Page 137 of Beyond the Lines
thirty
DECLAN
My feet poundthe dirt path as I try to keep pace with Linc’s punishing stride. The early morning chill cuts through my sweat-dampened T-shirt, but I’m grateful for it—beats the stench of twenty hockey players crammed into a locker room any day.
“You’re lagging, Andrews,” Linc calls over his shoulder, barely winded despite setting a pace that would make most sprinters sob.
“Just trying to give your ego a boost before the game.” I push harder, closing the gap between us. “Pre-game charity work.”
Linc snorts and speeds up, because of course he does. The man treats everything like a competition—including our sunrise run around north campus. The trails are mostly empty at this hour, just a few dedicated joggers and one professor walking a dog.
“How many miles are we doing?” I ask, matching his pace, my quads burning in protest.
“Three miles.” Linc glances at his watch. “We’ve got team breakfast in forty.”
The path narrows as we enter the wooded section, forcing us to run single file. Wet leaves dampen our footfalls, and my mind drifts to Lea, as it’s been doing with embarrassing frequency lately. A week into our official relationship, and I still feel like I’m walking on air.
When the trail widens again, Linc drops back to run beside me. “You’ve got that stupid look on your face again.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re thinking about Lea.” He makes a gagging noise. “It’s like watching a Hallmark movie in real-time.”
“Didn’t realize you were such a connoisseur,” I shoot back, but I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. “It’s been a good week, that’s all.”
“Well, any week Mike doesn’t punch you is a good week, I guess…” He smirks, then his face goes serious. “How has he been?”
“He’s speaking to me a little. Just mostly in single-syllable grunts and the occasional creative prank.” I shrug. “Yesterday I found my stick tape unwrapped.”
We pound down a small hill, adjusting our strides for the decline. My right knee twinges slightly—nothing serious, just an old complaint that surfaces when I push too hard, and is fine when I back off once again.
“The one you’ve had since freshman year?” Linc winces. “That’s crossing a line, man.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug, despite the fact it had pissed me off. “Not like I’m superstitious.”
“Unlike Mike, who probably thinks stepping on a crack will break his mother’s backandhis chances at the NHL.”
We reach the halfway point of the loop, marked by a wooden bench that’s seen better days. Linc slows, and I gratefully follow suit, dropping to a walk. We both grab our water bottles, breathing heavily.
“Why haven’t you retaliated?” Linc asks between gulps. “If he was razzing me like that, he’d be getting shaving cream in his helmet by now.”
I cap my water bottle and roll my shoulders. “What’s the point? It would just make things worse, and honestly, I just don’t care enough to bother.”
“Whipped,” Linc coughs into his fist.
“Mature,” I correct, flipping him off. “Besides, on top of Lea and I, he’s sulking he didn’t get the email from the scout that we did…”
Linc’s expression clouds. “Yeah, that email was…”
“It was just the next step, Linc.” The invitation to meet “some people” after the game had been addressed only to Linc and me.
“If you say so,” Linc says, as he stretches his hamstrings against the bench. “You ready to get moving again?”
I nod, and we set off again, this time at a more reasonable pace—either because Linc is being considerate of my fatigue or because he’s trying to draw out our conversation. I suspect the latter.
“So how are you feeling about tonight?” he asks casually, side-eyeing me.
“Like I should’ve taken that art scholarship to NYU when I had the chance.”
