Page 29 of Beyond the Lines
six
DECLAN
A floor hockeyball whizzes past my head as I enter Mike’s apartment.
“Dammit, Maine! Stop with the street hockey!” Linc’s voice echoes from the kitchen, along with the clatter of pots. “You’re ruining my vibe!”
I follow the sounds of chaos, and the scene that greets me is pure mayhem: Maine wielding a hockey stick like a broadsword, Mike ducking behind the couch using a pillow as a shield, and Linc in the kitchen, brandishing a wooden spoon like he’s ready for combat.
“It’s not street hockey.” Maine grins, unrepentant. “It’s apartment hockey. Totally different sport.”
“Yeah.” Mike pops up from behind the couch, lobbing a ball at Maine’s head that misses by only a little bit. “Much more refined.”
“I will end both of you.” Linc points his spoon at them threateningly. “Dec, back me up here.”
I grin. “Sorry, but I’m Switzerland. Neutral territory.”
“Traitor.” Linc’s eyes narrow, then he jabs the spoon atMike and Maine. “You two! Set the damn table before I give your food to the freshman downstairs!”
“Trevor?” Mike stands from behind the couch. “The guy with the Che Guevara tattoo who tried to convince the dean that grades are a capitalist construct?”
“That’s the one.” Linc laughs. “The guy espousing the benefits of socialism while living in his old man’s fourteenth property…”
“Shit.” Maine drops his hockey stick entirely. “He’d probably just put it in the trash because it’s got meat. Where are the plates?”
Linc points to a cabinet with his spoon. “Top shelf. And Mike?—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Mike heads for the drawer of silverware. “I’m moving.”
I lean against the door frame, smirking as I watch the controlled chaos unfold. “Need any help, Linc?” I say.
“Keep those two—” Linc gestures at Mike and Maine with his spoon “—from breaking anything else. And maybe grab the salad from the fridge?”
I open the refrigerator and spot the massive bowl of greens. Next to it sits a mixing bowl with... “Is that cookie dough?”
“Don’t.” Linc’s voice carries a warning note. “Mike already got into it. Like some sort of animal.”
Mike doesn’t even try to look guilty. “You left it unguarded.”
“It was in the fridge!” Linc throws his hands up. “Behind the salad!”
“Amateur move.” Mike grins. “You know I always check behind the healthy stuff. That’s where people hide the good food.”
I grab the salad bowl, trying not to laugh at Linc’s expression of betrayal. “You know, these team dinners were your idea,” I say.
“Yeah, well.” Linc’s sigh sounds like defeat. “Someone had to step up. Half the guys can’t cook anything that doesn’t come with microwave instructions.”
“I can cook!” Maine protests.
“Protein shakes don’t count as cooking, bro.”
“What about my nachos?—”
Linc cuts him off. “Dumping cheese on chips isn’t cooking either.”
I set the salad on the counter, out of the line of fire. “Don’t stress so much, Linc. It’s just dinner, not Thanksgiving at your grandmother’s house...”
“First of all, nothing is as stressful as Thanksgiving at my gran’s. And second—” He tastes whatever’s in the pot, adds more seasoning “—I’m not stressing.”
