Page 52 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

thirty-two

DECLAN

The Uber drives away as Mike hobbles next to me on the sidewalk on crutches. I hover beside him like an overanxious parent, ready to catch him if he topples, which is ironic for two guys who’ve gone to war on ice skates for the last few years.

“Dude, I will beat you with these crutches if you don’t stop looking at me like I’m a toddler learning to walk,” Mike says, adjusting his grip.

“Sorry.” I step back, giving him space. “Just don’t want you face-planting on your first day of freedom. Wouldn’t look great on my CV.”

“Your CV is fucked anyway.” He smirks. “You ditched a pro hockey career to draw naked people?”

“They’re not all naked.” I laugh as I hoist his bag on my shoulder, knowing the joke is his way of showing he accepts my choice. “Although your sister…”

“Dude, I’ll kill you.” He snorts, then grimaces as he navigates around a crack in the sidewalk. “The second I don’t need two hands for these crutches, anyway… ”

I nod in sympathy. A few days since the break, and the cast encasing his right ankle is already covered in scribbles and well-wishes.

Linc drew a giant cock and balls, whereas I drew my best pen-on-plaster picture of his sister that I could manage.

And now he’s got it with him for months until he’s back on the ice.

“So Coach really said you could defer?” I ask, guiding us toward the coffee cart near the arts building at a very low pace.

“Yeah.” Mike’s face brightens for the first time since we left the hospital. “I have to take a medical redshirt for the rest of this year, but I can come back and play my senior season again next year. It’s not ideal, but...”

“It’s something,” I finish for him. “And at the end of the day you’ll only be off the ice for a semester…”

“It’s something,” he agrees.

We head to the coffee shop, and I start the order. “Two coffees,” I tell the barista at the cart. “One black, one with?—”

“Two shots of espresso, splash of half-and-half, and a sugar packet that you’ll stir exactly three times,” Mike interrupts, even as the barista does her best to hide a smirk behind her hand. “Because you’re weird and think the number of stirs affects the taste.”

I glare at him. “It does.”

“Uh-huh.” He smirks, leaning on his crutches as he looks at her. “Sorry…”

The barista gets to work, with a bemused look on her face, then hands us our coffees. I guide us to a nearby bench, where Mike eases down with a wince, propping his crutches against the armrest, but it’s clear that even this brief few minutes on his feet has taxed him.

“You OK, man?” I take a sip of my coffee .

“Yeah, but fuck me. It’s been all about me for days.” He shrugs. “How are you, Dec?”

I beam. “I’m good. Since I told everyone, it’s like a giant weight is off my shoulder.”

“And you’re actually OK with turning down the NHL? For real?” His expression is serious now, the playfulness gone. “Because Coach told me that scout was seriously impressed. Said you could’ve been a second-round draft pick, maybe even late first, and that’s a lot of moolah.”

Those words would have sent me soaring six months ago. Now they merely brush against me, acknowledged and released. “I’m not saying it wasn’t tempting, but yeah, I’m actually very OK with it. I’m done.”

“And how long have you known?”

“Since...” I pause, tracing back the evolution of this certainty.

“I don’t know if there was a single moment.

More like a hundred little ones. Playing felt more like obligation than joy.

It was you guys I enjoyed, not the game.

Meanwhile, every time I picked up a pencil or brush.

..” I falter mid-sentence, not sure how to explain the feeling.

“You don’t have to justify it to me.” Mike’s voice is unexpectedly gentle. “I just want to make sure you’re not giving up your dreams for my sister.”

“I’m not.” The certainty in my voice surprises even me.

“I’m choosing my real dream. I hope Lea’s part of that future, but she’s not the reason.

” I take a sip of coffee. “Art was always there, even when hockey took center stage and even before she came along. I just never gave myself permission to put it first.”

“Shit, you’re dropping hockey and dating my sister,” he shakes his head. “That wasn’t on my Declan Andrews Senior Year bingo card… ”

I wave a dismissive hand. “Without your overprotective brother routine, we might never have realized how madly in love we are.”

The words come out easily now, surprising me with their naturalness. Three months ago, I couldn’t have imagined saying them, let alone meaning them. Now they feel as comfortable as a well-worn hockey jersey, which have all been relegated to being what Lea wears when she’s sleeping or painting.

“Well…” His voice trails off, as if he’s still not sure what to say. “From what I saw, your art is awesome, dude, and I’m glad you’re sharing it with her…”

“Not all he’s doing with your sister!” Linc laughs as he approaches us from behind. “Like, I’m sure there’s a penis involved or?—”

Like he’s taking a slapshot, Mike grabs his crutch around and silences Linc by slapping him on the ass with the stick. For his part, Linc feigns pain and offense, but a second later we’re all smiling. We’re all glad to have found a new equilibrium, in our lives and in our friendship.

Already, the team had started to adjust around Mike’s injury.

He’s planning to remain captain, but do his work from the bench.

Linc had agreed to move into Mike’s apartment to help him out for the rest of our senior year.

And I’ve agreed to play until the end of the semester, after which I hope to be focusing on the select seminar and my final art classes.

Linc plants himself on the bench on the other side of Mike. “We’ll catch up with you after your class, Dec…”

Mike clearly realizes we’ve set up a rotation of friends to look after him, but whereas a month ago he might have snapped at us, now he just nods. “Go kill it, Dec. Show that professor why you deserve a spot in that seminar and why you turned down millions to draw pictures…”

I stand and give him a high-five. “With a rousing speech like that, how could I possibly fail?”

Professor Lucas’s heels click against the hardwood floor as she moves from project to project, her red pen poised like a weapon. Beside me, Lea shifts in her seat, her knee bouncing slightly against mine even after I tangle my fingers with hers.

“Nervous?” I whisper.

She gives me a look that could peel paint. “No, I just enjoy shaking like a leaf…”

I bite back a laugh. Previously, that expression would have made me think she hated me. Now I know it means she’s terrified and covering it with sarcasm. But while she’s terrible at masking her feelings, I’ve tried to put a shield over my nerves in this moment.

The room has that end-of-semester quietness—the suffocating, everyone-holding-their-breath kind. Twenty students with their final projects displayed, waiting for judgment. Our still life series sits on the easels in front of us: Declan and Lea – Life Beyond the Lines .

My hockey skate, battered from years on the ice. Lea’s postcard from Paris, creased at the corners. A ridiculous T-shirt from Marie’s Diner with its cartoon pancake declaring “STACK ME UP!” And, most importantly, our first sketches of each other.

“Hey,” I murmur, squeezing her hand. “Whatever happens, we’re good.”

She exhales slowly. “I know. I just… this matters. ”

It does, but not because we need the grade and to be selected for the select seminar. It matters because these pictures tell our story—how we found each other, lost each other, then found something better when we stopped fighting what was right in front of us.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Probably Linc asking what beer to bring tonight. The party. Right. I still need to clean my apartment before everyone shows up, and I don’t dare let Lea get involved. The woman organized my bookshelf by color last weekend.

“You’re smiling,” Lea whispers, her breath warm against my ear.

“Just thinking about your color-coding addiction.”

“It’s called ‘having standards,’ Andrews.” But she’s smiling too.

“Your standards include alphabetizing my protein powder…”

She presses her lips together to suppress a laugh, and I feel ridiculously proud of myself. Making her laugh is a rush that never gets old.

It’s strange how much has changed in just a few days. After Mike’s injury, after everything between Lea and I came out into the open, I expected… I don’t know, an explosion? A nuclear winter? Instead, since the dust had settled, things have been great.

And now, instead of sneaking around campus, Lea stays over at my place almost every night. We hold hands walking to class. She wears my hoodies even though they hang to her knees. We’re disgustingly domestic, and I can’t get enough of it.

Professor Lucas clears her throat, and I snap back to attention. She’s standing in front of our project now. Suddenly, my breath catches, and I hope like hell she likes our work. But at the same time, it also doesn’t feel as big as it once did.

My art career doesn’t hinge on one class.

I’ve got my whole life to draw.

Although I still badly want a spot in that seminar.

“An interesting choice,” she says, studying our still life. “Most students go for traditional—fruits, flowers, bottles, and people—but you two went autobiographical.”

Lea’s grip on my hand tightens.

“The execution is technically proficient.” The professor leans closer, examining the detail work on the hockey skate. “But it’s clear your individual styles have informed each other. The bold lines here—” she points to a section I drew, then at one of Lea’s “—balanced by these softer transitions.”

I hold my breath.

“What interests me most, however, is the progression in the series.” She flips through her notes. “Your initial practice pieces showed two artists with distinct, almost combative approaches. By the final project, you’ve developed a visual dialogue. The pieces speak to each other.”

Beside me, Lea makes a small sound of relief.

Professor Lucas straightens up. “I’d like to see you both in the select seminar.”

Wait.

What?

“Both of us?” Lea blurts out.

The professor nods. “The invitations will be official by week’s end, but yes, you’ve both secured spots.” She allows herself a small smile. “Sometimes suffering does produce the best art, after all, and some things worthwhile outside of art, it seems, unless my eyes deceive me…”

As she moves on to the next project, Lea turns to me, eyes wide, and mouth slightly open.

I know that look. It’s the ‘holy shit’ face she makes right before she comes.

But, in this moment, this might be the only thing better than sex with her, because it’s both of us taking a huge gigantic fucking massive step forward .

In our art.

As a couple.

“Holy. Shit.” She mouths the words silently, squeezing my fingers so hard I think my circulation might be cut off permanently.

I break into a grin so wide my face actually hurts. Weeks of doing nothing but art, together, in this very classroom. “We did it,” I say.

“It’s going to be so great,” she whispers. “You look like you just won the lottery, Declan.”

“Better,” I whisper back. “I get to spend a few weeks watching you bite your lip when you’re concentrating.”

A blush creeps across her cheeks. “That’s your idea of a perfect few weeks? Watching me drool over my sketchbook?”

“Absofuckinglutely.” I lean closer, my voice dropping lower. “Though I have a few other ideas too.”

“Oh?” Her pupils dilate slightly, and I file that reaction away for later. Much later. After everyone leaves the party tonight.

Professor Lucas finishes her rounds and returns to the front of the class.

“I’ll have your final grades posted by Friday.

For those of you continuing in the select seminar program, welcome.

For everyone else, I hope this class has expanded your technical range and challenged your creative boundaries. ”

As students begin chatting and packing up around us, Lea leans her head against my shoulder for just a moment—a quick, public display of affection that still feels new and exhilarating.

“So,” she says softly, smiling. “I guess we’ll be back in these same seats again pretty soon...”

“You think you can handle sitting next to me for three more months without getting distracted?”

She snorts. “Bold assumption that you’re the distracting one in this relationship.”

“Please. You’ve been eye-fucking me since day one.”

“I have not!” Her indignation draws glances from nearby students.

And there it is—that smile. The one that starts in her eyes before it reaches her lips. The one that makes me certain that art, the seminar—none of it would mean a damn thing without her.

“Come on,” I say, standing. “We’ve got a party to host…”

“Why the rush?” Her eyes narrow. “The party isn’t for hours…”

“Yeah,” I smirk. “But I want to draw you. On the couch. Naked.”