Page 54 of Beyond the Lines
I appreciated her being there at the game last night. And, even afterwards, when we went looking for Mike and found him brooding in a corner, she’d cheered me up. Food trucks and cinnamon cider became our mission, along with an agreement to avoid any topic related to Declan the Dick.
Then, finally, the door opens.
And there he is.
Declan exits the building alone, head down, hands shoved deep in the pockets of a navy-blue peacoat that looks both expensive and unfairly warm. His hair is slightly disheveled, and he’s got his messenger bag slung across his body, the strap cutting a diagonal line across his broad chest.
Don’t look!
He hasn’t seen me yet and, for a dangerous second, I let myself look—really look—at him. The strong line of his jaw. The way his brow furrows slightly when he’s lost in thought. The whole package is pretty good, really, that I once found so attractive and now just reminds me that he’s a hockey player.
Knock it off,I mentally scold my body.We hate him now, remember?
He’s Mike’s teammate.
He lied to me and insulted my art.
And then he acted like atotaljerk.
So why did my heart just start pounding in my chest?
I force down the gooey feeling in my belly, the same one I had the night he kissed me outside my dorm, and as I do, for a moment, I wish he was different. That he’d stayed the cute guy I went to that diner with, the one I felt like I could talk to for hours. Then I remind myself that that guy never existed; he was always just a mirage.
This is the real Declan.
Gorgeous, yes, but also a douchebag.
Although hedoeslook as if he’s struggling a bit…
I watch him shuffle down the steps, lost in his thoughts, his movements lacking their usual fluid grace, and he even winces slightly when his foot hits the bottom step. The dark circles under his eyes are visible even from here, and there’s a defeated slump to his shoulders that wasn’t there before.
Is he injured?
Part of me—the part that still remembers him listening intently as I described my grandmother’s paintings—wants to ask if he’s OK. The rest of me—the part that remembers his lies and his cruel critique—hopes whatever is bothering him hurts like hell.
Then he looks up and spots me.
Surprise flashes across his face, followed quickly by wariness, and something else I can’t quite identify. Regret? Annoyance? Exhaustion? Or maybe he’s just wondering why there’s a half-frozen girl glaring at him like he commanded the wind to drop twenty degrees today.
Declan visibly sighs, then starts walking toward me. There’s none of that easy confidence I remember from our night at Marie’s. He looks like a man heading to the gallows. And, although I keep my expression neutral, I also feel a mix of satisfaction and sadness as I watch him.
I cross my arms tighter, both against the cold and to createa physical barrier between us. As he gets closer, I notice more details—the tension in his jaw, the slight pallor beneath his stubble, and the way he keeps his gaze just slightly averted from mine.
He doesn’t look like Declan the Dick anymore.
The lying, cruel hockey star.
He looks… beaten.
I open my mouth to speak, to launch into my carefully rehearsed speech. But before I can say a word, another gust of wind hits me from behind, so fierce it actually pushes me forward a step. My hair whips across my face, momentarily blinding me, and my teeth chatter audibly.
I must look like a complete disaster—cold and disheveled.
Declan’s expression shifts. The wariness remains, but now there’s concern too, eyebrows drawing together as he takes in my obvious discomfort. His hands come out of his pockets, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think he might offer me his coat.
Don’t you dare pity me, Andrews.
But despite my bravado, I know—with absolute certainty—that if he does something that considerate, thatgentlemanly, my resolve will crack like thin ice. So I square my shoulders, ignore the cold that’s settled deep in my bones, and speak before he can.
