Page 144 of Beyond the Lines
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s been playing his heart out, trying to make me look good for the scouts, even though he couldn’t care less that the scout likeshim.” Mike’s voice is slightly slurred now. “He doesn’t even want to go pro anymore. He wants to be an artist.”
I blink, processing this new information. “How do you know he doesn’t want to go pro?”
“He told me.” Mike waves a hand vaguely. “The night of our fight. He said he wasn’t going to the NHL. That this was his last season.”
Mymind races, trying to fit this new puzzle piece into what I know of Declan. The way his face lights up when he talks about art. How he’s constantly sketching. The way he sometimes seems disconnected from hockey conversations, like he’s physically present but mentally elsewhere.
“He’s sacrificed time doing what he wants—art—to help me,” Mike continues, his words beginning to slur together. “And I’ve been a complete dick to him.”
The realization settles over me like a warm blanket. Declan has been putting aside his own dreams, his own passions, to help my brother. To support him, even when Mike’s been at his worst.
That’s… that’s love, in its purest form.
“Go find Dec,” Mike says, his eyes fully closed now. “Tell him I forgive him. But I reserve the right to kick him in the balls if he ever hurts you.”
I laugh, even as emotion tightens my throat. “I’ll pass along the message. Slightly edited.”
“No editing.” His voice is barely a whisper now. “Exact… words…”
And then he’s asleep.
I sit there for a long moment, looking at the evidence of Declan’s feelings for me—feelings that predated the drama, the fights, and the complications. My fingers trace the lines of my face as he saw it that first night, the night everything changed for both of us.
The night we both went beyond the lines.
I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Declan:
Mike’s awake. He wants to see you.
I pause, then add:
I have your sketchbook, and you have some explaining to do, Romeo.
I look down at my sleeping brother, his face relaxed in a way it hasn’t been in months. Then I glance at the sketchbook again, at the image of myself seen through Declan’s eyes, and see a woman with strength and depth and passion with her whole future ahead of her.
It’s nice, but now, at least, I don’t need anyone to validate me.
thirty-two
DECLAN
The Uber drivesaway as Mike hobbles next to me on the sidewalk on crutches. I hover beside him like an overanxious parent, ready to catch him if he topples, which is ironic for two guys who’ve gone to war on ice skates for the last few years.
“Dude, I will beat you with these crutches if you don’t stop looking at me like I’m a toddler learning to walk,” Mike says, adjusting his grip.
“Sorry.” I step back, giving him space. “Just don’t want you face-planting on your first day of freedom. Wouldn’t look great on my CV.”
“Your CV is fucked anyway.” He smirks. “You ditched a pro hockey career to draw naked people?”
“They’re notallnaked.” I laugh as I hoist his bag on my shoulder, knowing the joke is his way of showing he accepts my choice. “Although your sister…”
“Dude, I’ll kill you.” He snorts, then grimaces as he navigates around a crack in the sidewalk. “The second I don’t need two hands for these crutches, anyway…”
I nod in sympathy. A few days since the break, and the cast encasing his right ankle is already covered in scribbles and well-wishes. Linc drew a giant cock and balls, whereas I drew my best pen-on-plaster picture of his sister that I could manage. And now he’s got it with him for months until he’s back on the ice.
“So Coach really said you could defer?” I ask, guiding us toward the coffee cart near the arts building at a very low pace.
