Page 143 of Beyond the Lines
“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 foranotheryear. 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—somejust 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.”
