Page 145 of Blindside Me
I sink onto the edge of his bed, sheet still wrapped around me, as each checked item connects to a memory. Drew appearing at my dorm door, vulnerability raw on his face as he told me everything about his father, his brother, and his fears. Drew at Ridgeview, holding my hand as we skated lazy circles on empty ice. Drew’s voice through the arena speakers, declaring feelings in front of scouts, teammates, and my uncle.
All moments when he pushed past his tightly maintained control to reach for something messier, something real. Moments when he chose to show up instead of run.
My thumb traces over the check marks, feeling the indentation in the paper. These aren’t casual scratches; they’re deliberate. Achievements he’s proud of. Tasks completed on the journey to ... what? To me? To us? To being someone who stays?
Below the checked items are two without marks:
? Let her paint/draw me (properly, not just sketches)
? Fix my skates (or learn to embrace the new ones)
The skates. I think of the broken ones I found, the physical manifestation of his self-destruction. Of course fixing them would be on his list. They represent everything he thought was broken in himself.
And painting him? We’d talked about it once, late at night, my head on his chest. “I want to really capture you,” I’d said. “Not just quick sketches. A real portrait.” He’d tensed, muttered something about being too busy with training. I didn’t push. Now I understand what that request represented to him. Hewould be vulnerable, while being seen completely, and letting someone else control the narrative.
The most surprising part comes at the bottom, written smaller, almost like an afterthought or a secret:
Bonus: Let her love me. Fully. No finish line. Just forward. (In progress.)
My vision blurs, tears welling before I can stop them. This isn’t the Drew who carefully monitors his protein intake and schedules his life in fifteen-minute increments. This is stripped bare, honest Drew. The one who trembled the first time he told me he loved me, who kissed me like I might break even as his hands held me like I was the only solid thing in his world.
A tear splashes onto the page before I can stop it, smudging the ink of the unchecked boxes. I swipe at my eyes quickly, not wanting to damage his meticulous work. This list is so perfectly, painfully Drew. Who else would approach emotions with the same discipline as approaching hockey? Creating tangible steps toward intangible goals. Breaking down the terrifying expanse of love into manageable tasks.
My finger hovers over the last item. In progress. Not checked, not unchecked. Because this one isn’t a single moment or action. It’s every day, every choice, every time he has to decide whether to retreat behind walls or stay exposed.
Without thinking, I press my fingertip to the paper, imagining a checkmark. As if I could confirm for him: Yes, you’re doing this. Yes, I see you trying. Yes, I’m letting you love me, too.
Another tear falls, and I don’t wipe this one away, letting it soak into the paper. Evidence that his methodical approach to loving me has cracked something open inside my chest. Something I’ve kept guarded since I was old enough to understand that people leave.
Drew isn’t people. Drew is the guy who makes lists to make sure he doesn’t miss anything important. Who strategizes lovingme like it’s a game plan he can perfect with enough practice and dedication.
I fold the paper carefully along its original creases, smoothing each edge with my thumb. This wasn’t meant for me to find. Not yet. Maybe not ever. This was his private roadmap, his way of holding himself accountable when loving someone doesn’t come as naturally as hockey statistics or training schedules.
The realization sends a pang of empathy to my chest. Drew is trying just as hard to trust me as I am to trust him. He’s just more organized about it.
I press the folded paper to my chest, directly over my heart, as if I could absorb his intentions through skin and bone. The paper crinkles slightly. I close my eyes and let myself feel the fear, the hope, the tentative belief that maybe, just maybe, we’ve both found someone who won’t walk away when things get hard.
When I open my eyes again, they’re still damp, but I’m smiling. Leave it to Drew Klaas to make me cry with a checklist.
The door creaks open behind me, and I freeze, list still pressed against my chest like evidence. Drew appears in the doorway, balancing a tray with two more steaming coffees and what looks like breakfast from the campus café—those maple bacon breakfast sandwiches I mentioned once loving. His hair is damp at the temples, like he rushed to get back. When his eyes land on the paper in my hands, he stills completely, a deer caught in unexpected headlights.
“You weren’t supposed to see that yet,” he says, voice pitched lower than usual. A faint blush creeps up his neck. Drew Klaas, blushing. The same guy who body-checked opponents twice his size is flushing over a piece of paper.
I should feel guilty for invading his privacy. Instead, something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest.
“You weren’t supposed to make me fall harder for you either,” I respond, not bothering to hide the emotion crackling in my voice. “Yet here we are.”
His shoulders relax slightly, but uncertainty lingers in his eyes. He crosses to his desk, sets down the breakfast tray, and turns to face me. He’s wearing sweatpants, a plain gray T-shirt, and that look of intense concentration usually reserved for analyzing game footage.
“I got your favorite. The maple bacon thing.” He gestures toward the food, clearly attempting to change subjects.
I hold up the list. “So this is what methodical groveling looks like, huh?” I tease, though the words come out softer than intended. “You actually scheduled your emotional growth in bullet points?”
Drew rubs the back of his neck, a rare gesture of unfiltered embarrassment. “The list was Easton’s idea, actually. After I talked to your uncle.”
“Easton’s? Really?”
“Yeah, believe it or not. He said I needed concrete steps. That I’d just overthink everything otherwise.” Drew attempts a small smile. “He wasn’t wrong.”
