Page 147 of Blindside Me
When we break apart, I smile up at him. “But I’m totally adding to your list. You missed some important items.”
He raises an eyebrow, a hint of the old Drew peeking through. “Like what?”
“Like ‘Make Jade breakfast in bed instead of leaving to get it,’” I tease, nodding toward the now-cooling food on his desk.
His laugh vibrates through his chest and into mine, where our bodies press together. “Noted. Next time, I won’t leave.”
Something in his eyes tells me he’s not just talking about breakfast. And for once, I believe him completely.
EPILOGUE
Jade
SUMMER AFTER GRADUATION
Sunlight pours in through our tiny apartment windows and lands on the kitchen table where my laptop sits open, mocking me. It’s been, what? Twenty minutes since I’ve been staring at the same paragraph. Editing, deleting, typing, and deleting again. Nothing I write sounds good. How do you even put something as messy as falling for Drew Klaas into words that don’t sound like a bad romance movie? The coffee in my “Kiss the Player, Not the Game” mug is cold, but I drink it anyway. Caffeine over comfort. Always.
The email draft in front of me glows on the screen. “Blindside Me: A Love Story That Was Never Meant To Be (Until It Was).” That’s the subject line. It stares at me, daring me to hit send. Six months ago, I would’ve laughed at the idea of submitting something this personal to an agent. Now I’m hovering over the send button, as if it’s a grenade.
From the kitchen, Drew’s humming. Something low, probably a pump-up song from his junior league practices. He’s shirtless at the counter, back muscles flexing as he grabs hisprotein shake. Fresh from morning practice with his new team, hair still damp, skin shining in places he missed with the towel. Even after all this time, seeing him like this—an ambitious college athlete turned amateur league, totally unguarded—makes my chest squeeze tight. Pride, and something softer. He’s on track to achieve his professional league goals.
Our space. Still feels weird to call it that, even though we’ve lived together for three months. My sketch of his busted skates hangs above the dining table. His idea, not mine. “Reminder of rock bottom,” he said, holding up the frame. “And who pulled me out?”
I scroll through my draft. I’ve rewritten this part seven times:
Love wasn’t supposed to be my thing. Not after watching my mom chase it into oblivion. Not after my uncle chose distance over difficulty. And certainly not after being cheated on by a manipulator.
I built walls to code, reinforced with steel beams of self-protection and a security system that went off at the slightest touch. Then this perfectionist hockey player threw a punch that shattered more than just some asshole’s nose. It cracked everything I thought I understood about myself, him, and us.
Too dramatic? Not dramatic enough? My agent wants “raw authenticity,” but where’s the line between honest and oversharing? I delete three words, add five, and delete them again.
“You’re making that face,” Drew says, suddenly right behind me. His voice rumbles from somewhere above my head.
I don’t look up. “What face?”
“The one where your eyebrows get all scrunchy and you bite the inside of your cheek. The ‘I hate everything I’ve ever written’ face.”
I glance up. He’s leaning in the doorway, protein shake in hand, smirking at me with that half-smile that still makes mystomach flip. The scar on his eyebrow, a souvenir from a high stick during the championship game, catches the light when he raises it.
“I do not have a face for that,” I say, but my fingers go straight to my cheek. Busted.
Drew pushes off the doorframe and comes over, bare feet silent on the wood. He bends to read over my shoulder, and I want to slam the laptop shut. Six months of sharing a bed, three months of sharing an address, and I still feel naked when he reads my writing.
“‘Hockey’s poster boy with a bloody knuckle complex,’” he reads, grinning. “That’s me?”
“If the broken skate fits,” I say, trying to sound casual, even though my neck is burning where his breath hits it.
His thumb traces my shoulder blade through my T-shirt. “Poster boy, huh? Generous.”
“Would you prefer ‘emotionally constipated perfectionist with anger management issues’? Because that was draft one.”
He laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest and into my back. “Not wrong.”
I scroll further down, to the part I’m not sure about:
There’s something sickeningly poetic about falling for someone who makes lists to ensure he loves you properly. Who checks off ‘emotional vulnerability’ between ‘leg day’ and ‘protein intake.’ Who measures his progress in tangible evidence: fixed skates, paint-stained fingers, the way he stopped flinching when I say, ‘I need you’ instead of ‘I want you.’
Drew’s hand goes still on my shoulder. I’ve hit a nerve. His list—that neat, earnest list of how to be better—is still in my desk drawer, creased from too much reading.
