Page 35 of Blindside Me
My cheeks flare. The bluntness that came out of nowhere caught me off guard. “Excuse me?”
“Your mouth. It’s … distracting.”
“I didn’t realize I needed a warning label.”
My eyes dip to the outline those gray sweats fail to hide. The very one my mouth assaulted. Heat creeps up my neck. Even soft, he’s still impressive.
I force my gaze to look anywhere but his crotch and settle on his face. Those honey-brown eyes dance with mirth, the corner of his mouth drawing into a smirk.
“Maybe just a caution sign.”
Is he flirting with me? No. Drew Klaas wouldn’t flirt. Not with me, Coach Howell’s niece. Little Miss Untouchable. No way he’d risk his season for a quick hookup now that he knows who I am.
I pivot fast. “Let’s talk media. What are you using?”
Drew straightens and is clearly more comfortable with the academic topic. “The Second String documentary on Matthew Sedrick. He was a rising NHL star whose career tanked under pressure from his father.”
“Cheerful.” I frown.
“It’s relevant,” he says stiffly. “It has parental pressure and the mental toll. Powerful visuals.”
“Right. Analysis. Not because it hit you personally.”
His jaw ticks. “What’s yours?”
“Spirited Away.”
Drew blinks. “The cartoon?”
“It’s anime. About a girl trapped in the spirit world trying to save her parents.”
“That sounds…” He struggles to find a diplomatic word.
“Amazing? Oscar-winning. Life-changing?”
“Childish.”
I recoil. “Wow.”
“What? It’s a kid’s movie.”
“It’s about losing your identity and finding courage. When my mom was on her third divorce, I never knew where I’d sleep.Spirited Awaymade me feel like I could survive. Like the mess wasn’t mine to clean up.”
The room grows quiet. Drew’s expression shifts. The judgment is gone, replaced by something that looks uncomfortably like understanding.
I circle back to his project. “You didn’t pick that documentary because it’s good. You picked it because it hurt.”
He doesn’t argue, but his silence confirms everything. His thumb runs along his planner. It’s a nervous tic that feels jarring coming from someone so controlled.
Our knees touch, but this time, neither of us pulls back.
“Your vision board,” he says suddenly, nodding toward the colorful collage above my bed. “You made that?”
I jerk my head back at the abrupt change of subject. “Yeah.”
He studies it with unexpected interest. “What’s with the lighthouse?”
“Freedom. Direction.” I shrug.
