Page 8 of Beyond the Lines
Goal.
“Son of abitch,” Mike growls from behind me, as Rook shakes his head. “How did you get so fuckingfastall of a sudden?”
“While you were busy posting thirst traps on Instagram all summer.” I skate backward, grinning. “Some of us actually trained.”
“Bullshit,” Mike laughs. “I saw your stories—you spent half your time painting cows and barns and shit.”
“Landscapes,” I correct him, circling back to center ice. “And I multitasked. Cardio in the morning, art in the afternoon. Time management, heard of it?”
Maine snorts as he glides past. “Yeah, because you’re such a master of time management. Isn’t that why you missed the team BBQ last week?”
“I was working on a piece.”
“You were passed out in your apartment with charcoal all over your face,” Linc calls from the bench. “I have the photos as evidence.”
I flip him off without looking. “Delete those, or I’ll tell everyone about the time you?—”
“Already deleted!” Linc yelps. “Never existed!”
Mike taps his stick against the goal post. “Are we here to gossip or play hockey, you assholes?”
“Aww.” I bat my eyelashes at him. “Getting cranky because I scored on you? Need a nap? Some warm milk?”
The puck comes flying at my head so fast I barely have time to duck.
I grin as it flies overhead, but I’m glad to be back. And as our banter subsides and we move back into position, the rink is quiet except for the sound of blades cutting through frost—peaceful, compared to what it’ll be like once the season starts and the stands fill with screaming fans.
Right now, it’s just us—my brothers and me—and the ice.
There’s nowhere I’d rather be, except maybe in front of a blank canvas.
Mike and I have been friends for years, and now that we’re seniors, we’re starting to think about what’s next. Maine, a junior, and Linc, a senior, are the other two coremembers of our group, both with aspirations to play in the NHL.
We go again. This time, Mike has taken Rook’s spot in goal, to show the kid how it’s done. This time when I approach the goal, Mike’s ready. His stance is perfect, his focus laser-sharp.
But I’ve got something new up my sleeve—a move I practiced all summer, inspired by watching old footage of Nicklas Lidström. It’s tricky, requiring precise timing and control, but if I pull it off…
The puck dances on my stick as I approach. Mike’s eyes narrow, trying to read my intent. At the last second, I shift my weight, rotating my stick in a fluid motion that sends the puck sailing through the air in a graceful arc.
Mike lunges, but he’s a fraction too late. The puck hits the back of the net with a satisfyingthunk.
“Holy shit,” Rook breathes from somewhere behind me. “That was…”
“Fucking beautiful,” Linc finishes.
I try to play it cool, but pride swells in my chest. That move took weeks to perfect, hours of practice while the Montana sun baked the asphalt of our makeshift rink. Dad thought I was crazy, practicing hockey on rollerblades in ninety-degree heat, but—like always—my Mom got it.
Mike fishes the puck out of the net, his expression a mix of annoyance and respect. “Where’d you learn that?”
“YouTube University.” I skate closer, lowering my voice. “Summer program. Very exclusive.”
“Jackass.” But he’s grinning now. “Seriously though, you’re on fire today. Whatever you did over the summer, it worked.”
He’s right. I feel sharper, more focused. The extra training—hours of lifting and cardio—paid off, but it’s more than that. For the first time in a while, I feel balanced. Hockey isn’t consuming every waking moment like it used to. The landscape painting class I took, hours spent filling my sketchbook…
It’s all led to a better me.
Not that I’d admit that to Mike. He’s supportive of my art, but he wouldn’t understand how it actually makes me a better player. How losing myself in the flow of creating helps clear my mind, makes my movements on the ice more fluid and more instinctive.
