Page 142 of Beyond the Lines
I meet his gaze steadily. “No, he didn’t have to. I’ve been watching you limp around campus for weeks. I tried asking about it, but you kept changing the subject. And before you get all weird about it, Declan wasn’t gossiping about you. He’s been worried.”
Mike’s laugh this time is bitter. “Yeah, well. Lot of good that worry did me.”
The silence returns, heavier this time. I fidget with the edge of my sketch pad, wondering whether to push or retreat. But Mike’s always been the one who pushes forward, evenwhen he shouldn’t. Like playing on an injured ankle for months.
“I pushed myself too hard,” Mike says suddenly, his voice soft but clear. “I wanted it too much, and when I felt it slipping away, I just pushed even harder. Like if I just worked harder or trained more, everything would heal and the future would fall into place.”
I shift in my chair, pulling my legs up underneath me. “That’s kind of your whole thing, though. Stubborn determination in the face of impossible odds.”
“Yeah, well, stubborn determination doesn’t fix injuries.” He gestures toward his cast. “Or make scouts forget they saw you crash and burn.”
I study my brother’s face—the dark circles under his eyes, and the tightness around his mouth that has nothing to do with physical pain. “You know,” I say carefully, “there are worse things than not going pro, Mike, or a delay in going pro…”
“Name three.”
“Eating gas station sushi. Having your browser history leaked to the family group chat. Walking in on Mom and Dad?—”
“Oh God, stop.” He presses his morphine button again. “Not enough drugs in the world for that mental image.”
I grin, but it fades quickly. “Seriously, though. You’re acting like your life is over. It’s just hockey.”
The look he gives me could freeze lava. “Just hockey,” he repeats flatly. “That’s like someone telling you it’s just art.”
Ouch.
Point taken.
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it. “That was a terrible thing to say.”
“It was.” He sighs, the anger deflating as quickly as it came. “But there’s been a bit of that going around, so speaking of dick things to say…” He shifts, wincing as he adjusts his position. “I need to apologize for what I said the other night. About you and Declan, and, well, about you...”
I press my lips together and look down at my hands. “You don’t have to?—”
“I do.” He cuts me off. “I knew something was going on between you two that night in the hallway when he spilled that food, even though you stormed off. And I knew it was him who’d upset you that night at the library. But I was angry because everything felt so out of control, and I wanted to control one thing.”
My pulse quickens in my chest. “You knew all along?”
“I’m not blind, Lea.” He gives me a crooked smile. “But I was wrong. You’re an adult. And Declan’s… a good guy. Better than I deserve as a friend right now.”
“I think he’s blaming himself for this,” I admit, gesturing to the cast. “He thinks his pass caused it.”
Mike snorts. “Well, that’s stupid. I’ve been playing on this bum ankle for months. It was only a matter of time before something gave.” He shakes his head. “Typical Declan, trying to shoulder everyone else’s sacks of shit. Always been his problem.”
The room grows quiet again, but it’s a gentler silence now. I reach for my sketch pad almost unconsciously, flipping to a fresh page. Mike watches me, his eyes following the movement of my pencil as I begin outlining the stark angles of his hospital bed.
“You know what?” he says after a while, his voice taking on the dreamy quality that suggests the painkillers are hitting hard. “I always kind of envied you.”
The pencil stills in my hand. “Envied me? Why?”
“The way you fall into things so quickly and go all the way. Into passions and interests.” He blinks. “Into love.”
Oh.
This is… unexpectedly vulnerable Mike territory.
“I don’t know if that’s something to envy,” I say carefully. “Given my record with men.”
“At least you put yourself out there.” He stops, shaking his head. “I’ve never been brave enough to fall for anyone. Not sure I can. Maybe I’m just wired wrong.”
