Page 11 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

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.”

It’s not a question. Just a statement, tinged with horror.

“No, it’s where I perform ritual sacrifices. Come in already before you get the rumor mill started.”

That gets him moving.

He walks inside, cautious, like he expects the floor to be booby-trapped.

I close the door behind him, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the area feels with his broad shoulders taking up space.

His minty scent lags behind him along with something clean and controlled, just like everything else about him.

“You can sit…” I gesture vaguely at my desk chair and bed.

He pauses in front of the board taped above my bed. The string lights cast soft shadows across the clutter, but there’s enough light to make every dream and goal tacked up there obvious.

“You want to write a book?”

I blink, surprised he picked that out of everything. “Eventually. Yeah.”

“That’s cool.”

Cool? I was ready for mockery. Not … approval.

He drops his bag next to the desk chair and shrugs out of his hoodie, revealing a plain black tee that does nothing to hide how built he is. I look away, suddenly fascinated by my notebook. He drops into the chair and eyes my unmade bed like it might be contagious.

“So your vision board includes world domination and socks on the floor?” He nods toward the pile of laundry I forgot to hide.

My lips flatten. “And you look like your GPA wears a tie,” I counter, settling cross-legged on the floor. “Are we going to trade insults all night or work on this project?”

His mouth twitches. “Project first. Insults scheduled for 9:30. Sharp.”

“Of course, you’d schedule insults.”

Drew slides from the chair to the floor, mimicking my cross-legged position but making it look painfully stiff. We spread his leather-bound planner and my rainbow sticky notes between us. The contrast is almost comical.

“So, Media Mirror.” I tap my pen. “We need to present media that shaped our identities and analyze why it matters.”

“Right. A fifteen-minute video essay, three clips minimum each. Commentary required.” Drew flips a page. “We should establish a timeline. Two weeks for research, two for scripting, one for filming, and one for editing.”

I stare at him. “Do you schedule your breathing, too?”

“Only when under duress.”

“Wow. Okay, well, creative projects need room to breathe.”

Drew’s eyes narrow. “And deadlines. And structure. And actual work.”

“Are you implying I don’t work?” My voice edges up.

“I’m stating that your approach is … improvisational.”

“Whereas yours is rigor mortis.”

We lock eyes, both leaning in, knees almost touching. The space between us shrinks with every comeback. There’s a small scar above his right eyebrow. Have I never seen it before, or never been this close?

“Fine,” he says finally. “Two weeks for research. Flexible scripting. Firm filming and editing. Deal?”

“Deal.”

I reach for my pen at the exact moment he does. Our fingers brush, and damn, if my body doesn’t notice. We both jerk back.

Drew clears his throat, but his gaze drops to my mouth. “I should be excused from group projects involving your mouth.”

My cheeks flare. The bluntness that came out of nowhere caught me off guard. “Excuse me?”

“Your mouth. It’s … distracting.”

“I didn’t realize I needed a warning label.”

My eyes dip to the outline those gray sweats fail to hide. The very one my mouth assaulted. Heat creeps up my neck. Even soft, he’s still impressive.

I force my gaze to look anywhere but his crotch and settle on his face. Those honey-brown eyes dance with mirth, the corner of his mouth drawing into a smirk.

“Maybe just a caution sign.”

Is he flirting with me? No. Drew Klaas wouldn’t flirt. Not with me, Coach Howell’s niece. Little Miss Untouchable. No way he’d risk his season for a quick hookup now that he knows who I am.

I pivot fast. “Let’s talk media. What are you using?”

Drew straightens and is clearly more comfortable with the academic topic. “The Second String documentary on Matthew Sedrick. He was a rising NHL star whose career tanked under pressure from his father.”

“Cheerful.” I frown.

“It’s relevant,” he says stiffly. “It has parental pressure and the mental toll. Powerful visuals.”

“Right. Analysis. Not because it hit you personally.”

His jaw ticks. “What’s yours?”

“ Spirited Away .”

Drew blinks. “The cartoon?”

“It’s anime. About a girl trapped in the spirit world trying to save her parents.”

“That sounds…” He struggles to find a diplomatic word.

“Amazing? Oscar-winning. Life-changing?”

“Childish.”

I recoil. “Wow.”

“What? It’s a kid’s movie.”

“It’s about losing your identity and finding courage. When my mom was on her third divorce, I never knew where I’d sleep. Spirited Away made me feel like I could survive. Like the mess wasn’t mine to clean up.”

The room grows quiet. Drew’s expression shifts. The judgment is gone, replaced by something that looks uncomfortably like understanding.

I circle back to his project. “You didn’t pick that documentary because it’s good. You picked it because it hurt.”

He doesn’t argue, but his silence confirms everything. His thumb runs along his planner. It’s a nervous tic that feels jarring coming from someone so controlled.

Our knees touch, but this time, neither of us pulls back.

“Your vision board,” he says suddenly, nodding toward the colorful collage above my bed. “You made that?”

I jerk my head back at the abrupt change of subject. “Yeah.”

He studies it with unexpected interest. “What’s with the lighthouse?”

“Freedom. Direction.” I shrug.

“And the red umbrella?”

“Protection that still lets you see the rain. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.” His voice is softer. “Other than hockey, I don’t even know what my vision would be.”

That undoes me more than it should.

Damn it. I promised myself I wouldn’t date. Not here. Not again. But I can’t deny this connection. It’s unwarranted and alarming.

Too bad the one guy I find intriguing comes wrapped in an athletic body and grumpy demeanor. It’s a shame because if I were open to a relationship, he’d be perfect.

“I suck at following through,” I confess.

His lips curve slightly. “I can attest to that.”

I smack his leg. “Shut up.”

He laughs, which transforms his face and softens the sharp edges. Then, he grows serious again. “I suck at letting up.”

Our eyes meet, and something unspoken passes between us. For a moment, I glimpse beneath his armor —the exhaustion of constantly pushing, always performing, never resting. And I wonder if he sees through mine, too. Sees the fear behind my chaos, the way I use spontaneity to avoid commitment.

“Yeah? What pushes you?”

He goes completely still, and I know I’ve pushed too far.

He breaks contact. “And what about the Eiffel Tower?”

“Paris.” My voice is whimsical as I study the picture and take a slow breath. “I want to visit there someday. It just seems … romantic. I can picture myself writing a love story in a café while drinking coffee.”

“You’re a romantic?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never gotten the chance to be. Not with my cheating ex anyway. I’ve never let anyone get close to me before him.” My throat tightens. The one time I finally let my guard down after his relentless pursuit, and the asshole proved what I’ve always known: everyone leaves.

“Hmm, then how are you going to write romance if you don’t have the experience?”

Our gaze holds for a beat, and the intensity behind his stare about does me in. I suck in a breath and tell the truth. “Guess I’ll have to write my own happy ending.”

He works his jaw but doesn’t voice his thoughts. The silence stretches, comfortable in its discomfort.

I shift the focus back to him. “Do you read them? Since, you know, you seem to know a lot about them.”

His mouth thins as he studies me. “What do you think?”

“Oh, I think that’s a yes.”

“That’s a no.”

“Sure about that?”

“Positive. There’s no way in hell I’ll ever read a romance novel.”

“Ah, you wait, Klaas. I’ll get you to read one yet.”

“Not in a million years, Trouble.” He shakes his head. “We should schedule the rest.”

“Right. Sundays and Tuesdays?”

“Seven works. Film study is in the morning.”

“Works for me.”

We map out deadlines that somehow feel like compromises rather than concessions. Our fingers brush twice more, and I pretend not to notice how my skin tingles afterward each time.

By eight forty-five, we have a balanced, structured, yet breathable plan.

Drew stands, slipping his planner into his bag. “We could cut clips and focus more on the analysis.”

“No.” I shake my head. “We go all in.”

His eyes flicker. “All in,” he repeats like the words mean more than just a project.

I walk him to the door. My room smells like him now, that clean, minty scent mixing with my coconut and vanilla.

Drew hesitates. “This was … actually decent.”

“Yeah. Against all odds.”

He nods and steps into the hallway. Our eyes meet. Something unspoken lingers.

Then he’s gone.

I shut the door and lean against it, my thoughts are a knotted mess, and somehow he’s right in the middle of the tangle.

I just spent two hours with Drew Klaas and didn’t want to strangle him. In fact, I wanted to...

Nope. Not going there.

I collapse onto my bed, staring at the lighthouse on my vision board and mulling over the representation. Freedom and direction. Things I’ve wanted my entire life.

Which is why I swore off men, especially hockey players. But now? I have an entire semester of Sunday and Tuesday nights with one.

Just one semester. One grade. One project I need to ace without accidentally falling for the guy I’m not supposed to want.

So why am I counting down to Tuesday?