Page 65 of Blindside Me
However, knowing something and feeling it are two entirely different beasts.
Drew runs a hand through his hair, messing it further. His chest still rises and falls too rapidly. His lips are swollen from our kisses. He looks wrecked, as destroyed by this moment as I feel.
“We can’t,” he repeats, but it sounds more like a prayer than a decision this time.
The footsteps outside grow louder. Closer. Drew glances at the door again, his expression hardening with resolve. He takes another step back, putting more distance between us. The room feels colder without his body heat, emptier despite being the same size.
I swallow hard and try to find my voice. Try to find words that make sense of what happened between us. But there’s nothing. Just the empty space where, a second ago, we were tangled up in each other.
Drew doesn’t move. He stands there, like he’s fighting every instinct to cross the room and pin me against the wall again. Like he wants to finish what we started. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he finds a strand of my hair and tucks it behind my ear. His fingers linger at my temple, just long enough to undo me all over again.
“This isn’t over,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion.
Our eyes meet. Neither of us says anything, but we both know.
No running.
No pretending this didn’t happen.
Just everything we can’t say, burning between us, bright, dangerous, and real.
I nod. Just once. It’s small, but it’s fierce. Not goodbye, just a pause.
The door opens, and Callie walks in. She stops, eyes wide, but I don’t care what she sees or why she’s late.
All I can think about is Drew.
How I can still taste him on my lips. Still feel his hands on my skin. Still hear his words echoing in my head…
This isn’t over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Drew
The scrape of my skates on the ice is all wrong today. Off-tempo. Off-balance. My body showed up for practice, but I left my head somewhere else entirely.
I dig in harder, forcing myself through the tight pull in my muscles and the heavier pull in my chest. The puck ricochets off my stick, wide of the net. A curse slips out before I can choke it back. Coach’s whistle blares across the rink, sharp and slicing, and all I can think about is how Jade tasted when I kissed her like a man losing a fight he never had a shot at winning.
Usually, the rink is my sanctuary. The place where everything else disappears.
Not today.
Not after last night.
Not when I can picture Jade’s blonde hair spilling across her shoulders with vivid clarity. The way her blue eyes locked on mine, not backing down like everyone else does. Her mouth, soft against mine at first, then hungry.
I shake my head hard, skating faster. Push. Push. Push. The cold air burns my lungs. Good. I need the pain to focus.
I grab pucks from the bucket and set up for shooting drills. My first shot goes wide. Embarrassingly wide. Not even close to the net.
“Come on,” I mutter, grabbing another puck.
This one hits the post with a clang that reverberates through the empty rink. Better. But not good enough. Never good enough.
The third shot is weak, easily saved by a ghost goalie. I grit my teeth, frustration building. My timing is off. My balance feels wrong. Everything that’s usually automatic suddenly takes effort.
