Page 49 of Blindside Me
“What are we doing?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“Ah, that’s a surprise.” She turns to leave, and I catch the slight upturn of her lips, not quite a smile, but close.
As she walks away, boots clicking on the concrete, I stand there, still catching my breath.
“Wait,” I call, trying to catch up to her. “You never said where.”
She looks over her shoulder. “Art building. Room two-oh-two.”
“Still no hints?”
She grins. “That’s part of the trust exercise.” Her hair flips around as she heads for the exit.
I should say no. I should focus on the game, the scouts, and everything that’s riding on a win. But I hear myself agree. “Okay.”
“See? You’re getting the hang of it.” She starts to walk away again but stops and turns back to me. Her voice is softer, almost serious. “And Drew? Don’t let Coach kill you, okay?”
“Only if you don’t let your uncle kill you for hanging out with the enemy.”
She shrugs, casual as ever. But I catch it, the hint of something deeper behind her eyes. It’s a defensive mechanism I know too well.That shrug, that tone, is the same one I use when pretending something doesn’t still hurt.
“I’ve survived worse.”
And with that, she’s gone. I watch her go, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into. Then I head to the locker room, my mind still trying to process this new, unexpected equation.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m looking forward to something that isn’t hockey.
Game on, indeed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jade
I yank the sleeve of my oversized sweater down over my wrist, pretending I’m not checking my lips for the millionth time. The lip balm I just smeared on gleams a little too much. I swipe at it with my thumb. It’s just balm. Not gloss. Definitely not something I put on for Drew Klaas. I’m not that girl, and he’s not that guy. We’re just … whatever we are, which is nothing. Absolutely nothing.
“Wow,” Callie says from her bed, not looking up from her laptop. “That’s a lot of lip gloss fornothing.”
My ears burn. “It’s lip balm. It’s winter. My lips are dry.”
“Mm-hmm. And you just happen to be meeting a certain hockey player when your lips need the most attention.” She types something, then looks up with a smirk. “Interesting.”
“Don’t call him that.” I grab my navy-blue tote from the foot of my bed and shove my sketchbook inside. “And my lips need attention because I haven’t been drinking enough water.”
“So defensive.” She closes her laptop with a dramatic snap. “Just admit you’re dolling up for Hockey Boy. You’re wearing your cute sweater, your hair is curled, which happens approximately never, and you’ve reapplied that ‘balm’ twice.”
I freeze, my back to her, caught in the act of tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. How does she notice everything? “I’m not dolling up. I’m functioning as a decent human by not looking like I just rolled out of bed.”
“For your totally platonic trust exercise in the Art Building after hours?” Her voice drips with sarcasm as she air-quotestrust exercise. “What are you going to do, exactly? Make him pose naked while you sketch him from all angles?”
Fuck I wish. The mental image of Drew without clothes flashes through my mind, and I blink it away. “God, no. He’s stressed out. The guy lives on protein shakes and self-loathing. He needs a break.”
“And you just happen to be the one providing it?”
I rummage through my bag, pretending to look for something. “It’s not like that. You should see him during practice. He’s pushing himself too hard after his one-game suspension. So … I’m helping.”
And maybe I want to know what he thinks of my world when it doesn’t involve game footage or broken plays. When it’s just color and chaos and the kind of mess you don’t have to fix.
“By taking him to an empty art studio at night?” Callie arches an eyebrow. “Very selfless of you.”
