Page 27 of Blindside Me
“For your semester projects,” Professor Martinez cuts through my thoughts, “you’ll analyze the psychological factors that define you as a person, using media as your lens.” Her glasses perch on her nose as she flips through a stack of essays. Our preliminary assignments from last week. I went hard on mine, arguing the media’s power lies in raw, messy emotion, probably because Uncle Rick pushed me into this class to “channel my energy” after my supposed meltdown. Journalism’s my ticket to staying on his good side.
Martinez clears her throat. “I’ve paired you for this project based on your essays. Some of you see media as a tool for truth; others, a stage for human chaos. Those contrasts make for dynamic collaborations, so I’ve matched you to spark debate.”
My stomach sinks. Assigned partners? Since when do college students get assigned partners? I glance at Hannah, who clicks her pen nervously. Please let it be her.
Martinez starts reading names. “Hannah Ellis and Randal George.” Hannah’s shoulders slump, and she gives me a small, apologetic smile. Damn it.
I doodle harder, waiting, my pen carving swirls that might be Drew’s jawline. Get it together, Jade.
“Jade Howell and Drew Klaas,” Martinez says.
My pen snaps, the crack loud in the quiet room. Heads turn, including Drew’s from the front row. His eyes lock on mine, aflicker of surprise breaking his stoic mask before it settles back. I glare, but my pulse betrays me, thumping like I’m back in that club bathroom, his hands on me.
Martinez continues, oblivious. “Jade, your essay leaned into the media’s emotional pull. Vivid, personal, and a bit chaotic. Drew, yours was methodical, arguing for objective, data-driven reporting. You’re opposites, which is why you’re paired. I want to see how you reconcile those perspectives in your project.”
I sink lower in my seat, heat crawling up my neck, my sketchbook already open with rough headline drawings. Drew’s jotting notes in a neat grid, his pen moving with surgical precision. Opposites? That’s an understatement. Me, the girl who thrives on chaos; him, the guy who probably color-codes his protein shakes. This is a nightmare. I catch Drew’s eye again, and he’s still looking, his jaw ticking like he’s as thrilled as I am. Great. Stuck with Mr. Hockey-Is-My-Life, who skips study groups but aces tests, who trains so hard his teammates call him nuts. And those arms, shifting under his shirt every time he moves. God, stop it, Jade.
“Your first milestone is due in two weeks,” Martinez says, snapping her binder shut. “Exchange contact information with your partners before you leave.”
Chairs scrape. Bags zip.
Hannah leans over, her voice low. “Tough break. Klaas is hot, but I hear he’s kind of a dick.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” I lie, shoving my notebook into my bag with more force than necessary.
She snorts. “I’m sure you’ll find out. Though I heard he’s been dodging parties since some chick gave him hickeyhead. Maybe he won’t be too obnoxious.”
My face burns, and I duck to grab my dropped pen. Hickey head? My tequila-fueled mistake has a nickname?Fuck.
“I don’t even want to know what that’s about.” I play it off and shove the rest of my stuff into my bag. “I can handle myself.”
“Never doubted it,” Hanna says, heading out.
Drew’s talking to some football player, probably another athlete with a hall pass for tardiness. The guy laughs, claps Drew’s shoulder. Drew’s lips twitch, almost a smile. I’ve never gotten that close to a smile from him. Not that I’m trying.
I linger by the door, scrolling my phone to avoid him. He glances up, says something to his friend, and heads my way. His walk is all control, every step measured. Years of training, I guess.
“So,” he says, stopping a safe distance away. “Guess we’re partners.”
His deep voice is deeper than I remember. It throws me off, and I blink, scrambling for casual.
“Guess so,” I reply, aiming for indifference. “I’m Jade.”
His mouth slants downward, but his eyes stay steady. “Think I know who you are by now.”
I smirk, letting the silence stretch. Students push past us, eager to escape.
“We should exchange numbers,” I finally say.
He nods and pulls out his phone. His clean, minty scent hits me as we swap, and I refuse to notice how close he is. Our fingers don’t touch. It’s like he’s careful, avoiding a penalty.
“When do you want to meet?” he asks, pocketing his phone.
I shake the thought off. It doesn’t matter.
“I have a Thursday deadline for the paper,” I say. “Friday?”
He shakes his head. “Practice.”
