Page 50 of Blindside Me
“It’s quiet there. And Drew needs to do something with his hands that isn’t hockey related.” I find my keys and jingle them. “Like painting.”
“Painting.” She repeats flatly. “The guy who punched Roman Beaulier a couple of weeks ago because the dude got mad over him hooking up with his sister is going topaint?”
My back stiffens. I knew the fight was over some girl, but I didn’t realize it was Sydney Beaulier.
Of course, Roman’s involved.
It’s always Roman, somehow. Always turning up in the wrong places, in other people’s mouths, like he never really left.
My throat dries. Hearing his name feels like a thumb pressed into a bruise I forgot was still healing.
I glance down at my hands and realize I’ve fisted the strap of my tote so tightly my knuckles have gone white.
“That’s why he needs this,” I say quickly, forcing the cool back into my voice as I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Look, I’m not trying to fix him or whatever. He just needs to remember there’s a world outside hockey.”
“And sleeping with you would definitely remind him of that.” Callie grins.
“We’re not sleeping together.” The heat behind my words startles even me. Maybe because it’s not just Callie I’m trying to convince. “But we did hook up once. At a club. Before I knew who he was.”
Callie’s eyes widen. “Get out. You’re just now telling me this?”
“It wasn’t important. I just needed to blow off some steam. Didn’t realize it’d come back to haunt me.”
She laughs. “Wow. No wonder he eyes you like he wants to eat you. Your boyfriend’s dying for another taste.”
“He’s not my—” I grab a small decorative pillow and throw it at her. She catches it with a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re transparent.” She hugs the pillow to her chest. Her voice softens, just a touch. “But I like seeing you care about something that scares you. Even if it does have abs and a grudge against joy.”
I flip her off as I head for the door. “Don’t wait up.”
“Wasn’t planning to!” she calls as I close the door.
In the hallway, I lean against the wall for a second and exhale. This is just me being nice. Drew needs someone who doesn’t expect perfection from him. Someone who’ll let him mess up paint on canvas instead of beating himself up over missed shots and wrong plays.
That’s all this is. Nothing more.
I’ve never been good at trusting people to stay. But tonight, I think I want him to.
I push off the wall and head for the stairs, ignoring the flutter in my stomach that suggests otherwise.
I push open the heavy door to the Art Building, catching it with my foot so Drew can follow. He hesitates, shoulders bunched, moving like he’s bracing for a hit instead of just walking into a building. The overhead lights catch in his still-damp hair, and his hockey bag is slung over one shoulder, making him look even more massive than usual. He’s a total misfit here, hulking and broad among the easels and half-finished sculptures. A bull in a China shop, except this bull moves with surprising grace for someone so solid.
“We’re technically not supposed to be here this late,” I say, flipping on the lights as we walk. “But I nabbed a key for my independent study.”
Drew scans the hallway, eyes snagging on a particularly abstract nude. “Pretty sure I’ve never set foot in this building before.”
“Exactly why I brought you.” I lead him down the corridor, past dark studios, and draped statues. “When’s the last time you did something that wasn’t hockey, protein shakes, or punching someone?”
His jaw ticks. “I don’t just go around punching people.”
“Tell that to Beaulier’s face.” I push into my favorite studio, the tiny one at the end with north windows. It’s mostly dark, just the glow from campus lamps outside. I turn on a single setof track lights, leaving the rest in a soft, shadowy half-light that feels way more intimate than I intended.
“That was different,” Drew mumbles and sets his bag down carefully, as if afraid the proximity might break something. “Beaulier had it coming.”
I set up two easels, side by side, and pulled out blank canvases. “Everyone always has it coming with you, don’t they?”
He doesn’t answer. He just stands there, hands awkward at his sides. I recall those hands on my waist that night at Beats, before I knew who he was, when he was just a hot stranger whose mouth tasted like cheap beer and something sweeter.
