike heads to the showers, tension visible in every line of his shoulders, and I’m left feeling like the world’s biggest fraud.
I’m lying to my best friend and captain about his own hockey, I’m pretending not to have feelings for his sister, and I’m faking excitement about a hockey future I’m increasingly unsure I want.
When I turn around, I find Linc staring at me with raised eyebrows, a towel wrapped around his waist.
“What?” I snap.
“Nothing.” He grins. “Just wondering what’s got you looking so tortured.”
“Figure drawing,” I repeat, scowling at him. “And I need a model.”
“A model?” He scoffs. “Why not Altman’s sis?—”
“Shut the fuck up, idiot!” I punch him. “If Mike finds out?—”
“Finds out what , Dec?” He raises an eyebrow. “Did you see her again?”