Page 14 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jade

The clock on the wall reads nine forty-three p.m. The media lab is a ghost town except for Drew and me, our faces lit by the computer screen.

Drew’s fingers tap against the keyboard with machine-gun precision while I highlight lines in my notes.

The phone’s lo-fi playlist hums somewhere behind us, barely covering the AC’s drone.

I’m about to suggest another coffee run when Drew’s phone buzzes.

He glances at the screen, jaw tightening. “I need to take this.”

I nod, pretending to focus on my notes while he steps away. His voice carries in the empty lab as he walks toward the window.

“Yes, sir.” Drew’s voice shifts into something formal and rigid. “No, I haven’t forgotten.”

I flip through my notebook, not reading a word. The half-eaten bagel next to me has gone stale. Three empty coffee cups form a little army at the edge of our workspace.

“I know what’s at stake.” His voice drops, edged with something sharp. “I said I’ve got it.”

The call ends with a sharp beep. Drew stands motionless by the window, his reflection fragmented against the night. He just stands there, breathing, before he comes back to our table.

“Sorry about that,” he says, dropping into his chair.

“Everything okay?” I ask, watching his face.

“Fine.” The word comes out clipped, automatic.

“Doesn’t sound fine.”

Drew’s eyes snap to mine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I don’t flinch. Just raise an eyebrow. Wait.

His expression softens immediately. “Sorry. That was … I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“It’s cool.”

“Yeah. It’s fine.” He turns his back to the screen, fingers hovering over the keys. “Where were we with the analysis?”

I let it go. Pretty sure that was his dad. And if it was, any parent calling this late to complain about a game that happened days ago? Not normal. I don’t know their deal, but the way his shoulders dropped when I didn’t push tells me I made the right choice.

“I think if we add one more example of a visual metaphor from the—” Drew’s sentence cuts off as the screen freezes, then goes black.

“No. No, no, no.” I frantically hit Ctrl-Option-Escape. Nothing.

Drew tries the power button. The computer whirs, sputters, and gives up.

“The autosave,” I whisper. “ Please tell me the autosave worked.”

The hope we clung to evaporates when the system finally boots. The file is corrupted. A full day’s work is just … gone .

My throat tightens. The air feels thin. I grip the edge of the table so hard my knuckles ache.

“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.”

The admission hangs between us. I wait, giving him space to continue or retreat.

“Everyone thinks I’m afraid of failing,” he says finally. “That’s not it.”

“What are you afraid of, then?”

His fingers trace the edge of the keyboard. “Being exposed. That I’m not who everyone thinks I am. That they’ll see Jake when they look at me. And once they do, they’ll stop believing I’m anything different.”

And just like that, the gap between us isn’t just physical. It’s emotional. Unspoken. Dangerous. He’s letting me in, just a crack, and I have no idea what to do with it.

“My mom always leaves,” I offer in return.

“When things get hard. She just … checks out.” I learned early that love came with a doorframe.

You never knew when it’d close. She’d leave a half-finished tea on the counter.

No goodbye. Just gone. Sometimes for a week.

Sometimes forever. “But that never stops her from chasing the next relationship.”

I expect him to look away. Most people do. Most people can’t handle pain that isn’t theirs.

But Drew doesn’t flinch. He just looks at me. “Is that why you’re so…”

“So what?” My voice carries a defensive edge.

“Independent. Like you’ve already decided no one’s going to stick around.”

“Says the guy who won’t let his teammates help him carry equipment.”

His laugh is soft, surprised. “Fair.”

Somehow our chairs have drifted closer. Our shoulders almost touch. The computer hums between us, forgotten for the moment. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s heavy and honest. Like we’ve both dropped our shields at the same time, and we’re just … here.

“So we’re both disasters,” I say. “That’s comforting.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m highly functional.”

“Your eye twitches when people say that.”

“Does not.”

“Does too. Just did.”

We laugh, and it lingers longer than it should. The quiet between us vibrates with a yes we don’t name.

This isn’t anything. Just a project. Just caffeine-fueled banter and sleep-deprived smiles. Nothing else.

I yawn, the late hour catching up to me. My eyes feel heavy.

“Are you actually nodding off mid-conversation?” Drew asks.

“No.” But my eyes close involuntarily. “Maybe.”

When I open them again, I catch Drew watching me. Really watching. His gaze sweeps over my face, intense enough to make me want to squirm. Or lean closer. I can’t tell which.

He breaks contact and opens up a new document. My eyes droop again, the soft tapping of the keyboards pulling me under. My head dips, jerks up, dips again. The tapping doesn’t stop.

“Howell,” a voice says, followed by a gentle nudge on my arm.

My eyelids flutter open. I shudder from the cold and pull a sweatshirt around me. Sweatshirt? I didn’t have … That’s when the minty scent hits me. This is Drew’s hoodie. He must’ve wrapped his hoodie around me while I slept.

The room comes into focus. Drew sits staring with his chin in his hand, as if waiting for me to wake up.

“You drool when you sleep,” he says.

I wipe my mouth instinctively. Dry as sandpaper. “Liar.”

He shrugs. “Guess you’ll never know.”

I glance at the computer. “Did you retype some of it?”

“All of it.”

“What! How?”

“Used dictation.” He shrugs. “Went faster. Finished it while you were messing up your neck.”

“We might not flunk after all.”

He meets my eyes, my chest tightens, not from the deadline but from him. “Told you we could do it.”

“Guess you did.” I stretch and force myself to stand. My joints pop in protest. “Guess I’ll go before you lecture me on posture or hydration or some other deeply sexy topic.”

Our eyes lock, and for a second, neither of us moves. Something raw and reckless tightens in my chest.

I don’t breathe. I don’t move.

He leans in just a little. A flicker of need darkens his eyes. If he moved another inch, if I tilted my chin?—

But he stops. Blinks.

“You should go,” he says, voice rough.

I nod, pulse sprinting. “Right. Coffee. Sleep.”

Drew’s eyes follow me as I gather my things. Our hands brush again. This time, neither one of us pulls away.

“I’ll walk you home.”

I shake my head. “I can take care of myself.”

“No doubt you can, but it’s late.”

“I’m a big girl.”

He shakes his head. “You really are trouble.”

“With a capital T.” I wink and scoot to the door. I look back at him. There’s something unreadable in his expression, even to me.

I pull his hoodie tighter. “Don’t fall in love with me, Klaas.”

I don’t wait for his response as I leave.