Page 12 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jade

I can’t stop moving. My fingers shuttle colored pencils from one jar to another while I pace the cramped space between my bed and desk.

Warm colors in one jar, cool in another.

No, that’s not right. Graphite here, charcoal there.

Wait, maybe by thickness? Length? What the hell am I even doing?

Across the room, my new roommate Callie—the one I knew from the University of Colorado, though we never hung out much—is perched cross-legged on her bed, watching me with the bemused expression of someone witnessing a slow-motion meltdown.

She pops a Sour Patch Kid into her mouth, chewing with exaggerated slowness as her eyes track my movement.

“You know what you look like right now?” Callie cocks her head with a bemused smile. “Someone who got ghosted for a Tinder date by a guy named Chad.”

I shoot her a glare. “I do not. I’m just organizing.”

“You’re sorting your charcoal pencils by”—she squints at my hands, eyebrows up—“vibe? That’s panic behavior, Jade. I’ve only lived here for a week and already know your tells.”

“I’m not panicking.” I drop a stubby pencil into what I’ve apparently decided is the ‘rejects’ jar. “I’m just … thinking.”

“About Andrew Klaas?” The name looms overhead like a smoke bomb.

I freeze, pencil suspended between jars. “Why would I be thinking about him?”

Callie snorts and tosses another candy into her mouth. “Because when we ran into him on campus, he looked at you like you’re a human puzzle he’s dying to solve. And you,”—she points a red Sour Patch Kid at me, all accusations—“went all weird and quiet on the walk home.”

“I was tired.” I resume sorting, faster now. “And Drew doesn’t look at me like anything. He looks at me because we’re working on a project.”

“Drew, huh?” Callie’s eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline.

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.

I groan. “Fine. Maybe I like him a little. Microscopic levels. Basically subatomic.”

“Your sketchbook has his eyebrows memorized, Jade.”

I grab her pillow and smack her with it. She yelps, laughing as she tries to shield herself.

“Those are just good eyebrows! They’re very … architectural.” I can’t help but laugh, too, the tension finally breaking.

Callie recovers, hugging the pillow to her chest. Her expression shifts to something more serious. “You know, sometimes the people around you see the truth before you’re ready to admit it.”

My smile fades. “I don’t need anyone. I’m fine on my own.”

“You keep saying that like you believe it.” Her voice is gentle, not accusing, which somehow makes it worse.

I go quiet, eyes drifting to the vision board taped above my desk.

A collage of magazine cutouts and watercolor paintings.

In my own handwriting across the center: “Build your own safe haven.” My uncle never meant to leave me behind, but here I am anyway.

Another person who walked away when something better came along.

“I just don’t want you to shut me out,” Callie says, breaking into my thoughts. “Or yourself. It’s okay to want things, Jade. Even if they’re complicated and might hurt.”

“I know.” I don’t, not really, but it’s easier than explaining how terrifying it is to want something I’m not sure I can keep. How much safer it is to push people away before they decide to leave. “I tried that once.”

“Sorry Roman was a dick. But not everyone will be manipulative like him.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway. My uncle would throw a fit if any of his hockey gods came near me.”

She frowns and then holds out her pinky. “Promise you won’t ghost me when things get real? Friend code.”

I link my pinky with hers, a childish gesture that somehow feels more binding than any oath. “Promise.”

For a moment, I let myself feel the weight of being known, of someone seeing past my carefully built walls. It’s terrifying. It’s also, maybe, a little bit like coming home.

“But just so we’re clear,” I add, pulling my hand back, “if you tell Drew about the sketchbook, I will absolutely murder you in your sleep.”

Callie grins. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Besides,”—she tosses me another Sour Patch Kid— “watching you two orbit each other without crashing is way more entertaining.”

I catch the candy and pop it in my mouth, the sour-then-sweet taste mirroring the mess of emotions I’m not ready to name. Not yet. But maybe soon.