Page 121 of Beyond the Lines
I can’t tell him. Not yet. Not when I’m still processing it myself. “Just… stuff.”
“Specific.” He sits up, concern replacing playfulness in his eyes. “Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I just…” I sigh, setting down my pencil. “I saw Mike today. We had lunch.”
Declan’s expression shifts subtly. “How is he?”
“Still weird. Distant.” I twist a strand of hair around my finger.
“The ankle?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “He won’t talk about it. Just changes the subject every time.”
Mike’s been avoiding everyone lately, spending more time alone, and shutting down conversations about hockey or his future. He hasn’t told me or Declan or anyone else on the team anything, let alone our parents, and every time I’m with him, I feel this crushing weight of guilt about Declan. Like I’m betraying him.
“I hate lying to him,” I admit. “We’ve always been honest with each other.”
Declan’s face falls slightly. “I know. I hate it too,” he says.”
“But I don’t want to stop… this.” I gesture between us. “And I feel awful.”
He moves to the couch beside me, taking my hand in his. “Hey, look at me.”
I do, reluctantly, because looking at him just intensifies everything I’m feeling.
“It’s going to be OK,” he says, squeezing my hand. “We’ll figure it out. And if you want to tell him sooner, we can.”
The tenderness in his voice makes my throat tight. “No, I… I don’t know what I want right now… except you. Just… a lot of things on my mind.”
He brushes a curl away from my face. “I get that. And I’mhere, whenever you need to talk.” His lips quirk up. “Or not talk. I’m good at that too.”
I laugh despite myself, shoving his shoulder lightly. “I know exactly what kind of ‘not talking’ you excel at, Andrews.”
“Guilty as charged.” He winks, and then his expression softens again. “But seriously. When I’ve got stuff weighing on me, especially with hockey, I draw.”
“Is that why you have so many sketches of hockey players looking frustrated?” I tease.
“Actually, yeah.” He looks slightly surprised that I picked up on that. “By the time I finish pouring all that frustration onto paper, it’s like… I don’t know. Like I’ve been scrubbed clean. The problems go from mountains to molehills.”
I study his face, the genuine passion there when he talks about art. It reminds me of that first night at Marie’s Diner, before the complications, when he was just a cute guy who loved drawing as much as I did.
“Hockey frustrates you?” I ask carefully, remembering how underwhelmed he was by the scout’s interest—something that should have been a dream come true.
He hesitates, and I can see him deciding how much to share. “Sometimes. It’s… complicated.”
I want to press further, to understand this puzzle piece of him that still doesn’t quite fit with the rest. But something in his expression tells me he’s not ready to lay it all out.
So instead, I reach for his hand again, and repeat his words back to him. “Well, any time you need to talk, or not talk, I’m here too.”
“I know.” He smiles, leaning in to press a soft kiss to my lips. “Speaking of drawing, it’s your turn to pose.”
I smile. “My turn to be ogled, you mean?”
“Can’t help it,” he admits, his gaze impossibly warm. “You’re ogle-worthy.”
I adjust my position on the couch, trying to strike an artistically interesting pose while also remaining comfortable. “You only want me for my body,” I joke.
But he doesn’t laugh. Instead, his expression turns serious, almost vulnerable. “You know that’s not true, right?”
