Page 43 of Blindside Me
“Fuck,” I snap. “Martinez is gonna flunk us, and I’ll be stuck explaining this to Uncle Rick. Again.”
My vision blurs. I blink fast. I am not crying. Not over a project. Not in front of him.
I brace for Drew to lose it. To curse, slam the desk, something. Instead, he just breathes.
“It’s not over,” he says, his voice weirdly calm. His shoulder twitches when he grabs the notes from the bag, but he doesn’t complain. “We’ve got your sketches, my data. We can rebuild it.”
I stare at him. “In one night? You’re delusional, Klaas.”
He shrugs, flipping open my notebook. “Got a better plan?”
I groan and grab my sketchbook, its edges worn from constant use. “Fine. But if we crash and burn, I’m blaming you.”
That almost gains me a smile.
We spread out on the floor, papers fanning around us like a crime scene. My sketches are scattered next to my typed charts, all clean lines and numbers. I start scribbling and explain about headlines that “gut-punch” readers. He cross-references my ideas with my data, organizing sections on bias triggers. His hand brushes mine when we reach for the same pen, and he freezes, just for a second, his breath catching. I pretend not to notice, but my pulse doesn’t.
“Remember that tabloid piece you found?” he asks, pointing to my sketch of a screaming headline. “It’s perfect for the emotional angle.”
I nod, feeling more alive than when we first started. “Yeah, and your stats on click rates back it up. We’re not as screwed as I thought.”
We keep working. When the task becomes mundane, I ask him something personal to keep myself awake. “So what made you become a hockey player?”
“Hockey’s in my blood.”
“I try to think if I know any hockey players named Klaas, but come up empty. I never really followed the sport except to learn how to play.
“Did your dad play?”
He glances at his phone, and the pause tells me everything.
“He never went pro. Got into too many fights in the Junior League. The last one ended his career.”
I wince. Even I know how brutal that is. And it happens way too often.
“Family expectations?” I guess.
“Something like that.” He shifts, looking uncomfortable.
I let it drop. “Okay. So far, we have ‘sports guy traumatized by failure’ and ‘weird girl raised on cartoons.’ We’re nailing the relatability angle.” I stretch and let out a yawn.
Drew’s lips quirk up. “It’s not a cartoon. It’s anime.”
“Oh my God. Way to call me out.” I laugh. “But see! I told you there’s a difference.”
“Whatever, Trouble.” He smirks. “I didn’t want you ranting for ten minutes about the artistic integrity of?—”
“Because it matters,” I cut in, but I’m laughing. “The documentary uses animation as a storytelling device, not just as?—”
“Nerd alert.” He pokes my arm.
“Just saying. But fine, ‘sports guy traumatized by failure’ and ‘weird girl raised on sophisticated animated content.’ Better?”
His eyes soften. “I watched it the night before.”
“What?”
“The documentary. I watched it the night before my brother’s accident.” Drew keeps his eyes on the screen. “Weird coincidence.”
