Page 51 of Blindside Me
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says finally, voice low.
“That’s the point.” I hand him a brush, letting my fingers graze his. “No one’s keeping score. No one’s watching you. Just make a mess and see what happens.”
He holds the brush like it might snap. “I don’t make messes.”
“Everyone makes messes, Drew.” I squeeze paint onto a palette, bright blues and reds, watching them pulse in the low light. “Some of us just enjoy them more than others.”
He stares at the canvas, brush hovering with absolute uncertainty. I start on mine, using bold strokes and shapes that don’t have to mean anything. The soft swish of bristles fills the silence.
“So,” I say, breaking the quiet, “hockey’s been your whole life?”
“Pretty much.” His first strokes are careful, too careful. “My brother played. He was better than me, but he threw it away.”
“How do you throw away talent?”
“By not caring enough.” The bitterness in his voice surprises me. “By thinking you can coast on it.”
I dip my brush in water, watching the colors bleed together. “And you’re all work, no talent?”
He laughs, a short, awkward sound. “I wouldn’t say that. But I can’t afford to coast.”
“Because of your brother?”
“Because it’s who I am.” He frowns at his canvas. The lines are neat but lifeless, as if he’s painting by numbers. “I don’t know how to do anything halfway.”
“Including hookups?” The words slip out before I can stop them. I stare at my canvas, not daring to look at him.
The silence stretches.
“That night was...” He clears his throat, shifting his weight. “I didn’t expect it to be like that.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Like what?”
“Intense.” His voice drops, and something flutters in my stomach. “I’m not usually … I don’t usually lose control.”
We both reach for the same tube of blue paint. Our fingers brush. The contact lingers, his callused fingertips rough against mine. I don’t pull away. Neither does he. The air between us feels charged, the kind that makes your skin prickle.
I pull back first, laughing lightly to break the tension. “Bet you’re still traumatized. Most guys don’t survive me.”
His eyes darken, but he looks back at his canvas. “This is awful.”
I lean over, peeking at his painting. I grin at the stiff lines forming what might be a hockey rink or a prison cell. “Yeah, but at least you didn’t break anything this time.”
“That was one glass.” A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “And it was an accident.”
“Sure it was, Hockey Boy.”
His phone rings, slicing through the moment. He checks the screen and frowns. For a second, I think he’ll ignore it, but then he answers.
“Hey,” he says, and a high, unmistakable female voice comes through the speaker. Those flutters from earlier die a quick, sudden death.
Drew steps away, talking low, but I catch pieces. “Not tonight.” Pause. “Busy right now.” Another pause, longer this time. “Another time, maybe.”
My brush moves faster, slashing red across my canvas. I know that voice. Megan something. Hockey groupie. Puck bunny supreme.
Not that I can judge. My ex was also a hockey player.
Apparently, too popular.
