Page 38 of Blindside Me
Shit.“That’s his name.”
“You never use nicknames. Back in Colorado, you constantly called Professor Williams ‘Professor Williams’ even though he begged the entire class to call him Steve for, like, eight months.”
I slam a pencil down, harder than intended. “Fine. Klaas, then. Hockey Boy. Mr. Eight and a Half.”
“Eight and a half? I thought his number was thirty-three?”
Fuck.Did I actually say his length out loud? Guesstimated length anyway. He’s freaking huge. “Uh, yeah. You’re right. His jersey number is thirty-three.”
She raises an eyebrow. “There aren’t half numbers. What did you mean?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Callie bursts out laughing, nearly choking. “Oh my god, were you talking about his dick?”
Heat like I’ve never felt engulfs my cheeks. I remain quiet.
“I’m not even going to ask how you know that”—she shakes her head and points to my sketchbook wedged under a textbook—“but if he’s packing that much, it’s no wonder you’ve drawn him, what, fifteen times?”
I clutch the sketchbook to my chest, mortified, but the heat on my face betrays me before I can even try to deny it.
“I … that’s not … I’m minoring in art. I draw people all the time.”
“Sure, but most people don’t get their own dedicated pages. Or that much attention to their jawline.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Or are there even more risqué sketches … say, eight and half inches long?”
“I’m not dignifying that with a response.” My lips twitch. “You know, I thought I got lucky when I found out who my roommate was. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“Hush. You love me.” She pauses for a beat. “Almost as much as you like him.”
“No,” I scoff. “Drawing men is just for practice. Simple anatomy and lighting.” I’m babbling. “Male figures are harder to capture because of the muscle definition and?—”
A Sour Patch Kid hits me square in the forehead.
“You’re overthinking this,” Callie says, softer now. “It’s okay to like someone, you know.”
I slump down onto my desk chair, still hugging my sketchbook. “He’s … complicated.”
“Most hot people are.”
“That’s not what I meant.” I run my finger along the spiral binding. “He’s just … he’s good at making me feel like I’m the only person in the room. Even when we’re arguing about thesis statements or whether Hemingway was an overrated misogynist.”
“For the record, he totally was,” Callie interjects.
“Yeah, Drew thinks so, too, actually.” I catch myself smiling and immediately force my face back to neutral. “But that doesn’t mean I like him. Not like that.”
“So what’s your type then, if not tall, dark, and brooding hockey gods?”
“I don’t have a type.” I tried once and look where that got me. “But if I did, maybe an emotionally available one who’s into art museums. Not hot and emotionally constipated.”
Callie grins. “So you admit he’s hot.”
“I have eyes, don’t I? That doesn’t mean anything.” I stand up and flop face-first onto her bed, burying my face in her pillow. My voice comes out muffled: “Nothing is happening between us anyway.”
“Define ‘nothing.’”
I roll over to stare at the ceiling. “We talk. We plan. We almost touch, then act like our skin might catch fire. Nothing.”
“Totally,” Callie says, dragging out each syllable.
