Page 114 of Beyond the Lines
He gives an exaggerated sigh. “Thinking of other men already?”
“Depends,” I say, stretching contentedly, “if you’ve recovered enough for another round?—”
His brows lift suddenly, and a slow grin spreads across his face. “Another round, huh? Ambitious….”
“I’ve been told I’m an overachiever,” I quip, reaching downto wrap my fingers around him. He’s already half-hard again, and my touch makes him twitch.
“Christ,” he laughs, his hips jerking. “What have I gotten myself into?”
I peer up at him through my lashes. “I think the question is,whoare you going to get into?”
His laugh turns into a groan as I stroke him firmly. “You will be the death of me, Lea Altman.”
“But what a way to go,” I say with a wicked smile, and then I’m sliding down his body, ready to show him exactly how much of an overachiever I can be.
twenty-four
DECLAN
The puck slidestoward me like it knows where it belongs. I tap it with my stick, dancing away from the Rutgers defenseman trying to check me into oblivion. Two minutes left in the third period, and we’re up 2–0. My lungs burn with each breath of cold rink air, but in the best possible way.
Mike appears at my right exactly when I need him—like he’s been reading my mind all night. No words, just a quick glance, and I know to send the puck his way. He takes it, dekes left, confusing their goalie, then slides it right back to me in one fluid motion. The Rutgers goalie scrambles, overcommitting to Mike’s side. I see my opening and let the puck fly.
The red light flashes.
The crowd erupts.
3–0.
The sound hits me like a physical wave as my teammates crash into me, thumping my back and helmet. Over their shoulders, I catch Mike’s nod—that simple chin dip worth more than a thousand high-fives from anyone else. Coming from Captain Stoic, it’s practically a tearful hug.
“Fucking beautiful, Dec!” Linc screams in my ear, his Leprechaun-red hair visible even through his helmet. “What’s inspired this?”
What indeed?
The answer is the girl who’s spent the past few weeks teaching me exactly how many nerve endings exist in the human body, then staying up late with me talking… sketching… and generally shutting ourselves off from the world.
Coach Barrett signals for a line change, but as I skate toward the bench, I can’t help glancing up into the crowd, past the PUCK ME girls with their glittery signs (who look disappointed that I’m not making eye contact), searching for the only face that matters to me up there.
There she is—Lea, wearing my practice jersey, which would give Mike an aneurysm if he knew. She catches me looking and grins, mouthing something I can’t hear over the crowd but can perfectly imagine in her voice saying something sarcastic about hockey being ‘murder ballet on ice…’
My attention snaps back to the game when Coach slaps my shoulder as I sit on the bench. “Good work, Andrews. Keep it up.”
I nod, downing water and watching the play. The Rutgers coach is screaming at his players, his face approaching the same shade as Linc’s hair. I actually feel bad for them—I know exactly how it feels to be off your game—because a month ago I was producing so much shit you could’ve marketed me as a laxative.
But that’s all changed.
My practices have been solid.
My game is back where it belongs.
Even my art has been flowing better lately.
Everything is clicking, and Iknow exactly why.
It rhymes with “Flea Schmaltzmann.”
The reason I can’t eventhinkher name right now is next to me on the bench. Mike’s eyes are still on the ice, focused and determined in a way I haven’t seen in weeks. He’s playing like his old self tonight, like the Mike that had scouts drooling the last two seasons.
