Page 34 of Beyond the Lines
Maine waves his hand dismissively. “But seriously, Dec. Bring her to a game!”
The thought of Lea in the stands, watching me play, makes something warm unfurl in my chest. But then I remember—she doesn’t even know I play hockey. As far as she knows, I’m just another art student...
“Maybe,” I say noncommittally, shoving more food in my mouth to avoid further questions.
Linc’s chicken Marsala is so good it should be illegal.
I take another bite of the leftovers as I head down the stairs from Mike’s apartment, savoring the blend of spices. The guy may be a pain in the ass about his cooking, but damn if he doesn’t know what he’s doing in the kitchen.
The team dinner went well, all things considered. No onebrought up my mysterious girl again after that initial excitement died down. Though Maine did raise his eyebrows at me a few times when no one was looking.
But something’sdefinitelyup with Mike.
He was quieter than usual, picking at his food instead of inhaling it like he normally does. And when Rook asked about the upcoming Princeton game, Mike’s whole demeanor changed. He got tense and defensive.
I round the corner of the stairwell, still pondering Mike’s behavior, and?—
WHAM
—something solid collides with my chest.
The impact knocks my container of leftovers from my hands. Time seems to slow as I watch in horror as the container flies into the air, sending an arc of Marsala sauce and rice through the air.
“Oh shit,” says a familiar voice.
Lea?
Before I can process that it’sherI just crashed into, out of every possible person on campus, my feet hit the slick tile floor. My sneakers slide on spilled Marsala. I windmill my arms, desperately trying to keep my balance as?—
SPLAT
—a glob of Marsala sauce lands directly in my hair.
More food rains down around us. Chocolate chip cookies skitter across the floor like edible hockey pucks. A particularly large chunk of chicken does a graceful swan dive into a potted plant.
“I am so sorry!” Lea’s hands flutter in the air between us, like she can’t decide whether to help me up or run away. “I wasn’t looking where I was going, and?—”
“It’s OK,” I laugh.
She finally gets a good look at my face. Her eyes widen. “Declan?”
“Hey.” I try for a casual smile, which probably looks ridiculous given that I’m covered in Marsala sauce and cookie crumbs. “Fancy meeting you here.”
A snort of laughter escapes her. She claps a hand over her mouth, but her shoulders are shaking. “Uh…”
“Go ahead,” I sigh. “Get it out of your system.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeats, wiping tears from her eyes. “It’s just—you have Marsala sauce—” She points vaguely at my head.
“In my hair?” I reach up and feel the sticky glob clinging to my scalp. “Great. Nothing like smelling like a takeout container around the girl you like…”
She laughs again, the same full-body laugh from the diner, unrestrained and warm. And despite the complete disaster we’re standing in, my heart dances at the sound, and suddenly wants to hear more of it.
“Here.” She roots through her bag and pulls out a small pack of tissues. “Let me help.”
Our eyes meet, and my pulse quickens. The memory of our kiss hits me anew—her soft lips against mine, her fingers curled in my shirt. I take a step toward her, hoping to leverage the humor of the situation into something positive?—
“Andy?”
