Page 30 of Beyond the Lines
“You’re not…” Mike repeats flatly.
“Correct,” Linc says. “I’m trying to create an ambiance. A vibe. A mood. Not that you animals appreciate it.”
“The only mood I’m getting is ‘stressed chef about to murder his teammates.’” Maine dodges the dish towel Linc throws at him.
“What’s on the menu anyway?” I say, as Maine almost drops the plates, then proceeds to lay them out.
“Chicken Marsala.” Linc’s pride is evident in his voice. “Plus garlic bread, salad, and—if certain people hadn’t gotten into it—chocolate chip cookies for dessert.”
“Raw cookie dough is better anyway,” Mike chimes in, as he sets out forks with surprising precision for someone who just used a throw pillow as armor.
“So, Dec,” Linc’s voice drops as Mike and Maine argueabout who is responsible for putting out the drinking glasses. “Where’d you disappear to last night?”
I swallow hard, because I’d hoped to avoid this conversation. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb. You vanished, man.” He stirs the sauce, the rich aroma of Marsala wine filling the kitchen. “Let me guess. You went home to sketch.”
“Actually...” I hesitate, warmth spreading through my chest at the memory of Lea’s smile. “I… uh…”
“Fuck off!” He scoffs. “You met someone!”
I sigh. No point in denying it. “I met someone.”
Linc’s eyebrows rise. “At a party? You?”
“Hey, I go to parties,” I protest.
“Uh-huh.” Linc tastes the sauce again. “So who is she?”
Before I can answer, the front door bangs open, and Rook’s voice booms through the apartment. “Smells amazing!”
“And something looks amazing.” Simon, one of the second line guys, trails in after him, phone in hand. “Check out this girl from my Bio class who just swiped?—”
The rest of the team piles in behind them, a wave of noise and movement that drowns out any chance of continuing my conversation with Linc. He shoots me a look that clearly sayswe’ll talk laterbefore raising his voice over the chaos. I nod, glad for the reprieve, and with no intention of bringing the topic up again.
“Alright, animals!” He points his spoon at the dining room. “Food’s ready. Try to act civilized!”
The team descends on dinner like a pack of starving wolves. Within minutes, the dining room table—which I’m pretty sure Mike got from IKEA his sophomore year—groans under the weight of plates, glasses, elbows, and Linc’s truly impressive spread. And the table doesn’t even fitthe team, with some of the guys relegated to the bench, the sofa, or even the floor.
I end up between Linc and Simon, across from Mike and Maine. Rook, our freshman goalie, claims the seat at the end of the table like it’s a throne. The rest of the guys fill in the gaps, elbowing each other and stealing rolls before Linc can even finish setting down the last dish.
“OK.” Mike taps his water glass with his fork, the sharp-pitched ring cutting through the chaos. “Before we eat?—”
“Come on, Cap!” Maine protests. “The food’s getting cold!”
“Tradition, assholes.” Mike’s voice carries that edge of authority that makes him a good captain. “First dinner, go around the table, give goals for the season.”
A collective groan rises from the table, but there’s no real resistance. We’ve been doing this since freshman year, when our then captain—Tommy Rubisky, now playing in the NHL—started it. It’s cheesy as hell, but it works, getting us focused and helping us think about what we want to accomplish.
“I’ll start.” Maine grabs a dinner roll, ignoring Linc’s death glare. “This season, I want to make Coach Barrett laugh at a hockey joke.”
“Impossible.” Simon snorts. “The man has no sense of humor.”
“Challenge accepted.” Maine’s grin turns wicked. “I’ve been working on material all summer. What do you call a monkey who wins the Stanley Cup?”
The table falls silent, waiting, eyes already glazing over.
“A chimp-ion!” Maine beams like he’s just solved world hunger.
