Page 148 of Blindside Me
“Too much?” I ask, quietly.
He shakes his head, lips brushing my temple for a split second. “Just weird. Seeing myself through your eyes.”
“Get used to it, Klaas. You’re my best material.”
“You just like the size of my dick.”
“Mmm. I do.” It still gets me dick drunk. “I will never apologize for that.”
He laughs as he heads back to the kitchen and resumes his freakishly organized meal-prep routine. I watch him for a second, kind of stunned by how much this Drew isn’t the Drew I met at the start. Still disciplined, still laser-focused, but the edges have gone soft. He hums again, off-key, not even caring. A total one-eighty from the guy who used to overthink everything.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. Something’s missing from the ending. Something that nails not just how we crashed into each other, but how we decided to stay in the wreckage and build something new. How he still makes lists. Except now they say, “gallery openings” and “weekend trips to New York” right next to combine drills and protein goals. And I still push boundaries. Except now I actually say what I need instead of running away when I don’t get it.
The screen blurs a little as I squint at it, searching for the words that’ll tie it all together. I take another sip of coffee, grimace at the cold. Without even looking up, Drew slides a fresh mug next to my laptop, steam curling up. Two sugars, just like always.
That’s it. That’s what I need to capture. Not the big speeches or the public drama, but the quiet ways he shows up, every single day. The coffee made exactly right. The space he clears on his perfect bookshelf for my chaos-pile of novels. The way he learned to listen instead of fix.
I flex my fingers and start typing again, glancing up at Drew as he moves through our kitchen, totally at ease, back to me, focused, not even realizing how much he’s rewritten the story I thought I was stuck in.
Now the words come easy, pouring out, like they’ve just been waiting for me to see what was right in front of me.
“Heading to practice.”
I barely acknowledge him. His chuckle says it all. He knows nothing distracts me once I’m in the zone.
Hours later, I’m typing “The End,” finger hovering over the send button.
One click. “Blindside Me” vanishes from my drafts, officially submitted to my editor, who thinks it could be my ticket to the New York Times bestseller list.
“It’s done!” I let out a slow breath, feeling weirdly light, like I just let go of something I didn’t know I was carrying. The agent’s email from last week is still pinned to my corkboard, right next to the fear that this story, our story, might not be enough. But if I can get even half of what Drew and I have onto the page, maybe it’ll hit someone, somewhere, enough to make my dream real.
I lean back, expecting Drew’s arms to wrap around me like always after practice, but the kitchen’s dead quiet. Too quiet. No humming, no clatter, nothing. I glance at the clock. Twenty minutes past when he should’ve been home from the rink.
I check my phone. No text. No call. My stomach knots up, that old ache creeping in. He’s fine, I tell myself. Probably stuck with his new coach. But my brain spins anyway, recalling Mom’s taillights fading down the street, and Uncle Rick’s “I’ll visit” promises that never happened. I’ve forgiven them, but the worry lingers. What if Drew’s pulling away? What if he read my draft and decided it’s too much, that I’m too much?
My fingers clamp around the mug, coffee sloshing, breath catching. I’m not that girl anymore, the one who bolts at the first sign of doubt, but the fear claws at me anyway, whispering I’m not enough to stay for.
The door clicks open. Drew steps in, hair damp, gym bag slung over his shoulder. “Sorry,” he says, voice casual but withthat guilty edge. “Coach kept us late to review tape for the next game. Phone died.” He drops his bag, sees my face. “You okay?”
I try to smile, but it’s shaky. “Thought you bailed on me for a second.”
His face softens, and he crosses to me, kneeling so we’re eye to eye. “Never. You know that.” His hand finds mine, steadying the tremble I didn’t realize was there. “Just bad timing. Should’ve borrowed someone’s phone.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “It’s stupid. I just … got in my head.”
“Not stupid.” His thumb strokes my knuckles. “I’ll set a reminder to charge my phone. Or, hell, get a carrier pigeon.” He grins, and I laugh. The tension fades but is not gone. The fear’s still there, but his hand in mine feels like an anchor.
Drew’s arms wrap around me from behind, his chin on my head as he reads the sent confirmation on the screen. “So what’s the next chapter?” he asks, voice rumbling through my back.
I lean into him, taking in our small kitchen with the mismatched chairs and faded light streaming through the tiny windows. My neck cramps from hunching over the laptop, so I look up and stretch. And see the vision board leaning against our wall. Except now, it’s a collage of dreams we actually dared to share. My Paris sketch sits in the top corner, quick lines of the Eiffel Tower with two silhouettes underneath. A glossy photo of a packed hockey rink, clipped from a combine program, where Drew got his shot with the New York team, is next to it. Then, there is a cutout of the Manhattan skyline glints below, his dream of making it big in the pros, right beside a quaint bookstore, torn from an art magazine. And my favorite: a photo of this apartment, exposed brick and all, with Drew at the stove, caught mid-pancake-flip last Christmas, totally unaware I was watching. The board is equal parts embarrassing and essential. Like most things about us.
I tilt my head, studying the vision board from a new angle. My “Hockey Players Beware: I Bruise More Than Egos” shirt is slung over the chair, abandoned after last night’s shower. The black fabric and bold white letters was a gag gift from Callie, post-Drew’s public declaration at the game. I wore it to practice. Uncle Rick nearly had a coronary.
“You’re staring at it again,” Drew says, breaking into my thoughts.
I turn. He’s watching me, that half-smirk on his lips.
“Just making sure the universe gets the message,” I say, stretching my arms over my head. “Visualization is powerful, Klaas.”
