Page 50 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

thirty

DECLAN

My feet pound the dirt path as I try to keep pace with Linc’s punishing stride. The early morning chill cuts through my sweat-dampened T-shirt, but I’m grateful for it—beats the stench of twenty hockey players crammed into a locker room any day.

“You’re lagging, Andrews,” Linc calls over his shoulder, barely winded despite setting a pace that would make most sprinters sob.

“Just trying to give your ego a boost before the game.” I push harder, closing the gap between us. “Pre-game charity work.”

Linc snorts and speeds up, because of course he does. The man treats everything like a competition—including our sunrise run around north campus. The trails are mostly empty at this hour, just a few dedicated joggers and one professor walking a dog.

“How many miles are we doing?” I ask, matching his pace, my quads burning in protest .

“Three miles.” Linc glances at his watch. “We’ve got team breakfast in forty.”

The path narrows as we enter the wooded section, forcing us to run single file. Wet leaves dampen our footfalls, and my mind drifts to Lea, as it’s been doing with embarrassing frequency lately. A week into our official relationship, and I still feel like I’m walking on air.

When the trail widens again, Linc drops back to run beside me. “You’ve got that stupid look on your face again.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re thinking about Lea.” He makes a gagging noise. “It’s like watching a Hallmark movie in real-time.”

“Didn’t realize you were such a connoisseur,” I shoot back, but I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. “It’s been a good week, that’s all.”

“Well, any week Mike doesn’t punch you is a good week, I guess…” He smirks, then his face goes serious. “How has he been?”

“He’s speaking to me a little. Just mostly in single-syllable grunts and the occasional creative prank.” I shrug. “Yesterday I found my stick tape unwrapped.”

We pound down a small hill, adjusting our strides for the decline. My right knee twinges slightly—nothing serious, just an old complaint that surfaces when I push too hard, and is fine when I back off once again.

“The one you’ve had since freshman year?” Linc winces. “That’s crossing a line, man.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrug, despite the fact it had pissed me off. “Not like I’m superstitious.”

“Unlike Mike, who probably thinks stepping on a crack will break his mother’s back and his chances at the NHL. ”

We reach the halfway point of the loop, marked by a wooden bench that’s seen better days. Linc slows, and I gratefully follow suit, dropping to a walk. We both grab our water bottles, breathing heavily.

“Why haven’t you retaliated?” Linc asks between gulps. “If he was razzing me like that, he’d be getting shaving cream in his helmet by now.”

I cap my water bottle and roll my shoulders. “What’s the point? It would just make things worse, and honestly, I just don’t care enough to bother.”

“Whipped,” Linc coughs into his fist.

“Mature,” I correct, flipping him off. “Besides, on top of Lea and I, he’s sulking he didn’t get the email from the scout that we did…”

Linc’s expression clouds. “Yeah, that email was…”

“It was just the next step, Linc.” The invitation to meet “some people” after the game had been addressed only to Linc and me.

“If you say so,” Linc says, as he stretches his hamstrings against the bench. “You ready to get moving again?”

I nod, and we set off again, this time at a more reasonable pace—either because Linc is being considerate of my fatigue or because he’s trying to draw out our conversation. I suspect the latter.

“So how are you feeling about tonight?” he asks casually, side-eyeing me.

“Like I should’ve taken that art scholarship to NYU when I had the chance.”

Linc laughs, but I can tell he’s waiting for a real answer. He has a way of drawing things out of me whether I want to share them or not. It’s why he’s such a good teammate, and friend .

“I’m nervous,” I admit. “Not just about the game, but about Mike. He’s struggling…”

“You know, you’re not responsible for Mike’s career. Or his happiness.”

“Yeah, but?—”

“But nothing,” Linc cuts me off. “Man’s got two feet. He can stand on them. Sort of.”

I shoot him a confused look. “What do you mean, ‘sort of’?”

Linc hesitates, as if he’s said more than he meant to.

“Look, I wasn’t going to say anything, but I was in the training room yesterday.

I overheard him talking with one of the trainers, and apparently he’s been playing on a sprain since the start of the semester.

He never let it heal, so it keeps getting worse. ”

“That explains the MRI. But since game one?” I sigh. “That’s months ago. Why didn’t he say anything?”

“Because he’s Mike, dumb ass. He’s stubborn as hell.” Linc shrugs. “Hope Lea doesn’t have that family trait.”

I ignore the joke, processing this new information. Mike’s behavior, his declining performance, and his increasing retreat into being quiet and sullen—it’s all making a lot more sense now.

“Robbie said because he didn’t rest or ice it properly, so the sprain never healed,” Linc continues. “And now he’s risking permanent damage to the ligament.”

“Jesus.” I let out a long breath that clouds in the cool morning air. “What did Robbie tell him to do?”

“Take a couple of weeks off, at minimum. But Mike…”

“Won’t do that,” I finish. “Not with scouts watching. Not in his senior year.”

“Bingo.”

We run in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds our breathing and the squelch of mud beneath our shoes. Mike’s injury gives context to his behavior, but it doesn’t excuse it, because he’s been hiding something crucial from the team, from his line-mates, and from me.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Linc says. “I can practically hear the gears grinding in your head.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what to do with this information,” I say. “Someone has to protect him from himself.”

“Not your job,” Linc suggests. “What happens, happens. You can only control your own game, your own behavior.”

“Yeah.” I nod slowly. “Lea said the same thing the other night, even though she’s still furious at him.”

Linc smirks. “Smart girl.”

“You’re right, though. If he wants to wreck his ankle and his future, that’s on him. I’m done feeling guilty.”

We emerge from the wooded trail onto the open fields near the athletic complex.

The hockey rink looms in the distance, its sleek modern design contrasting with Pine Barren’s otherwise traditional architecture.

Tonight, it’ll be packed with screaming fans, watching to see if we can maintain our streak.

We slow to a stop at the crossroads that leads both of us back to our places, but in different directions.

The morning has brightened considerably, and students are beginning to filter out of buildings, heading to early classes or breakfast. I can feel my mood improving at the thought of seeing Lea, then playing the game.

“Meet you at the dining hall in twenty?” Linc asks.

“Nah, I’m having breakfast with Lea…” I shrug.

“You’re evolving, man.” He snorts. “Next, you’ll grow wings and fly.”

But I don’t tell him that I’m already airborne from my time with Lea, and no longer feeling weighed down by Mike’s demands and accusations. Part of me feels bad for him—hiding an injury, playing through pain, while watching his dreams slip further out of reach.

But the larger part of me is done enabling his self-destructive behavior and done feeling guilty, and I don’t need to apologize for how I feel about his sister. If he can come to terms with that, there might be something left to salvage, but if he can’t…

Well, tonight I’ll play my game. Do my job. Then go home to Lea.

And whatever happens with Mike… happens.

The crowd roars as Maine slams another goal into the net, putting us up 3–1 halfway through the second period. I raise my stick in celebration, but the motion feels mechanical. The scout’s here again, watching from the stands, and I should be thrilled.

This game is exactly what Mike needs to redeem himself after his slump. He’s still being a jerk, but he’s played his best game all season, maybe well enough to get the scout to take another look. And both Linc and I are putting in strong performances.

League performances.

But I can’t get excited. Instead, I’m thinking about the half-finished canvas in my apartment, and looking forward to cooking with Lea again. And then, well, let’s just say we’ve made some wonderful desserts using food and our bodies .

“Nice assist, Andrews!” Coach Barrett shouts as I skate past the bench.

I’ve been playing well, at least on paper. But the movements don’t flow like they used to. Each pass, each hit, and each strategic decision requires conscious thought when before they came as naturally as breathing, and that tells me my heart isn’t really in it anymore.

Mike and I line up for the face-off. His jaw is set, eyes focused on the referee’s hand. He’s been playing with a strange intensity tonight. But despite his awesome game, something’s off in his movements too.

A hesitation before each turn.

A grimace when he puts weight on his foot.

And it’s clear he’ll kill himself to impress the scout.

“You good?” I murmur.

He doesn’t look at me. “Fine.”

Right. Still pissed about Lea, then.

The puck drops, and we’re back in motion. I find myself automatically scanning the stands as I skate backward into position. Lea’s there with Em, both of them on their feet. For a moment, our eyes meet, and her smile makes me feel like I could leap the boards and fly.

“Andrews! Focus!”

Coach’s voice snaps me back. The opposition center is coming in hot, and I’m out of position. I pivot hard, barely managing to get my stick on the puck as it whizzes past. The deflection sends it to Linc, who takes off down the ice, clearing from defense.

The next few minutes are a blur of motion. Their defense has tightened up, making it harder to find clean passes. Mike’s hovering near their blue line, arms raised, and calling for the puck. He’s open—a perfect opportunity—but something about his stance seems off.

I hesitate a fraction of a second too long.

“Andrews! Move it!” Coach barrels.

I send the pass—harder than I intended, and wider to the right than it should be. The moment it leaves my stick, I know it’s wrong. But Mike’s already committed, lunging for it, stretching his body in a way that makes my own muscles scream in sympathy.

His skate catches an edge and his right ankle twists at a bad angle.

The sound that erupts from his throat isn’t human—it’s primal, raw, the kind of noise that silences an entire arena in an instant. It’s a mix of pain and anger and frustration, and as the puck slides forgotten, Mike crumples to the ice clutching his lower leg.

Holy fuck.

I’m moving before I realize it, skating hard toward him. The referee’s whistle pierces the silence to pause the play, shrill and insistent, but it barely registers in my mind. All I can focus on is Mike’s face—contorted in agony, pale as the ice beneath him.

“Don’t move,” I tell him, dropping to my knees. “Trainer’s coming.”

Mike’s eyes find mine, wide with panic rather than pain. “How bad?” he gasps.

I glance down and immediately wish I hadn’t. His ankle is bent at an unnatural angle, already swelling visibly inside his skate. This isn’t a sprain. This is so, so, so much worse than that.

“It’s—” I start, but my voice trails off as movement in the stands catches my eye .

Lea’s running—not toward the exit like most people would, but straight down the steps toward the ice. Her face is a mirror of Mike’s panic, and before any security guard can stop her, she’s vaulted over the boards and is sliding across the ice in her sneakers.

“What happened?” she demands, dropping beside her brother. “Mike?”

He tries to speak but only manages a strangled groan, even as the medical team converges around us, equipment bags clattering on the ice. The referees are working to keep players back.

“We need space, Andrews.” Our trainer, Robbie, barks at me as he drops to his knees beside Mike, his hands exploring Mike’s ankle. “Please.”

“Is it broken?” Lea asks, her voice small.

The trainer’s hands carefully examine Mike’s leg. “We’ll need X-rays,” he finally says, which is trainer-speak for “absolutely yes, it’s broken as hell.”

Mike’s eyes close briefly, his jaw clenched so tight I worry he might crack some teeth. When he opens them again, the hollow resignation in his gaze hits me like a body check. He knows exactly what this means—what he’s losing right now.

“Stretcher!” The trainer turns to the bench, locking eyes with Coach Barrett and shaking his head. “I need a stretcher!”

“No,” Mike says through gritted teeth. “I can—” He tries to move and immediately goes rigid with pain.

Lea reaches for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “Stop being a stubborn ass for once in your life.”

Despite everything, a ghost of a smile flickers across Mike’s face. “Says the title-belt holder of stubbornness.”

“Runs in the family,” she counters, but her voice wavers.

The stretcher arrives, and with careful coordination, they lift Mike onto it. He doesn’t make a sound, but the whiteness of his knuckles as he grips the sides tells its own story about how much pain he’s in. Lea stands, moving with the medical team off the ice.

She pauses for just a moment as she passes me. “It’s not your fault,” she whispers, her eyes meeting mine. “He’s been favoring that ankle for weeks.”

Before I can respond, she’s gone, following her brother toward the exit. The crowd applauds as Mike is carried away—the salute to a fallen player—and there’s a strange tension in the air, because everyone knows they’ve seen the last of Mike Altman, captain and star.

He’s a senior with a serious injury.

That means he’s done.

Coach Barrett approaches, his face grim. “Two-minute break, then we finish.”

“But—” I start to protest, but he cuts me off.

“He’d want us to win it,” Coach says. “You know that.”

I do know that. Mike would be furious if we threw the game because of him. But all I can think about is the angle of his ankle, and the look in his eyes when he realized what it meant.

My pass was bad, but he’s been playing all game—all season—on the edge. Trying desperately to ignore the injury and push through the pain. Gambling everything on staying on the ice and impressing the scouts.

And now it has cost him everything.