Page 58 of Blindside Me
“I enjoy drawing,” I admit quietly. “But I’m working on a novel.”
The silence stretches between us as thunder rumbles behind the thick glass.
“Wait, you’ve already started the book?” Drew asks.
I nod, still not looking at him. “Yeah.”
“The romance novel?”
I hesitate and then chastise myself. Why should I be embarrassed? There’s nothing wrong with writing about love, even if I haven’t felt it.
“Yep.”
His mouth falls open. “I still don’t peg you for the swoony type.” There’s no judgment in his voice. Just surprise.
“It’s not all swoon,” I say, defensive. “It’s grit and heartbreak and kissing someone who scares the hell out of you.”
Our eyes meet at that, the topic hitting a little close to home. What would happen if my uncle weren’t his coach? Would he still be here? Would I?
His knee bumps mine under the desk, and my entire body craves his touch.
“What’s the protagonist like?” Drew asks, his voice lower.
“She’s stubborn,” I say. “Doesn’t know what she wants until she can’t have it.”
“And the guy?”
“Driven. Talented. Completely emotionally unattached.” I offer a half-smile to take the sting out of the words.
Drew studies me, and I fight the urge to squirm under his gaze. “How’s it end?”
“Don’t know yet.” I turn back to the screen. “Still writing it.”
We keep working, adding transitions and balancing audio. The room grows quieter and more intimate. My notebook lies open between us, and Drew’s knee remains pressed against mine. The contact is barely there, but it feels huge.
“What’s the dream?” Drew asks suddenly, voice soft.
“What?”
“With your book.” He gestures toward my notebook. “What’s the endgame?”
I hesitate. This feels too vulnerable for whatever we are. But there’s something in Drew’s eyes, a genuine interest that relaxes me.
“To see my book on the New York Times Best Seller list,” I say. “Just once.”
Drew nods, no mockery, just looking at me with new understanding.
“You will,” he says. Just that. Simple. Certain.
Our hands rest close together on the desk, and his pinky touches mine. The touch is small and seismic. I don’t move away, and neither does he.
“Sometimes I think about where I’d be if hockey didn’t work out,” Drew says, staring at our almost-touching hands.
“Where would that be?”
“No idea. That’s the problem.” The admission hits harder than it should. Drew Klaas never admits weakness, not even to himself.
“You’d figure it out,” I say. “You’re smart. Adaptable.”
