Page 140 of Beyond the Lines
“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, theylift 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.
thirty-one
LEA
The antiseptic smellof 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 slackwith whatever they’ve pumped into him, making him look younger than his twenty-one years.
My phone buzzes. A text from Em:
