Page 118 of Beyond the Lines
The locker room door opens, and Mike emerges alone. His face is pale, jaw tight, with a look in his eyes I’ve only seen once before—after we lost the championship in our sophomore year. Devastation covered by a thin veneer of control.
He spots us waiting and his expression shifts, trying for neutral. “What are you guys still doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” Linc says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Where’s Coach?”
“He’s still inside.” Mike jerks his head toward the exit. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
As we walk, I can’t help noticing the slight hitch in Mike’s stride. It’s subtle—you wouldn’t see it if you weren’t looking—but it’s there, a hesitation on his right leg. Whatever’s wrong with him, he’s in pain and it’s getting worse, and has been for longer than any of us realized.
“So...” Linc ventures, breaking the tense silence. “You going to tell us what’s up?”
Mike’s laugh is hollow. “Nothing’s up.”
“Right. That’s why Coach needed to talk to you alone after mentioning MRI results.”
Mike stops walking, turning to face us with a hardness in his eyes I’ve rarely seen. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
The lie is so obvious it’s almost insulting. “Mike, come on,” I say. “We’re your friends. If something’s wrong?—”
“What’s wrong is that I’m tired and hungry,” he snaps. “Can we just... not do this right now?”
“Sure,” I say, exchanging a look with Linc. “Let’s grab food. Celebrate the win.”
Mike’s shoulders relax slightly. “Pizza at Linc’s?”
“Obviously.” Linc grins, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
As we head toward the exit, the conversation shifts to safer territory. But there’s an undercurrent now, something unspoken between us. Mike’s hiding something serious, and I’m hiding something that would devastate him in a different way.
The secrets hang in the air around us, invisible but palpable.
twenty-five
LEA
I knockon Declan’s apartment door, my portfolio clutched under one arm, sketchbook balancing on top. The corridor is silent except for the distant thump of someone’s bass-heavy music and the tap of my foot, nervous about being caught until we’re both safely stowed inside.
My nerves are completely stupid.
We’ve been sneaking around for weeks now, and this is just another night, another drawing session—just the last of our practice drawings before the final project. Fuck that, who am I kidding. It’s going to be the two of us. Alone. In his apartment. With a perfectly good bed only yards away.
Complete concentration required, Altman. Complete professional focus.
The door swings open, and all my carefully constructed professionalism evaporates in the searing heat of Declan’s smile. His hair is damp, like he just showered, and he’s wearing a faded Metallica T-shirt that hugs his chest in ways that make me want to play him like a guitar.
“Hey,” he says, his voice warm velvet. “Come?—”
I don’t let him finish before I’m stepping into his space, my portfolio slipping to the floor with a soft thud as I press my mouth against his. He makes a cute little surprised sound that quickly transforms into a groan, his hands finding my hips and pulling me in closer to him.
“Someone’s happy to see me,” he murmurs against my lips.
“It’s been two days,” I breathe, tangling my fingers in his hair. “Too long.”
His laugh rumbles through both our bodies. “We had a class together yesterday.”
“That doesn’t count.” I slip my hands under his shirt, running my palms up his warm back. “You sat across the room and pretended I didn’t exist.”
“I wasn’t pretending,” he corrects, pressing me against the wall beside his still-open door. “I was surviving.”
