Page 57 of Blindside Me
The media lab door groans when I push it open. I’m late, but the only person who’d care is already inside. Drew sits hunched over his laptop, the blue-white glow slicing harsh shadows across his face. Of course, he’s early. Of course, he’s already working. That’s Drew Klaas for you, always trying to prove something, even if it’s just to himself.
His head jerks up at the sound, those brown eyes narrowing before recognition kicks in. I pretend not to notice how his shoulders relax when he sees it’s me.
“Thought you weren’t coming,” he says, clicking something on his screen.
“Yet here I am. A woman of mystery.” I drop my bag on the floor with a thud.
The room is dim. Most overhead lights are off, just a few desk lamps throwing puddles of yellow over the workstations. It’s late, and the campus beyond the windows is dark except for the odd security light. The air feels heavy, the kind that settles right before a storm. You can almost smell it.
“You could’ve started without me,” I say, pulling up a chair.
“Tried. Couldn’t get the audio levels right.” Drew doesn’t look at me when he says it. He hates admitting defeat, even the small kind.
I kick off my sneakers and prop my feet on the edge of the desk, deliberately messing with his organized chaos. A tiny rebellion, but I can’t help myself. Drew’s eye twitches, but he says nothing.
“Saw you score the game-winner from the blue line,” I say, reaching for his laptop. “Not bad for someone allegedly off his game.”
My fingers brush his as I grab the mouse. He doesn’t pull away fast enough, and there it is, that jolt of awareness that never quite disappears between us—a hum just under my skin.
I focus on the project timeline on the screen, pretending I don’t feel it.
Drew leans over my shoulder, close enough that I catch his minty-clean scent. His breath grazes the edge of my neck, and goosebumps race down my arms.
“You watched?” A smirk plays on his lips. Not a full smile, Drew Klaas doesn’t do those, but this is real.
I shrug, aiming for casualness and missing by a mile. “I needed background noise while I sketched. You just happened to be loud.”
“Right.” He draws out the word, not buying it for a second. He shouldn’t.
We settle into an easy rhythm, working on our media studies project.
“So, what did my uncle say about your shot?” I ask. No way am I admitting how many times I scrolled through footage of Drew on the ice, but I couldn’t stop. His movements are fluid, even in slow motion.
“That I got lucky.” Drew reaches past me to adjust something in the edit. “And that I need to be quicker on my defensive transitions.”
“He said that after you scored the winning goal?”
“He said it because I let my man get past me twice in the second period.” His jaw tightens. “He’s right.”
Classic Drew. Even when he wins, he finds the flaws. I want to tell him to lighten up, but that’s not how this works between us. Not yet.
As I edit, I open my sketchbook beside the keyboard, doodling between adjustments. It keeps my hands busy while my brain chews through editing problems. Drew watches my pencil move, tracking the shapes and shadows.
“You still do that,” he says softly.
I look up. “Do what?”
“Draw when you’re thinking.”
I close the book, suddenly self-conscious. How did he even notice? “Bad habit.”
Drew shakes his head. “You ever think about doing it for real? I heard Cessna has an excellent art school.”
“I’m not trying to be an artist.” I push the book away.
His eyes narrow. “But you’re always sketching. I see you in the…” He stops himself. “You’re always sketching,” he repeats.
I stare at the screen, watching the timeline blocks stack up. The cursor blinks, waiting for my next command.
