Page 51 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

thirty-one

LEA

The antiseptic smell of the hospital room has colonized my nostrils to the point where I’ve stopped noticing it. Four hours in the same vinyl chair next to Mike’s bed, and the only thing I can still smell is the coffee in my hands—my third, maybe fourth of the evening.

I’ve lost count.

What I haven’t lost count of is the number of hockey players who’ve cycled through this room: seventeen, not including Coach Barrett’s grim-faced visit. But, finally, they’re all gone—Declan included.

The art supplies Declan brought in sit in a neat pile beside me: charcoal pencils, and my sketch pad. He’d stood awkwardly at the foot of Mike’s bed for all of five minutes before mumbling something about giving us space and backing out of the room like it was on fire.

Mike hasn’t moved since they wheeled him back from surgery. The white cast encasing his right ankle protrudes from beneath the thin hospital blanket, and his face is slack with whatever they’ve pumped into him, making him look younger than his twenty-one years.

My phone buzzes. A text from Em:

Any news?

I tap out a quick response:

Still sleeping. Will call when he’s up.

I put my phone away and consider reaching for my sketchpad. Something about capturing him like this—vulnerable, still—feels important, maybe because I’ve rarely seen my brother be either of those things. But before I can, his eyelids flutter.

“Hey,” I say softly. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Mike blinks at me, confusion clouding his eyes momentarily before painful recognition dawns. He tries to talk, but his voice comes out in a rasp. I reach for the water cup on his bedside table, guiding the straw to his lips. He takes a sip, coughs, then nods.

As I put the water down, he tries again. “How bad is it?”

“Well, they couldn’t find your brain, but you lost that years ago.”

“Funny.” He winces as he tries to shift position. “The ankle. How bad?”

I hesitate, and that tells him everything.

“Shit.” He drops his head back against the pillow. “That bad, huh?”

“You shattered two bones, tore some ligaments with names I can’t pronounce, and they put in enough metal to set off airport security for the rest of your life.

” I keep my voice matter-of-fact, the way he prefers.

“Surgery went well, though, and the doctor said everything’s where it’s supposed to be. ”

Mike stares at the ceiling, his jaw working. I can practically hear the calculations running through his head: recovery time, physical therapy, and the now vanishingly small chances that an NHL team will take a shot on him, after his poor form and now this injury.

“They were here, you know,” I say, following his thoughts. “Your team. Pretty much all of them, in waves. Coach Barrett brought flowers.” I gesture to the modest arrangement on the windowsill. “They had to be from the hospital gift shop because they’re spectacularly ugly.”

That earns me a ghost of a smile. “Those are definitely not Barrett-approved. Probably from his wife.”

I nod, watching him carefully. His pain isn’t just physical, and we both know it. “I haven’t called Mom and Dad yet,” I tell him.

Mike’s hand moves to the morphine button, pressing it once. “Yeah, better call them.” He meets my eyes. “This might be the only thing related to my career where they’ll actually be useful. God knows I can’t figure out what the hell doctors are talking about most of the time.”

I shrug. “Something about tiny metal screws and ‘excellent long-term prognosis,’ which I’m pretty sure is doctor code for ‘you’re screwed right now.’”

“Laugh-induced pain. That’s new.” He snorts, then winces. “Did Declan say anything to you?”

The question comes out too casual to be casual, but I study my nails. “About what? ”

“About the injury…” He sighs. “About how much of an asshole I’ve been…”

“No,” I say carefully. “He just brought my art stuff and left. Said he’d check in tomorrow.

” What I don’t say is how Declan’s eyes had tracked every piece of medical equipment like each was a personal accusation.

How his knuckles had gone white on the door frame before he left, blaming himself for Mike being here.

Mike sighs, then changes the subject. “Speaking of your art stuff—is that project due soon?”

“Next week.” I pick up the sketch pad again. “We’re doing a still life.”

“And Declan’s your partner.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah.”

An uncomfortable silence stretches between us. I’m waiting for him to have another crack about our relationship, but it never comes. Instead, I can feel him watching me, trying to gauge how much I knew about his ankle.

“He told you,” Mike finally says.

“Told me what?”

“About the scout. About my ankle. That I’ve been playing injured for months.”

I meet his gaze steadily. “No, he didn’t have to. I’ve been watching you limp around campus for weeks. I tried asking about it, but you kept changing the subject. And before you get all weird about it, Declan wasn’t gossiping about you. He’s been worried.”

Mike’s laugh this time is bitter. “Yeah, well. Lot of good that worry did me.”

The silence returns, heavier this time. I fidget with the edge of my sketch pad, wondering whether to push or retreat. But Mike’s always been the one who pushes forward, even when he shouldn’t. Like playing on an injured ankle for months.

“I pushed myself too hard,” Mike says suddenly, his voice soft but clear. “I wanted it too much, and when I felt it slipping away, I just pushed even harder. Like if I just worked harder or trained more, everything would heal and the future would fall into place.”

I shift in my chair, pulling my legs up underneath me. “That’s kind of your whole thing, though. Stubborn determination in the face of impossible odds.”

“Yeah, well, stubborn determination doesn’t fix injuries.” He gestures toward his cast. “Or make scouts forget they saw you crash and burn.”

I study my brother’s face—the dark circles under his eyes, and the tightness around his mouth that has nothing to do with physical pain. “You know,” I say carefully, “there are worse things than not going pro, Mike, or a delay in going pro…”

“Name three.”

“Eating gas station sushi. Having your browser history leaked to the family group chat. Walking in on Mom and Dad?—”

“Oh God, stop.” He presses his morphine button again. “Not enough drugs in the world for that mental image.”

I grin, but it fades quickly. “Seriously, though. You’re acting like your life is over. It’s just hockey.”

The look he gives me could freeze lava. “Just hockey,” he repeats flatly. “That’s like someone telling you it’s just art.”

Ouch.

Point taken.

“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it. “That was a terrible thing to say. ”

“It was.” He sighs, the anger deflating as quickly as it came. “But there’s been a bit of that going around, so speaking of dick things to say…” He shifts, wincing as he adjusts his position. “I need to apologize for what I said the other night. About you and Declan, and, well, about you...”

I press my lips together and look down at my hands. “You don’t have to?—”

“I do.” He cuts me off. “I knew something was going on between you two that night in the hallway when he spilled that food, even though you stormed off. And I knew it was him who’d upset you that night at the library.

But I was angry because everything felt so out of control, and I wanted to control one thing. ”

My pulse quickens in my chest. “You knew all along?”

“I’m not blind, Lea.” He gives me a crooked smile. “But I was wrong. You’re an adult. And Declan’s… a good guy. Better than I deserve as a friend right now.”

“I think he’s blaming himself for this,” I admit, gesturing to the cast. “He thinks his pass caused it.”

Mike snorts. “Well, that’s stupid. I’ve been playing on this bum ankle for months. It was only a matter of time before something gave.” He shakes his head. “Typical Declan, trying to shoulder everyone else’s sacks of shit. Always been his problem.”

The room grows quiet again, but it’s a gentler silence now. I reach for my sketch pad almost unconsciously, flipping to a fresh page. Mike watches me, his eyes following the movement of my pencil as I begin outlining the stark angles of his hospital bed.

“You know what?” he says after a while, his voice taking on the dreamy quality that suggests the painkillers are hitting hard. “I always kind of envied you. ”

The pencil stills in my hand. “Envied me? Why?”

“The way you fall into things so quickly and go all the way. Into passions and interests.” He blinks. “Into love.”

Oh.

This is… unexpectedly vulnerable Mike territory.

“I don’t know if that’s something to envy,” I say carefully. “Given my record with men.”

“At least you put yourself out there.” He stops, shaking his head. “I’ve never been brave enough to fall for anyone. Not sure I can. Maybe I’m just wired wrong.”

“You’re not wired wrong,” I protest. “You just haven’t met your perfect person yet, that’s all.”

“Maybe.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe the only thing I’ve ever really loved is hockey.” His voice breaks on the last word. “And now I’ve lost it.”

My throat tightens. “You haven’t lost it. You’ve just… taken a detour via Albuquerque…”

Mike gives me a look that’s half-smile, half-grimace. “That’s a pretty way of saying ‘career-ending injury.’”

“It’s not career-ending,” I insist, though neither of us believes it. “And even if it is, hockey isn’t the only thing you’re good at. You’re smart, you’re a good leader, you’re…” I grasp for something else. “Passably decent-looking, in a rat-faced kind of way.”

That gets a genuine laugh out of him. “Thanks for the pep talk, coach.”

“Anytime.” I smile. “And even if hockey is still what you want to do, there must be options to defer graduation or extend eligibility or something like that? Can you talk to your coach?”

And, with that, I see hope fire again in his eyes.

“You’ re pretty smart, for a freshman,” he says. “I know one guy who managed to do something similar…”

“Well there you go.” I grin. “You might have to share a campus with me for another year. But get better first, then figure it out.”

Mike nods pensively, then gestures toward my sketch pad. “I want to talk about something else. Let me see what you and Lover Boy have been creating.”

“Don’t call him that,” I groan, but I’m smiling as I pick up the pad. I flip it open to where I think our project sketches should be, then pause. “That’s weird.”

“What?”

“These aren’t…” I thumb through several pages, confusion building. “I don’t recognize these drawings.”

“You’re telling me you don’t know what’s in your own sketchbook?” Mike raises an eyebrow.

“No, I mean—” I look closer at the style of the sketches. “I think Declan must have accidentally given me his sketchbook instead of mine. We use the same brand books, but his style is…” I trace my finger along a particularly bold line. “Different than mine. More bold and confident.”

“Let me see,” Mike says, reaching out a hand. I hesitate, feeling like I’m invading Declan’s privacy, but pass the book over.

Mike flips through a few pages before stopping, his brows lifting suddenly. “Well, shit.”

“What?” I lean forward, trying to see what’s caught his attention.

He turns the book toward me.

My breath catches in my throat.

It’s me.

Page after page of quick, deft sketches of my face—some just the curve of my cheek or the line of my jaw, others more complete portraits capturing expressions I barely recognize as my own. Each one is dated in Declan’s neat handwriting in the bottom corner.

“This is from the night of the frat party,” Mike says, pointing to the date. “You know, the night you first met him.”

I can’t speak. The sketches are beautiful, capturing parts of me I’ve never seen myself—a quiet intensity, a thoughtfulness, even a hint of mischief in the curve of my smile. I didn’t know I looked like that to anyone, let alone to Declan, and it’s clear I had from the first minute.

Mike barks out a laugh. “Son of a bitch.”

“What?”

He flips to another sketch—this one of me laughing, head thrown back. Something in his expression softens. “He really loves you, doesn’t he?”

The simple question hits me harder than I expected. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I think he does.”

The morphine seems to be hitting Mike hard now, his eyelids are drooping. “He’s been killing himself on the ice, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s been playing his heart out, trying to make me look good for the scouts, even though he couldn’t care less that the scout likes him .” Mike’s voice is slightly slurred now. “He doesn’t even want to go pro anymore. He wants to be an artist.”

I blink, processing this new information. “How do you know he doesn’t want to go pro?”

“He told me.” Mike waves a hand vaguely. “The night of our fight. He said he wasn’t going to the NHL. That this was his last season.”

My mind races, trying to fit this new puzzle piece into what I know of Declan. The way his face lights up when he talks about art. How he’s constantly sketching. The way he sometimes seems disconnected from hockey conversations, like he’s physically present but mentally elsewhere.

“He’s sacrificed time doing what he wants—art—to help me,” Mike continues, his words beginning to slur together. “And I’ve been a complete dick to him.”

The realization settles over me like a warm blanket. Declan has been putting aside his own dreams, his own passions, to help my brother. To support him, even when Mike’s been at his worst.

That’s… that’s love, in its purest form.

“Go find Dec,” Mike says, his eyes fully closed now. “Tell him I forgive him. But I reserve the right to kick him in the balls if he ever hurts you.”

I laugh, even as emotion tightens my throat. “I’ll pass along the message. Slightly edited.”

“No editing.” His voice is barely a whisper now. “Exact… words…”

And then he’s asleep.

I sit there for a long moment, looking at the evidence of Declan’s feelings for me—feelings that predated the drama, the fights, and the complications. My fingers trace the lines of my face as he saw it that first night, the night everything changed for both of us.

The night we both went beyond the lines.

I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Declan:

Mike’s awake. He wants to see you.

I pause, then add:

I have your sketchbook, and you have some explaining to do, Romeo.

I look down at my sleeping brother, his face relaxed in a way it hasn’t been in months. Then I glance at the sketchbook again, at the image of myself seen through Declan’s eyes, and see a woman with strength and depth and passion with her whole future ahead of her.

It’s nice, but now, at least, I don’t need anyone to validate me.