Page 99 of Beyond the Lines
act 3
twenty-one
DECLAN
The final buzzerwails as my shot hits the back of the net, and the Temple goalie never stood a chance. My teammates crash into me, a mass of sweaty bodies and overpriced equipment, screaming like we just won the Stanley Cup instead of a mid-season game against Temple.
Four to one.
Not too bad.
“Fucking beautiful, Dec!” Mike’s the first to reach me, hugging me with enough force that my teeth rattle. His eyes gleam with something desperate beneath his cage—a hunger I haven’t seen in weeks—and he’s elated. “Don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you’re a demon today…”
I grin and pat his helmet. “Nice feed.”
Around us, Maine is yelling some nonsense about how Temple can “suck his left nut specifically,” which raises questions about the right one that I choose not to explore. For his part, Linc is trading insults with their enforcer, who he put on his ass in the second.
The game had been full of fire that I don’t necessarilyfeel myself. But as we skate to center ice for the obligatory handshake line, I do enjoy the death glares of twenty-three Temple players, who probably think I’m an asshole for scoring with twelve seconds left.
They’re not wrong.
Usually, I wouldn’t have fired off, but they’ve been assholes all game.
In the locker room, the post-game high vibrates through everyone. Maine gets his phone out, already coordinating some kind of celebration. Linc fires up some music and starts dancing. Rook sits in the corner with ice on both knees, looking simultaneously exhausted and exhilarated after he’d almost earned a shutout. Only Mike seems subdued, methodically removing his gear with the precision of someone defusing a bomb.
“I’ve got a class first, but my place later?” Maine asks the room at large. “Pizza, beer, and the usual victory feast?”
“Count me in,” Linc says, whipping his jersey at Rook, who catches it without looking up. It’s his job to take all our shit to the equipment room for laundering.
“What about you, Andrews?” Maine turns to me, his blond hair plastered to his forehead. “Tell me you’re not bailing on a victory celebrationagain…”
As I take my gear off, I try to look casual, but I know where this is going. “I’ve got a catch-up for my art proj?—”
A collective groan rises from at least half the locker room.
“Your art shit again?” Maine flops dramatically onto the bench. “Come on, man. Aren’t we more important than some painting?”
“It’s not a painting,” I mutter, fastening my buttons. “It’s figure drawing and it’s worth thirty percent of my final grade….”
Maine. “Did you say figure? Like, as in,nakedfigure?”
Mike looks up from his meticulous gear-packing. “Maybe I should’ve taken art instead of biochem…”
The guys laugh, though not unkindly. This is just how it is—the gentle ribbing, the way they reduce art to “finger-painting” or “drawing stick figures.” I’ve always played along, for the most part, and downplayed how much it matters to me. But lately, I’ve found myself sticking up for it more.
“It’s not like that,” I say, though a flash of Lea’s body—all smooth curves and warm skin—hits me with the subtlety of a freight train. “But it’s important.”
The tone in my voice tells them to leave it, and they do, as I remove the last of my gear while the guys continue planning their night. Part of me wants to join them, to slip back into the easy camaraderie of post-game celebrations. That used to be enough.
Hockey, beer, and bullshitting with my teammates.
When did it start feeling so hollow?
Not that art doesn’t bring its own concerns.
Tonight is the second-to-last practice session for the project, and Lea has made the case that we should go back to drawing each other prior to the final sketch. Over text, she’d argued that the select seminar we’re both trying to get into focuses on the human form, so we should focus on showing off our figure drawing skills.
I agree with the logic, and told her we could, but I’m worried.
