Page 33 of Blindside Me
“He worries about both.” She meets my eyes. And when she does, a weightlessness settles in my chest. It’s as if she’s not just seeing me butunderstandingme. “And for what it’s worth, I get it. The pressure. The fear of fucking up when it matters most.”
“Do you?” The question comes out sharper than I intended.
“I do,” she simply says. “But Drew, I hope you know you’re more than a stat line.”
Six words. That’s it. But something in me settles. Not because she believes in me, but because she sees through me, past the performance, past the mask, and doesn’t flinch.
And damn it, I feel it. The space between us tightens and charges with something I don’t want to name. Want is the wrong word. Need is worse. It’s just … connection.
She shifts slightly, brushing my arm with hers. A tiny spark ignites as her gaze lingers longer than it should.
I should say something. Step away. Push down whatever this is.
Instead, I say, “Thanks.”
She nods. “Sure. But for the record? That wasn’t Jake’s game out there tonight. That was all you.”
I freeze. “How do you?—”
“Coach mentioned it. The whole Jake thing.” She shrugs. “He worries you’re carrying a weight that isn’t yours.”
She turns to leave, then pauses. “I overheard there’s a party at some bar called Barton’s if you decide actually to celebrate instead of overthinking.”
“You going?” There’s always a celebration at Barton’s after every Wildcat win. The bar caters to us.
She shrugs. “Don’t know. Guess you’ll have to show up and find out.”
Trouble with a capital T.
I watch her walk away, my thoughts scrambled. The dread doesn’t press as heavily on my chest. The voice in my head is silent for the first time all night.
In its place, six quiet words:
You’re more than a stat line.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jade
Sunday night sneaks up on me and with it, the realization that Drew Klaas will be in my dorm room in less than ten minutes. I stare at my vision board above my bed, biting my lip. It’s a glitter-bomb explosion of my dreams and quotes, and Cessna U’s hockey star is about to see it. What the hell possessed me to tell him to come here instead of the library?
Oh, right. It was because it would be less formal. Neutral territory. Comfortable.
Big mistake.
I fight the urge to fluff the three mismatched throw pillows on my bed. Sure, my room is a disaster, but it’s the creative kind with my half-made bed, yesterday’s cold tea mug abandoned on my desk, and textbooks stacked in precarious towers. My roommate, Callie Rivera, hasn’t arrived yet. And if it’s the same Callie from the University of Colorado, I don’t have to impress her. I am certainly not trying to impress Hockey Boy.
There’s a knock. Two short taps. My heart trips over itself, and I curse under my breath.
Calm the fuck down, Jade. It’s just a classmate.
But even as I think it, I know it’s a lie.
I open the door. Drew stands there in a dark hoodie and gray sweats, casual but somehow still intense.
“You made it,” I say, stepping aside.
Drew hesitates at the threshold, brown eyes scanning my room like he’s assessing a crime scene. His jaw tightens. “This is … where you live.”
