Page 57 of Beyond the Lines
“That works.”
“We’ll need a quiet area,” he yammers on. “And to bring our own supplies,”
“I know how art projects work, Declan.”
“Right.” He shifts awkwardly. “I should get going. I have a team meeting.”
I start to shrug off his coat, but he holds up a hand. “Keep it.”
“I don’t need your charity.”
“It’s not charity, it’s common sense. It’s freezing, and I have two more.”
We stand there for a moment, at an impasse. Finally, I nod, and after one last look at me, during which I think he might smile but instead offers a weird sort of grimace, he turns and walks away, his gait still slightly off. I watch him cross the quad, wondering about that limp and his clear exhaustion.
But it’s not my problem.
He’s not my problem.
With a sigh, I turn and head toward my dorm, Declan’s coat still wrapped around me. It’s warm and smells like him, and I hate that I notice. That I care. It’s the same scent that’s taken up residence on Marnie’s dress from the night of the party, the black one I wore when I met him, when he kissed me.
The dress I haven’t yet built up the courage to wash.
Because, like it or not, angry or not, I can’t seem to get him out of my head.
twelve
DECLAN
The locker roomis blissfully quiet after the chaos of morning practice. Everyone else has already bolted—either to class or back to bed—leaving just the echo of water dripping from the showers and the sharp scent of sweat mixed with industrial disinfectant.
Peaceful.
At least until my thoughts creep back in.
I stare down at my sock, halfway onto my foot, frozen there like I’ve forgotten the complex motor skills required to dress myself. Maybe I have. My brain certainly hasn’t been firing on all cylinders lately—not on the ice, not in art class, not anywhere.
In the few days since being paired up with Lea, I’ve managed to avoid her, but not thoughts of her. She infests my every waking moment—my mind fighting a war between desire and anger—and it’s getting to me. I’m not sleeping, I’ve been useless on the ice, and it’s impacting my friendship with Mike.
Days on from Princeton and he still hasn’t spoken to me.
The heavy metal door swings open with a familiar squeal, and Linc appears, his practice jersey dark with sweat. He spent extra time on shooting drills while the rest of us hit the showers, and he clearly misses my ‘I’d like to be alone’ vibe as he drops onto the bench across from me with a grunt.
“What’s up, Picasso?” he says, scratching the stubble on his chin.
I finally pull my sock the rest of the way on. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit, Dec,” he scoffs.
My head snaps up.
Linc starts unlacing his skates, not looking at me. “I know your ‘nothing’ face… and it doesn’t involve staring at your foot like it insulted your mother.”
“I wasn’t?—”
“And your hockey’s gone to shit, man.” Now he glances up, dark eyes daring me to argue. “Princeton… two practices since… you’re playing like ass…”
I don’t argue.
