Page 21 of Beyond the Lines
And that’s when it hits me.
A sudden, vivid image flashes through my mind: Lea stretched out beneath me, her skin flushed and glowing in the moonlight streaming through my bedroom window. Her dark curls spread across my pillow like spilled ink. Those lips, whispering my name. Her slim legs wrapped around my waist as I?—
I stumble slightly, forcing the thought away. But the damage is done. Now I can’t stop noticing how the streetlights catch the curves of her body beneath my jacket, how her perfume lingers in the night air between us, how her lips curve into a knowing smile when she catches me staring.
“You’re staring again,” she says softly, but there’s no accusation in her tone.
“Sorry,” I manage. “Sometimes I obsess about the things I want to draw.”
She stops walking and turns to face me fully. “And what do you see right now?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibility. I could tell her the truth—that I see beauty and mystery and something that makes my fingers itch for charcoal and paper. That I want to capture this moment, and then strip off every layer of her and thank her in the best possible way for an amazing night.
But that feels too heavy for a first… whatever this is.
So instead, I grin and say, “I plead the fifth.”
She laughs, the sound bright. “Art school isn’t so bad after all…”
“Just don’t tell your Mom, right?” I snort. “So, any more travel plans?”
“Not really.” She shakes her head. “I miss traveling already, but between classes and trying to figure out this whole college thing…” She trails off, then looks at me curiously. “What about you? Ever get away from the ranch in between semesters?”
I hesitate for a moment. This is where I’d normally mention that it’s difficult to travel with my hockey career. I need to stay in shape over the vacation breaks, and most ofthe time I enroll in a pro clinic or program to keep me on top of my game.
But for some reason, I don’t mention that.
Maybe it’s because I don’teverlove telling people I play hockey. It’s not that I’m ashamed of it—I love the sport, and plan to play it for as long as I can, maybe even in the pros—but more that people tend to have a certain impression of hockey players.
Dumb.
Sleazy.
And while it’s certainly true of some guys on the team, most of my teammates work their asses off. Coach doesn’t accept partying slackers who do the bare minimum academically, and anyone who tries to follow that path soon finds himself on the bench.
Or maybe it’s because, for once, I want someone to see me as more than a hockey player.
But it’sdefinitelybecause of the way she’s looking at me, and has been all night. Like I’m interesting just as I am, not as the hockey player everyone else sees. It’s because I don’t want to be that guy right now. I want to be the artist who made her laugh.
“I wish,” I eventually say. “Between my major, the ranch, and my extracurriculars, my life is pretty busy, even in the summer.”
“Extracurriculars?” She raises an eyebrow, curious.
My stomach tightens. I hate lying—especially to someone I’m attracted to—but I also hate how people’s perceptions change the moment they hear I’m a hockey player. Suddenly, I’m not Dec the artist anymore; I’m Dec the jock who happens to draw sometimes.
“Yeah, I play floor hockey sometimes,” I say, reasoningthat it’s not completely untrue. We do play floor hockey sometimes during practice—if the figure skaters are using the ice.
“No way!” Her eyes light up. “My brother plays hockey too.” She pauses, considering. “I’ve always been kind of jealous of him, actually.”
That catches me off guard. “Of his hockey skills?”
“God no.” She laughs, wrinkling her nose. “I’m not really a hockey fan. But more because he’s always had this built-in friendship group, you know? The team, the guys… whereas I’ve usually found it harder to find long-term friendships. I’m kind of hoping that college changes that.”
“Right…” My voice trails off, because I’m not really sure what to say. How could a girl this awesome struggle to make friends?
The vulnerability in her voice makes me want to pull her close, but before I can say anything else, she stumbles slightly on her heels. Without even thinking, I catch her elbow, steadying her.
“Careful there, Cinderella,” I say, righting her on the path. “These aren’t exactly walking shoes, you know?”
