Page 27 of Beyond the Lines
He gets the paper off his bagel, though it takes way more coordination than it should. “Relax, Lea. Linc’s cooking. He’s good at it.”
“Oh thank God.” Relief floods through me. At least someone on the team has basic life skills.
“He’s been planning it for weeks.” Mike takes a massive bite, and talks around it like he was raised in a barn. “Like it’s the culinary Olympics or something.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Gross. Chew and swallow,thentalk.”
He makes a show of complying with my request, then washes it down with orange juice. “Better?”
“Marginally.” I study him over my coffee cup. “So how can you be this hungover and still have practice later?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” He grins, looking more like himself. “The second I hit the ice, the hangover disappears. It’s just science.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Science.”
“Yep. The cold air, the adrenaline…” He waves his hand vaguely. “Plus, the tequila really helps with the pain.”
Something in his tone makes me pause. “What pain?”
Just like that, his expression shutters. The easy smile vanishes, replaced by something harder, more guarded. “You know hockey’s a contact sport, right?”
But there’s something off about his response. How his fingers tighten around his coffee cup and how he won’t quite meet my eyes. Something’s wrong with him, and he doesn’t want to tell me…
“Mike—”
“Speaking of practice,” he cuts me off. “I should head out. Need to shower before I subject the team to… this.”
The abrupt subject change is about as subtle as a brick tothe face, but I let it slide. Whatever’s going on with him, he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. And as someone who’s used to putting my emotions in a box and hiding them away, I need to respect that.
“Right.” I watch him gather his drinks, noting how he winces when he starts to stand, so obvious that I can’t really ignore it. “And you’re totally fine.”
“Never better.” He grins down at me, the perfect big brother who needs to stop the little sister from worrying smile. “Hey, are you coming to the Princeton game?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say. “Someone has to document your spectacular wipeouts.”
“You could paint them. Make a million bucks…” He laughs. “Speaking of that, how’s the art thing going? Meet any pretentious hipsters yet?”
I throw a napkin at him. “Says the guy who thinks he’s the next Wayne Gretzky or something.”
“That’s different.” He grins. “I actually am the next Gretzky.”
I snort. Mike’s ego is always the size of Madison Square Garden. But there’s something off about his smile, a tightness around his eyes that wasn’t there last season. Before I can ask about it, his phone buzzes again. This time when he checks it, his expression darkens.
“Mike,” I say again, trying to be more gentle this time. “Are you sure you’re OK?”
“I’m fine, Leanndra,” his voice takes on a serious tone. “Please, just drop it, OK?”
I nod, the meal—and the conversation—clearly over. As we stand and head outside, I notice how he favors his right side, how his movements are just a fraction too careful. Something’s definitely up with him, and knowing Mike, he’ll keep dodging the subject until whatever it is becomes impossible to ignore.
“You know,” I say as we step into the crisp morning, “if you’re not OK, I’m here.”
“I know, Lea, OK?” His voice softens. “But seriously, I’m fine. Just a rough morning.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I have to fight to keep the smile off my face when I see Declan’s name on the screen. But I decide not to read the message in front of Mike, in case he starts asking any more questions aboutexactlywhat happened last night. I bite my lip at the thought of him, and?—
“Yo!” Mike waves his hand in front of my face. “Who’s got you grinning like that, anyway?”
“No one.” I shove my phone back in my pocket. “Just Em being… Em… you saw yesterday how over the top she can be.”
