Page 141 of Beyond the Lines
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 withnames 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.”
