Page 28 of Blindside Me
Of course. Practice. When isn’t he practicing? Saturdays are out due to games.
“Sunday?”
“Film review.”
Jesus. “Do you ever take a day off?”
Something like annoyance flickers across his face. “No.”
I sigh. “Fine. Sunday evening?”
“Seven works. Library.”
Not ‘Does seven work for you?’ Just a statement. Typical.
“Fine, but I think my dorm would be better.” At least until my roommate shows up. It’s not like Coach would approve of his precious player sneaking into his niece’s dorm. One wrong move and I’ll be the reason Drew’s benched—or worse.
He hesitates. “Given our situation with your uncle, do you think that’s a good idea?”
I shrug, caring less about what my uncle thinks. “It’s where my vision board is.”
“Your what?”
“Vision board.” I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it. Just be at Jasmine Hall, Room 378, at seven.”
The classroom is empty now. The flickering fluorescent light casts weird shadows on his face. He looks tired. Human. Not the perfect hockey machine everyone thinks he is.
“Good luck with the game Saturday,” I say, not sure why I’m offering encouragement.
His expression shifts minutely. His jaw tightens. His fingers flex on the backpack strap, knuckles white for a half-second. “You coming?”
He says it flatly as if it’s just business. Something twists in my gut. I shove it down. No use getting worked up over this asshole.
“To write about it, yeah.”
He nods, but his eyes get intense. Almost like a fear, which seems impossible for Drew Klaas. He’s always so controlled and confident on the ice.
Like yesterday at practice. I watched from the bleachers as he stayed after everyone else left, running one last drill until my uncle yelled at him.
He looked like someone trying to outrun something invisible. And suddenly, I wasn’t sure if he was a perfectionist … or just afraid to stop moving.
The memory makes me uncomfortable. Like I saw something I wasn’t supposed to. Something that contradicts the arrogant image I’ve constructed of him.
And there it is again—that pang of empathy. I’m trying my best not to care, but I don’t know the weight he carries.
“I should go,” he says, shifting his backpack higher. “Need to review some plays before class.”
“Right,” I say. “Hockey never stops.”
His eyes meet mine, and for once, I can read him: surprise. Like he didn’t expect me to understand.
“No,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t.”
He walks away without a goodbye. I watch him go, tall and straight-backed, parting the crowd. People move for him, like he’s got his own gravity.
I hate that I notice the muscles in his back. I hate that I’m curious about what drives him. I hate that I’ve spent the entire morning thinking about him when he probably hasn’t thought about me once.
Most of all, I hate that despite all my protests, there’s a part of me, a traitorous, inconvenient part, that’s looking forward to Sunday at seven.
