Page 100 of Beyond the Lines
Worried because if I have to stare at Lea for that long, and draw her with that sort of intensity again, I’m not sure if I can keep my feelings in a bottle. I desperately want to respect Lea’s wishes and boundaries—and she’s made thosecrystalclear when she’d said we’d fuck it out and then walked away—but when every atom in my body is screaming at me to hold her, kiss her, and fuck her…
“Dec?” Mike interrupts my thoughts, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “Party?”
“Look, I’ll swing by after,” I offer, grabbing my towel, desperately wanting a shower. “The project shouldn’t take more than an hour or two.”
Even though I want it to.
Because it would mean more time with Lea.
We’ve settled into this strange holding pattern sincethatnight. Text messages that are cordial but distant. When we do talk, it’s all about the project—technical discussions about composition and technique, like we’re just classmates. Not like two people who saw each other naked and shared their bodies in ways that still make my blood rush.
The memory of her in my bed, morning light making her skin glow golden, her body moving against mine, and her breath catching as she came apart beneath me… It’s a dangerous place to let my mind wander, although in weaker moments I let it.
But then comes the pain.
The fact we’re talking just like classmates tells me all I need to know. Leadidsee it for just one night, and shehasmanaged to fuck it out, even if I’m still obsessed by her. But I’m not an asshole enough to ask her for more after all the pain I’ve seen her in and all the hell that other asshole put her through.
So I keep quiet and I survive.
Keep the topics of conversation purely focused on the art.
Sit on opposite sides of the classroom during lectures.
Make sure project catch-ups are only in crowded places.
And never—never—let myself be alone with her.
But the most effective trick to douse the flames of attraction has been thinking about Mike. Because, if nothing else, getting all that pent-up attraction to Lea out of my system has helped my hockey. I’m playing better than ever, and he’s no longer pissed at me, although I’m struggling to care as much.
But Mike is still neck-deep inhisfunk.
As if on cue, Mike speaks. “I just wanted to say you really showed up today. Glad to see you got over whatever was with you for a while.”
I should take this as a compliment. Mike’s not known for pep talks or being especially effusive, and I know I should be thrilled I played so well, but the compliment feels hollow, almost cruel in its irony, because I know he’d beat me to death with his hockey stick if he knew what I’d done with his sister.
“Thanks,” I mutter, avoiding eye contact. “Feels good to be back on track.”
Feels good to have slept with your sister. And I want to do it again.
“Oh, and Coach talked to me after practice yesterday,” Mike continues, his voice dropping even lower. “There’s a scout coming to the Rutgers game in a few weeks. Apparently, Coach told him to specifically look at you, me, and Linc, so make sure you’re on your game.”
A while ago, this would have been the best news ever. The validation I’d been working toward since I was fourteen, lacing up before dawn while other kids got to sleep in. But instead of excitement, I feel… nothing. Or maybe dread.
When I don’t respond right away, Mike narrows his eyes, studying me with the same intensity he uses to read opposing defenders. “You don’t sound thrilled.”
“No, I am, just…” I need a plausible excuse that isn’tI’drather be painting, or fucking your sister. “Nervous, I guess. Lot of pressure.”
“You’ll be fine,” Mike says, clapping my shoulder. “It’s me they need to worry about. I’ve been playing like shit.”
“That’s not true,” I protest automatically, though we both know it is. He’s missed passes, fumbled shots… things Mike Altman just doesn’t do.
He gives me a look that saysdon’t bullshit me. “Come on. You saw those three assists you sent my way. I whiffed all of them.”
I shrug, trying to look casual. “Want to meet tomorrow? Practice some shooting or something?”
Mike’s brows lift suddenly in surprise.
“Those passes I made were awful,” I lie. “Came in too hot, bad angles. Need to work on my control if I want to make a good impression on that scout.”
