Page 126 of Beyond the Lines
“My ass,” Maine grumbles. “He’s just got more practice because he stays in his vampire cave drawing instead of going out.”
The comment hits closer to home than Maine realizes. I have been spending more time with my art lately—and with Lea. The secret relationship is going better than I could havehoped, even with all the sneaking around. Every time I’m with her, I feel more certain about the choice I’m slowly making.
Mike stares into his untouched beer at a nearby table, completely checked out of the conversation. He’s been like this since Coach pulled him aside after the Rutgers game, subdued in a way that goes beyond his usual stoic demeanor. Even now, in his favorite bar, he’s barely touched his drink.
“Another round?” I ask as I rack the balls for the next game.
“Mike?” Linc prompts when our captain doesn’t respond.
“What?” Mike jerks his head up, clearly having missed the question entirely.
“Hey, Mike?” Maine says. “We’re asking if you want to play pool.”
Mike manages a weak smile. “I’m good.”
I exchange a look with Linc. This isn’t normal. Mike’s been off in practice too—avoiding body checks, which is bizarre considering he typically hits like he’s trying to send people into next week. The whole team’s noticed, but nobody’s been brave enough to mention it directly. And, as if on cue, he gets up and heads to the bathroom.
“Your shot first,” I tell Maine, handing him the cue. “I’ll even let you break.”
“Such generosity,” Maine says. “Giving the peasants a chance.”
Linc leans in. “So how’s it going with Mike’s sister?”
My stomach tightens. “Keep your voice down, man.”
“He’s literally just gone to the shitter, dude, he can’t hear us…” Linc says.
I sigh. “Still…”
“Just checking if the secret romance is still on. You’ve been all… glowy lately.”
“Glowy?” I scoff. “What the hell does that mean?”
“You know. Happy. Less—” He gestures vaguely at my face. “Tortured artist.”
“I’m not a tortured artist. And I’m not discussing Lea with you right now.”
“That’s a yes,” Linc grins triumphantly. “You’retotallystillbanging Mike’s sister!”
I punch him in the arm as hard as I can, as he roars with laughter, but before I can say anything, the front door of the bar swings open and a familiar figure struts in, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Rook spots us immediately and makes a beeline for our table.
“Sup, boys?” Rook calls out, far too loudly.
“Jesus,” Linc mutters. “What’s the kid doing here?”
Rook reaches our table, practically vibrating with excitement. His buzzed light-brown hair is styled with enough gel to deflect a puck, and he’s wearing a button-down shirt that looks like it was ironed with a waffle maker.
“The hell are you doing here, Rookie?” Linc asks.
Rook grins and pulls out his wallet, flashing us a fake ID that even from several feet away looks about as legitimate as Maine’s claim that he once dated a Victoria’s Secret model.
“Behold,” he announces proudly, “James Fitzgerald, age twenty-two, from Albany.”
“That’s the worst fake ID I’ve ever seen,” I say, taking it from him to examine closer.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Rook says, puffing out his chest. “First round’s on me.”
Maine claps Rook on the shoulder. “I suddenly like you a lot more.”
