Page 46 of Beyond the Lines
Safe choices.
Norisks taken.
The words still sting, mainly because they hit home in ways I’ve been afraid of for years. Was that why I didn’t get into RISD, or why my European sketches never quite captured what I felt when I was there?
His words have me doubting myself.
So fuck you, Declan Andrews.
Declan the Dick.
On the ice, Declan intercepts a pass, his movements fluid and precise, like he’s painting with his body. The crowd around us roars their approval, and a few rows down from us, one particularly enthusiastic group of bimbos is wearing tiny skirts and matching crop tops with “PUCK ME” emblazoned across their chests, each shirt featuring a different player’s number.
“Looks like Declan has some other options, anyway,” I snort. “I think they’re more on his level, although I don’t know how they’re not freezing.”
“They’re just blind drunk,” Ping says. “Pregaming is an essential part of the hockey experience.”
The Puck Me Squad is passing around what looks suspiciously like a flask disguised as a water bottle. One of them notices me staring and gives me a once-over before whispering something to her friend. They both laugh, and I resist the urge to flip them off. Clearly, gossip about Declan and me has spread to some corners of the college community…
“I just wanted to settle in, attend some cool classes, and meet some cool friends…” I grumble. “Why do I feel like I’m back in high school?”
“Because jocks will always be jocks, and groupies will always be groupies,” Em replies philosophically. “It’s the circle of life, Simba.”
I snort into my hot chocolate. “So where does that leave us?”
“Off to the side, judging everyone else while secretly enjoying the spectacle.” Em grins. “Best seats in the house.”
I sigh and settle back into silence as Em and Ping chat. Again, I find myself watching him skate, the controlled power in his movements, and the grace with which he handles the puck. It’s annoying, actually, how beautiful he makes it look. How he transforms something violent and chaotic into something almost… artistic.
And then I immediately hate myself for the thought.
He’s an asshole. And I hate him. And that’s that.
“Good pass by Mike,” Em elbows me in the side. “Not that you saw…”
“I did!” I protest, but I didn’t.
Em raises her eyebrow. “Mike’s number twenty-six…”
“I knew that.”
“So why are you staring at number fourteen…” She laughs. “He’s got you good.”
I can feel my face grow warmer. “Shut up.”
“You know,” Ping says thoughtfully, “I read somewhere that hatred and attraction light up the same parts of the brain.”
“GOAL!” Em screams as the crowd erupts, jumping to her feet. “Did you see that? Mike nailed it, Lea!”
I reluctantly stand with everyone else, more out of obligation to Mike than any real excitement. The scoreboard flashes Pine Barren 2, Princeton 1. When I look down at the ice, Mike is being mobbed by his teammates, including Declan. They’re all grinning, laughing, and thumping each other on the back.
“They’re actually pretty impressive together,” Em comments.
“I guess,” I concede. “Mike’s been playing with Declan for three years now.”
“And Declan never met you before?” Em’s eyes narrow. “Seriously?”
“Nope,” I shrug. “Or my parents.”
