Page 139 of Beyond the Lines
And whatever happens with Mike… happens.
The crowd roars as Maine slams another goal into the net, putting us up 3–1 halfway through the second period. I raise my stick in celebration, but the motion feels mechanical. The scout’s here again, watching from the stands, and I should be thrilled.
This game is exactly what Mike needs to redeem himself after his slump. He’s still being a jerk, but he’s played his best game all season, maybe well enough to get the scout to take another look. And both Linc and I are putting in strong performances.
League performances.
But I can’t get excited. Instead, I’m thinking about the half-finished canvas in my apartment, and looking forward to cooking with Lea again. And then, well, let’s just say we’ve made some wonderful desserts using food and our bodies.
“Nice assist, Andrews!” Coach Barrett shouts as I skate past the bench.
I’ve been playing well, at least on paper. But the movements don’t flow like they used to. Each pass, each hit, and each strategic decision requires conscious thought when before they came as naturally as breathing, and that tells me my heart isn’t really in it anymore.
Mike and I line up for the face-off. His jaw is set, eyes focused on the referee’s hand. He’s been playing with a strange intensity tonight. But despite his awesome game, something’s off in his movements too.
A hesitation before each turn.
A grimace when he puts weight on his foot.
And it’s clear he’ll kill himself to impress the scout.
“You good?” I murmur.
He doesn’t look at me. “Fine.”
Right. Still pissed about Lea, then.
The puck drops, and we’re back in motion. I find myself automatically scanning the stands as I skate backward into position. Lea’s there with Em, both of them on their feet. For a moment, our eyes meet, and her smile makes me feel like I could leap the boards and fly.
“Andrews! Focus!”
Coach’s voice snaps me back. The opposition center is coming in hot, and I’m out of position. I pivot hard, barely managing to get my stick on the puck as it whizzes past. The deflection sends it to Linc, who takes off down the ice, clearing from defense.
The next few minutes are a blur of motion. Their defense has tightened up, making it harder to find clean passes. Mike’s hovering near their blue line, arms raised, and calling for thepuck. He’s open—a perfect opportunity—but something about his stance seems off.
I hesitate a fraction of a second too long.
“Andrews! Move it!” Coach barrels.
I send the pass—harder than I intended, and wider to the right than it should be. The moment it leaves my stick, I know it’s wrong. But Mike’s already committed, lunging for it, stretching his body in a way that makes my own muscles scream in sympathy.
His skate catches an edge and his right ankle twists at a bad angle.
The sound that erupts from his throat isn’t human—it’s primal, raw, the kind of noise that silences an entire arena in an instant. It’s a mix of pain and anger and frustration, and as the puck slides forgotten, Mike crumples to the ice clutching his lower leg.
Holy fuck.
I’m moving before I realize it, skating hard toward him. The referee’s whistle pierces the silence to pause the play, shrill and insistent, but it barely registers in my mind. All I can focus on is Mike’s face—contorted in agony, pale as the ice beneath him.
“Don’t move,” I tell him, dropping to my knees. “Trainer’s coming.”
Mike’s eyes find mine, wide with panic rather than pain. “How bad?” he gasps.
I glance down and immediately wish I hadn’t. His ankle is bent at an unnatural angle, already swelling visibly inside his skate. This isn’t a sprain. This is so, so,somuch worse than that.
“It’s—” I start, but my voice trails off as movement in the stands catches my eye.
Lea’s running—not toward the exit like most people would, but straight down the steps toward the ice. Her face is a mirror of Mike’s panic, and before any security guard can stop her, she’s vaulted over the boards and is sliding across the ice in her sneakers.
