Page 46 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

twenty-seven

DECLAN

“Eight ball, corner pocket.”

I line up my shot, ignoring Maine’s attempts to distract me with what he calls his “psychic warfare”—basically, clapping and making fart noises. Real mature for a college senior. The cue slides through my fingers, and my shot sends the black ball into the pocket with a satisfying thunk.

“Damn it,” Maine tosses his cue onto the table. “That’s three in a row. You’re a shark, Andrews.”

“Nah,” I say, collecting the twenty bucks he slaps into my palm. “Just better than you are.”

Linc leans against the wall, nursing his beer and watching our exchange. “Maine, when will you learn that Dec’s got those artist hands. Steady.”

“My ass,” Maine grumbles. “He’s just got more practice because he stays in his vampire cave drawing instead of going out.”

The comment hits closer to home than Maine realizes. I have been spending more time with my art lately—and with Lea. The secret relationship is going better than I could have hoped, even with all the sneaking around. Every time I’m with her, I feel more certain about the choice I’m slowly making.

Mike stares into his untouched beer at a nearby table, completely checked out of the conversation. He’s been like this since Coach pulled him aside after the Rutgers game, subdued in a way that goes beyond his usual stoic demeanor. Even now, in his favorite bar, he’s barely touched his drink.

“Another round?” I ask as I rack the balls for the next game.

“Mike?” Linc prompts when our captain doesn’t respond.

“What?” Mike jerks his head up, clearly having missed the question entirely.

“Hey, Mike?” Maine says. “We’re asking if you want to play pool.”

Mike manages a weak smile. “I’m good.”

I exchange a look with Linc. This isn’t normal.

Mike’s been off in practice too—avoiding body checks, which is bizarre considering he typically hits like he’s trying to send people into next week.

The whole team’s noticed, but nobody’s been brave enough to mention it directly.

And, as if on cue, he gets up and heads to the bathroom.

“Your shot first,” I tell Maine, handing him the cue. “I’ll even let you break.”

“Such generosity,” Maine says. “Giving the peasants a chance.”

Linc leans in. “So how’s it going with Mike’s sister?”

My stomach tightens. “Keep your voice down, man.”

“He’s literally just gone to the shitter, dude, he can’t hear us…” Linc says.

I sigh. “Still…”

“Just checking if the secret romance is still on. You’ve been all… glowy lately. ”

“Glowy?” I scoff. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You know. Happy. Less—” He gestures vaguely at my face. “Tortured artist.”

“I’m not a tortured artist. And I’m not discussing Lea with you right now.”

“That’s a yes,” Linc grins triumphantly. “You’re totally still banging Mike’s sister! ”

I punch him in the arm as hard as I can, as he roars with laughter, but before I can say anything, the front door of the bar swings open and a familiar figure struts in, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Rook spots us immediately and makes a beeline for our table.

“Sup, boys?” Rook calls out, far too loudly.

“Jesus,” Linc mutters. “What’s the kid doing here?”

Rook reaches our table, practically vibrating with excitement. His buzzed light-brown hair is styled with enough gel to deflect a puck, and he’s wearing a button-down shirt that looks like it was ironed with a waffle maker.

“The hell are you doing here, Rookie?” Linc asks.

Rook grins and pulls out his wallet, flashing us a fake ID that even from several feet away looks about as legitimate as Maine’s claim that he once dated a Victoria’s Secret model.

“Behold,” he announces proudly, “James Fitzgerald, age twenty-two, from Albany.”

“That’s the worst fake ID I’ve ever seen,” I say, taking it from him to examine closer.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Rook says, puffing out his chest. “First round’s on me.”

Maine claps Rook on the shoulder. “I suddenly like you a lot more.”

“Mike’s going to lose his shit when he sees Rook here,” Linc mutters to me under his breath. “He specifically said he wanted a quiet night.”

“When has anything ever been quiet with Rook around, Linc?” I reply with a resigned shrug.

It’s true. Our freshman goalie has the volume of a car alarm and the situational awareness of a concussed puppy. Since the first day of practice, he’s been the human equivalent of a bull in a china shop—all enthusiasm, zero restraint.

“Hey, where’s the captain?” Rook asks, looking around.

“Bathroom,” Maine answers. “But fair warning—he’s in a mood.”

“When is he not in a mood?” Rook laughs, clearly missing the gravity.

As Rook bounces toward the bar, I can’t help but feel a growing sense of unease. Mike’s been wound tight enough to snap lately, and Rook is exactly the kind of complication he doesn’t need right now.

But there’s nothing to be done about it, because Rook returns with a tray of beers a minute later, right as Mike emerges from the bathroom. His face darkens the moment he spots our freshman goalie.

“Who invited the infant?” Mike asks, his voice gruff and with an edge of warning as he slides back into his seat.

“The beer fairy,” Rook says, as he sets the bottles down, unfazed by the frosty welcome. “Figured I’d see how the legends spend their Friday nights.”

“Legends,” Maine repeats, clearly pleased. “I like this kid.”

Mike accepts his beer without comment, but his jaw tightens.

We settle into playing pool, with Linc and Maine taking turns showing Rook the proper way to line up a shot—each contradicting the other’s advice. Mike watches from our table, silent except for the occasional grunt when directly addressed.

“So,” Rook says during a break between games, peacocking as he holds the cue, “you guys know Hughes Hall, right?”

“The freshman dorm?” Linc asks, chalking his cue.

“Yeah.” Rook takes a theatrical swig of his beer. “Met this hot journalism major there. She was interviewing people for some story about campus nightlife.”

“Let me guess,” Maine says, “she needed a personal demonstration?”

Rook grins, pointing at Maine. “Exactly! We hit it off, went back to her room, and, uh?—”

I tune out as Rook launches into graphic details about his alleged conquest. Mike catches my eye across the table, and for a moment, we share the same thought: this kid is so full of shit. The momentary connection almost feels like old times, before everything got weird between us.

“—and then I’m walking down the hall after, right?” Rook’s voice cuts back into my awareness. “And guess who I see coming out of the building?”

Something in his tone makes my stomach drop. I look up to find Rook staring directly at me, a shit-eating grin on his face. Every muscle in my body tenses. Beside me, Linc goes completely still.

“The tortured artist, the man of mystery,” he says. “With some girl. Looking very… cozy.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to defensive.

“Come on, man.” Rook laughs. “I saw you. This was like, Tuesday night? You were walking out with this girl, all secret-agent quiet, but you didn’t notice me because you were too busy making heart eyes at each other. And you didn’t do your boys the solid and tell them!”

I force a laugh, though my throat feels like it’s closing. “Yeah, I hooked up with someone from Hughes. So what?”

“Nah, this wasn’t a hookup.” Rook shakes his head emphatically. “You took her face in your hands and looked at her like you were in love or some shit.”

The pool table suddenly feels miles away. Mike’s attention is now fully focused on our conversation, his expression unreadable. And suddenly, there are alarm bells going off in my head, telling me I need to shut Rook—and this conversation—down right the fuck now.

“You must be confusing me with someone else,” I say, the lie sticking to my tongue. “Hey, who wants a beer?—”

“No way, man.” Rook leans forward, cutting me off, enjoying being the center of attention. “It was definitely you.”

“Rookie,” Linc interjects, trying to help me cover my tracks before shit gets real explosive. “Maybe ease up on Dec, man.”

Rook ignores him. “Come on, Dec, who is she? She was hot. Long dark curly hair. Great ass. Wearing this sweater with an Eiffel Tower on it.”

The bottle nearly slips from my hand. The sweater Rook’s describing is one Lea bought in Paris last summer during her gap semester. She wears it all the time around her dorm. And without even looking at him, I can feel Mike’s eyes boring into me.

“Eiffel Tower, huh?” Mike says, his voice eerily quiet. “Describe the girl.”

“Real artsy looking,” Rook continues. “Small. Cute. Kind of exotic.”

“Greek,” Mike says flatly. “Her mother’s family is Greek.”

The entire table goes silent. Rook’s face shifts from confusion to the slow dawn of realization. The atmosphere is suddenly thick enough to cut with a knife. Maine and Linc exchange alarmed glances.

“Wait, you know her?” Rook asks.

“Rook,” Linc says quietly. “That’s Mike’s sister.”

Rook’s eyes widen. “Oh shit. I didn’t?—”

Mike’s chair scrapes against the floor as he stands abruptly, his beer forgotten. His gaze never leaves my face, his brown eyes burning with fury and betrayal. I don’t even try to mouth an excuse, because I know what’s coming.

“You’re fucking dead,” he says, his voice so low I barely hear it.

Then his fist connects with my jaw.

The pain explodes across my face, accompanied by shocked shouts from our teammates. I stumble backward, crashing into someone else’s table. Glasses shatter. A woman screams.

“What the hell, man?” Maine yells at Mike.

Mike lunges for me again, but Linc and Maine grab his arms, holding him back. As I get my footing, blood trickles from the corner of my mouth. I wipe it away, tasting copper.

“You knew she was off-limits!” Mike roars, struggling against their grip. “I specifically told you to stay away from her!”