Page 41 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

twenty-four

DECLAN

Mike appears at my right exactly when I need him—like he’s been reading my mind all night.

No words, just a quick glance, and I know to send the puck his way.

He takes it, dekes left, confusing their goalie, then slides it right back to me in one fluid motion.

The Rutgers goalie scrambles, overcommitting to Mike’s side. I see my opening and let the puck fly.

The red light flashes.

The crowd erupts.

3–0.

The sound hits me like a physical wave as my teammates crash into me, thumping my back and helmet. Over their shoulders, I catch Mike’s nod—that simple chin dip worth more than a thousand high-fives from anyone else. Coming from Captain Stoic, it’s practically a tearful hug .

“Fucking beautiful, Dec!” Linc screams in my ear, his Leprechaun-red hair visible even through his helmet. “What’s inspired this?”

What indeed?

The answer is the girl who’s spent the past few weeks teaching me exactly how many nerve endings exist in the human body, then staying up late with me talking… sketching… and generally shutting ourselves off from the world.

Coach Barrett signals for a line change, but as I skate toward the bench, I can’t help glancing up into the crowd, past the PUCK ME girls with their glittery signs (who look disappointed that I’m not making eye contact), searching for the only face that matters to me up there.

There she is—Lea, wearing my practice jersey, which would give Mike an aneurysm if he knew. She catches me looking and grins, mouthing something I can’t hear over the crowd but can perfectly imagine in her voice saying something sarcastic about hockey being ‘murder ballet on ice…’

My attention snaps back to the game when Coach slaps my shoulder as I sit on the bench. “Good work, Andrews. Keep it up.”

I nod, downing water and watching the play.

The Rutgers coach is screaming at his players, his face approaching the same shade as Linc’s hair.

I actually feel bad for them—I know exactly how it feels to be off your game—because a month ago I was producing so much shit you could’ve marketed me as a laxative.

But that’s all changed.

My practices have been solid.

My game is back where it belongs.

Even my art has been flowing better lately.

Everything is clicking, and I know exactly why.

It rhymes with “Flea Schmaltzmann.”

The reason I can’t even think her name right now is next to me on the bench. Mike’s eyes are still on the ice, focused and determined in a way I haven’t seen in weeks. He’s playing like his old self tonight, like the Mike that had scouts drooling the last two seasons.

“We’re going to close this out clean,” he says, all captain authority. “Ninety seconds left. No stupid penalties. No showboating. Keep it tight.”

Nothing to put the scout in the stands off what he’s seeing , I add mentally. We’ve all played well—me, Mike, and Linc—so let’s send him home happy.

His gaze meets mine specifically, and there’s something there I haven’t seen in a while—trust. Like he knows I’ve got his back on the ice, even if I’ve been secretly getting horizontal with his sister off it. The guilt that thought triggers is momentary but sharp.

I push it away.

Lea and I have talked about this—we’ll tell him when the time is right. After the season. After the scouts make their decisions. When Mike doesn’t have the pressure of his entire future riding on every game. And at that point he’ll either like it or not.

I take another look up into the stands, catching sight of the scout in the front row. A middle-aged guy in a dark suit, completely out of place among the face-painted college kids. He’s watching Mike like he’s trying to memorize him, a subtle smile playing at his lips.

That’s good.

That’s very good for Mike.

The second line keeps the game in control and, when the buzzer finally sounds, ending the game at 3–0, I sigh with relief. We shake hands with the Rutgers players—most of them decent guys, unlike Princeton—and then wave at the fans, who’ve been great.

As we head toward the locker room, I glance up once more. Lea’s still looking at me, that smile making my stomach do things. She gives me a small thumbs-up that somehow carries more meaning than the entire screaming crowd.

Mike’s shoulder bumps me in the tunnel. “Good game,” he says, simple but sincere.

“You too,” I say. “You were on fire tonight.”

“About damn time I remembered how to play.”

We say nothing else, but there’s an ease between us that’s been missing during his slump. But then I notice the tight lines around his eyes. Tonight was good, but he’s still carrying something. One game doesn’t fix whatever’s been eating at him.

The locker room is electric with victory—Linc already planning the celebration, Maine talking about the takeout order they’re placing, and Rook still beaming from his shutout. I strip off my gear, the familiar post-game aches settling into my muscles.

But everyone goes quiet when Coach Barrett enters.

He leans against the whiteboard, arms crossed over his chest, his usual post-game scowl replaced with something close to pride. For a guy who thinks smiling gives away tactical advantages, it’s practically euphoric.

“Good game, gentlemen.” He nods, surveying us all. “Textbook teamwork out there. That’s what we’ve been working toward all season.”

Linc raises a fist in the air. “Does this mean you’re taking us out for cocktails and strippers, Coach? ”

Coach’s almost-smile vanishes. “My salary doesn’t cover throwing red meat into cages to feed you animals.”

“Worth a shot,” Linc mutters, earning a few laughs.

“Rook,” Coach continues, “good shutout. The rest of you—good positioning, passes, and shots.” His gaze lands on Mike. “Captain, way to lead by example.”

Pride flashes across Mike’s face, though he tries to hide it with a casual nod. This means so much to him, and it’s killed me to watch my friend struggle silently with his poor form for a few months now.

Then I catch the subtle wince as he shifts his weight, favoring his right leg.

Definitely something going on there.

Before I can think about it more, coach is on us with the usual notes about areas for improvement—because heaven forbid we leave without criticism—then he asks me, Mike, and Linc to stay around after the rest of the guys have changed and left.

The rest of the team exchanges glances, but no one questions it.

As the locker room slowly empties, I pull on clean clothes, trying to appear casual while my mind races. Coach might be asking us to stay because of the scout—good news, hopefully—or he’s about to chew us out for something we have no idea we did wrong.

Either way, before long, it’s just the three of us waiting.

“You see the scout?” Linc asks, finally breaking the silence, his voice pitched low but vibrating with excitement.

Mike’s head jerks up, a look passing over his face I can’t quite read. “Yeah. Third row, blue tie?”

“Front row, actually,” I correct him. “Dark suit. Seemed to be smiling a lot from what I could see… ”

“Looked like he was paying extra attention to you, Mikey,” Linc adds, bumping Mike’s shoulder.

Mike’s laugh comes out forced. “Only because I didn’t completely suck for once. I’ve played like garbage the rest of the season.”

“Not true,” I start, but Mike talks over me.

“Tonight was different. Showed up because of you two.” He nods at Linc and me. There’s no mistaking it this time—beneath the compliment is a flicker of jealousy that makes my stomach twist, barely there but detectable if you know him. “You guys have been solid all season.”

Linc flops onto the bench, stretching his long legs. “You’re our captain for a reason, man. Scout sees that.”

“We’ll see…” Mike shifts his weight again, and I notice him flex his right ankle subtly, testing it.

“You OK?” I ask, nodding toward his foot. “Noticed you’ve been hitting the Deep Heat pretty hard after practice.”

Mike’s face shutters. “I’m fine.”

“If something’s bothering you?—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps, then immediately looks apologetic. “Just a little stiff. Nothing that matters.”

Before I can press him, Coach Barrett returns. “I wanted to talk to you three because the scout tonight was Kyle Morrison from the Harriers,” he says.

Linc sucks in a breath beside me.

Can’t blame him. The Harriers are a quality outfit.

“He was impressed.” Coach glances down at his clipboard. “Asked for contact information for Garcia and Andrews. Wants to set up meetings with both of you.”

Linc lets out a whoop that could shatter glass, jumping up and slamming into me with a bone-crushing hug. “Hell yeah!” he shouts, his face split with a grin .

I force a smile, trying to match his enthusiasm, but my reaction feels mechanical. A month ago, this news would have sent me into orbit. Now I’m just... relieved? Happy for Linc, definitely. But for myself, there’s this strange disconnect, like I’m watching someone else’s dream come true.

Then I notice Mike.

The stiff way he’s holding himself.

The forced smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

The devastation he’s trying desperately to hide.

Coach hasn’t mentioned his name.

Linc realizes it too, his celebration cutting off abruptly. “Oh shit, wait, what about Mike? He didn’t ask for Mike’s contact?”

Coach’s expression tightens. “Garcia, Andrews—head out. I need to speak with Altman.”

“But—” Linc begins.

“Now,” Coach says, his tone final.

Linc gives Mike a bewildered look, then grabs his bag.

I follow suit, stomach churning with guilt and confusion.

Whatever issues have plagued him this season, Mike is still the best among us, and he shows his leadership by giving us both a tight nod that’s supposed to be reassuring but falls miles short.

“Tell him you want Mike’s info too,” Linc mutters to Coach under his breath. “Mike’s our captain. He belongs on that list.”