Page 51 of Beyond the Lines
“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean you needed an audience.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get a shower then a coffee before classes…”
I shake my head. “You go ahead. I need a minute.”
He looks at me with concern, then shrugs, and joins everyone else in the march toward the locker room. I sink onto the grass and stare up at the sky. The sun has fully risen now, painting the clouds in shades of pink and gold that would normally have me reaching for my sketchbook.
Instead, I just feel hollow.
The truth is, Coach’s disappointment is nothing compared to the guilt churning in my stomach. Mike stormed out of the locker room without a word after last night’s game, and thismorning’s silence hurts more than any shouting match would have.
It seems like everywhere I turn lately, I’m disappointing someone. Coach’s disappointment is evident in every word. Mike’s cold-shoulder treatment makes it clear that his patience is wearing thin. Even my art professors have noticed my distraction lately.
In all aspects of my life, I’ve become hesitant and uncertain.
And it feels like it’s all because of one girl.
What had started as a perfect connection has turned into a complete disaster, throwing everything off balance. With each passing day, my anger grows. Not just at her for blowing up at me in class, but at myself for letting her get so far under my skin that she’s derailed my life.
I pull myself to my feet, wincing at the soreness already settling into my muscles. And as I trudge toward the locker room, I try to convince myself that this day can’t possibly get any worse. But given my recent luck, I’m probably wrong about that too.
At least I’ve got the life drawing class this afternoon to look forward to. Two hours of pure focus, where hockey and disappointed teammates don’t exist. Just me, my charcoal, and a blank page teeming with possibilities, so long as I sit as far away from Lea as humanly possible.
The stairs to the fine arts building might as well be Mount Everest.
Each step sends fire through my quads, a fresh reminder of Coach’s torture this morning. It was probably what I deservedafter winning a gold medal in the ‘how to choke away a sure victory in the last period of a hockey game’ Olympics, but my teammates are stillpissed.
And Mike is at the top of that list.
And I can’t blame him, because he’s goteverythingriding on this season.
With a sigh, I bury that thought and keep climbing, ignoring the protest of muscles that weren’t designed for this kind of punishment after a game. And by the time I reach the studio door, I’m moving with all the grace of an eighty-year-old who’s misplaced his walker.
But as soon as I’m inside Professor Lucas’ classroom, it feels like home. It feels like the one place on campus where no one gives a shit that I’m number fourteen, that we lost to Princeton, that I screwed up an easy defensive play, or that I missed not one buttwoeasy shots.
Here, I’m just Declan Andrews, artist.
Or I would be, if a certain green-eyed nightmare wasn’t also in this class.
I scan the room. In the far corner, furthest from the instructor’s platform, is an empty spot. Perfect. I make a beeline for it, situating myself so that Lea isn’t even in my peripheral vision. She’s close to the door, bent over her sketchbook, curls falling forward to hide her face.
She hasn’t looked at me, and I don’t want to look at her.
I unpack my supplies, pulling out my favorite drawing pad and a tin of graphite pencils. The low hum of pre-class chatter washes over me, comforting in its normalcy. For the first time since I spotted Lea in the stands last night, I feel like I might actually be able to focus.
To forget about hockey, Mike, and the way my stomach clenched when her eyes locked with mine.
More students trickle in, filling up the spaces around the center platform where our model usually poses. I know most of them by sight if not by name, and share a polite nod or smile with a few of them—the surly girl who smokes outside between classes, the quiet guy…
Professor Lucas walks in precisely on time, but there’s something wrong. Usually, she escorts our model into class, keeping them comfortable as they take up position and disrobe. But today, she’s alone, and she stands at the front of the room clutching a manila folder.
Uh oh…
“Good afternoon, I have an announcement before we begin today’s session,” she says, her voice carrying that hint of a British accent. “You spent the first class working individually, which has been my norm in this class. But I’ve decided to change it up for the next month or two…”
Double uh oh…
She opens the folder, pulling out a sheaf of papers. “For the next six weeks, you’ll be working in pairs.”
My stomach drops like I’ve just hit a patch of bad ice at full speed. Pairs? In art class? The whole appeal of art—beyond the creative outlet—is the solitude, the fact that it’s just me, the blank surface, whatever’s in my head, and whatever’s in my hand to bring it to life.
