Page 4 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

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DECLAN

First practice, and I’m already feeling it.

After Linc fires off a pass, the puck hits my stick with a satisfying thwack , and I’m already moving before my brain catches up. Pure instinct takes over as I weave between Maine and Mike, my skates carving clean lines across the fresh ice.

I spot an opening and take it, winding up for a shot on goal.

Rook—still green enough to fall for it—takes the bait.

When he’s anticipating a high shot, his shoulders tense just slightly.

Currently, they’re as loose as a freshman at their first kegger, and there may as well be a neon sign pointing at the net.

I fire the puck high and left.

Goal.

“Son of a bitch ,” Mike growls from behind me, as Rook shakes his head. “How did you get so fucking fast all of a sudden?”

“While you were busy posting thirst traps on Instagram all summer.” I skate backward, grinning. “Some of us actually trained. ”

“Bullshit,” Mike laughs. “I saw your stories—you spent half your time painting cows and barns and shit.”

“Landscapes,” I correct him, circling back to center ice. “And I multitasked. Cardio in the morning, art in the afternoon. Time management, heard of it?”

Maine snorts as he glides past. “Yeah, because you’re such a master of time management. Isn’t that why you missed the team BBQ last week?”

“I was working on a piece.”

“You were passed out in your apartment with charcoal all over your face,” Linc calls from the bench. “I have the photos as evidence.”

I flip him off without looking. “Delete those, or I’ll tell everyone about the time you?—”

“Already deleted!” Linc yelps. “Never existed!”

Mike taps his stick against the goal post. “Are we here to gossip or play hockey, you assholes?”

“Aww.” I bat my eyelashes at him. “Getting cranky because I scored on you? Need a nap? Some warm milk?”

The puck comes flying at my head so fast I barely have time to duck.

I grin as it flies overhead, but I’m glad to be back. And as our banter subsides and we move back into position, the rink is quiet except for the sound of blades cutting through frost—peaceful, compared to what it’ll be like once the season starts and the stands fill with screaming fans.

Right now, it’s just us—my brothers and me—and the ice.

There’s nowhere I’d rather be, except maybe in front of a blank canvas.

Mike and I have been friends for years, and now that we’re seniors, we’re starting to think about what’s next. Maine, a junior, and Linc, a senior, are the other two core members of our group, both with aspirations to play in the NHL.

We go again. This time, Mike has taken Rook’s spot in goal, to show the kid how it’s done. This time when I approach the goal, Mike’s ready. His stance is perfect, his focus laser-sharp.

But I’ve got something new up my sleeve—a move I practiced all summer, inspired by watching old footage of Nicklas Lidstrom. It’s tricky, requiring precise timing and control, but if I pull it off…

The puck dances on my stick as I approach. Mike’s eyes narrow, trying to read my intent. At the last second, I shift my weight, rotating my stick in a fluid motion that sends the puck sailing through the air in a graceful arc.

Mike lunges, but he’s a fraction too late. The puck hits the back of the net with a satisfying thunk .

“Holy shit,” Rook breathes from somewhere behind me. “That was…”

“Fucking beautiful,” Linc finishes.

I try to play it cool, but pride swells in my chest. That move took weeks to perfect, hours of practice while the Montana sun baked the asphalt of our makeshift rink. Dad thought I was crazy, practicing hockey on rollerblades in ninety-degree heat, but—like always—my Mom got it.

Mike fishes the puck out of the net, his expression a mix of annoyance and respect. “Where’d you learn that?”

“YouTube University.” I skate closer, lowering my voice. “Summer program. Very exclusive.”

“Jackass.” But he’s grinning now. “Seriously though, you’re on fire today. Whatever you did over the summer, it worked.”

He’s right. I feel sharper, more focused.

The extra training— hours of lifting and cardio—paid off, but it’s more than that.

For the first time in a while, I feel balanced.

Hockey isn’t consuming every waking moment like it used to.

The landscape painting class I took, hours spent filling my sketchbook…

It’s all led to a better me.

Not that I’d admit that to Mike. He’s supportive of my art, but he wouldn’t understand how it actually makes me a better player. How losing myself in the flow of creating helps clear my mind, makes my movements on the ice more fluid and more instinctive.

“Alright, ladies!” Coach Barrett’s voice booms across the rink. “Enough showing off. Hit the showers.”

I share a look with Mike, surprised Coach has let us off so easy in the first practice, but we heed the instruction. We let the others file off first, and as we head into the locker room together, the familiar scent of sweat and equipment hits me like a wall.

Coach follows us in, his clipboard tucked under one arm. He’s got that look—the one that means we’re about to get a speech. “Princeton,” he says.

“One week from today,” I mouth, because it’s the same speech from last year. “I want smart heads and full stomachs. No drinking, no stupid shit…”

“One week from today,” Coach says, voice booming as we take off our gear. “I want smart heads and full stomachs. No drinking, no stupid shit…”

Mike punches me on the arm, and we share a smirk. But the look hides the trepidation I feel. Not from nerves—I don’t get nervous before games anymore—but from anticipation. Princeton’s a tough match-up, and this year they’ve got some hotshot freshman center who’s been making waves .

“Their new center,” Coach continues, as if reading my mind, “made the game-winning shot for Canada in Junior Worlds. Kid’s got talent.”

“Yeah, but our center got recruited by the NHL straight out of high school,” Mike pipes up. “Right, Dec?”

“That was years ago.” Heat creeps up my neck. “And I told them ‘no thanks’ so I could hang out with you assholes…”

“Still counts.” Mike grins and slaps me on the back. “Once NHL material, always NHL material.”

I focus on unlacing my skates, trying to ignore the chorus of agreement from my teammates. I’ve never been comfortable with this kind of attention. On the ice, sure—that’s different, that’s showing and not telling—but talking about it, even among these guys, makes my skin crawl.

A moment of awkward silence follows, broken by Coach clearing his throat. “As I was saying,” he says, “Princeton’s tough. But we’ve got something they don’t.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, standing and thrusting his hips forward, his jock strap not doing much to hide the bulge there. “We’ve got?—”

“A team , Altman. Now keep it in your pants.” Coach cuts him off, giving him a pointed look. “Hockey isn’t a one-man show. It’s about working together, reading each other’s moves, anticipating plays before they happen. That’s what makes a team unstoppable.”

As Coach drones on, the guys are getting fired up now, talking over each other about how we’re going to “destroy” Princeton.

Coach barks at us to save it for the game, but I catch the hint of a smile beneath his stern expression.

He’s tough, but there’s a reason a guy who could have retired years ago sticks around …

“Channel that energy into practice,” he says. “I want you ready to?—”

“Decimate!” someone shouts.

“Annihilate!” adds another.

“Completely fucking obliterate!” That’s definitely Linc.

Coach raises his hands, flabbergasted, then walks away. After some shared laughter, some of the guys file toward the showers, still buzzing with energy. I hang back to finish packing up my gear. Mike lingers too, waiting until we’re relatively alone before speaking.

“You good?” he asks quietly. “About earlier, with the NHL thing…”

“I’m fine.” I zip up my bag. “Just wish people would let it go.”

“They’re proud of you, man. It takes balls to turn down the NHL for art school.”

I snort. “It’s not art school. It’s a regular degree with an art major.”

“Same difference.” He bumps my shoulder. “Point is, that takes guts.”

Or stupidity, I think, echoing my Dad’s words at the time. Turning down a golden ticket to finger paint…

His words had hurt me then, and they still do, but I’m not sure he’s wrong. I’d been scared at the time. Scared of committing my entire life to hockey before I had a chance to explore other passions. Scared of looking back in twenty years and wondering ‘what if?’

But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I just nod and head for the showers.

Under the hot water, I let my mind drift to the canvas waiting in my apartment. I’ve been working on a new piece—an abstract interpretation of movement on ice, all sweeping lines and dynamic energy—that’s not quite right yet.

Maybe that’s what my teammates don’t understand. Art isn’t just a hobby for me, or even a potential career path. It’s part of who I am, as much as hockey. The two aren’t separate entities but complementary forces, each making me better at the other.

But try explaining that to a bunch of guys who think art is just “drawing trees.”

“Drinks tonight, gentlemen?” Linc asks as we’re showering. “There’s this party at?—”

“Pass.” I turn off the water, thinking about the painting waiting at home. “Got plans.”

“Let me guess.” Mike throws a towel at my head. “Hot date with your sketchbook?”

I catch the towel without looking. “At least my date won’t ghost me after.”

“That was one time!” Mike protests.

“Three times,” Linc corrects. “Remember the girl from?—”

“We don’t talk about her!” Mike points a threatening finger. “Ever.”

I wrap the towel around myself, grinning. “What about the one who?—”

“Forget all that!”

“Come on, Dec.” Linc’s tone shifts from teasing to earnest. “One night out won’t kill you.”

“I’m working on something,” I protest as I towel off and head for my locker.