Page 26 of Beyond the Lines
A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it.
“Ooh, someone’s happy,” Em teases. “What did Cowboy Artist say?”
I quickly pocket my phone. “He just… wants to meet again.”
Em squeals. “This is so exciting! When? Where? What are you going to wear?”
“Slow down!” I laugh. “We haven’t even made plans yet.”
“Well, what are you waiting for?” She plants her hands on her hips. “Text him!”
“After breakfast,” I promise. “Right now, I need coffee and carbs.”
Pine Barren Bagels is pumping with students and faculty, which I’m told is typical for this time of the morning. What’s not typical is my brother, Mike, holding three different drinks—black coffee, orange juice, and blue Gatorade—like they’re crucial to avoiding death.
“Please,” he groans when I reach him, looking up at me from behind dark sunglasses. “You have to order for me. I can’t… words… people… anything…”
I bite back a laugh. “Rough night?”
“Tequila.” He shudders. “So much tequila. Maine kept pouring shots. I lost count after six.”
“Surprised it wasn’t the jungle juice in the trash can…” My voice trails off, as I remember the sight of the horrible concoction.
“Oh, it was that too…” He sighs.
I snort. “Go find a table before you fall over. I’ll bring the food.”
He manages a weak smile of gratitude before stumbling inside, navigating through the crowded tables with all the grace of a drunken giraffe. I watch him nearly take out a couple seated at a table before he finally collapses into a corner booth.
The line moves at a glacial pace, giving me plenty of time to contemplate my brother’s impressive hangover. Mike’s usually more careful about his drinking during hockey season, but for some reason he let
it all hang out last night and got hammered.
By the time I reach the counter, Mike has his head down on the tabletop, which can’t be sanitary. I order his usual hangover special—bacon, egg, and cheese on an everything bagel—and get myself a whole wheat with cream cheese.
“Extra napkins,” the cashier says knowingly when she sees me glancing at Mike. “If he hurls, you guys are cleaning it up.”
“That obvious, huh?”
She grins. “Let’s just say I’ve seen that look before. Usually when hockey players go to frat parties…”
Her tone of voice suggests she knows exactly who Mike is, and I need to remind myself that he’s a local celebrity. Hockey captain, eligible bachelor. I can barely hold back my sigh, knowing the cashier is just trying to help, even though from the look on her face she’dloveto take care of Mike, hangover or not.
When the food is ready, I bring our order to the table. Mike has graduated from face-down-on-table to slumped-in-chair, the triple-beverage approach seemingly putting some caffeine, sugar, and water into him. He’s on his phone, so he doesn’t notice me approaching.
“Let me guess, hook up from last night?” I ask, sliding his plate over. “Tell me you didn’t hurl on her…”
He shakes his head, then regrets the movement. “I was a perfect gentleman with… what was her name again? Nah, just organizing team dinner at my place…”
Horror floods through me. “Please tell me you’re not cooking.”
“What’s wrong with my cooking?”
“Let’s see,” I put my plate down and scratch my chin in fake contemplation. “Your penchant for undercooked pasta? The time you boiled a pot of water dry? Oh, wait, I know—how about that time last summer when you gave me food poisoning with raw chicken that yousworewas cooked?”
“OK, OK,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged, your honor…”
“I haven’t eaten poultry since.” I unwrap my bagel. “Seriously, Mike. Order pizza or something. Don’t poison your team.”
