Page 17 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jade

I yank the sleeve of my oversized sweater down over my wrist, pretending I’m not checking my lips for the millionth time.

The lip balm I just smeared on gleams a little too much.

I swipe at it with my thumb. It’s just balm.

Not gloss. Definitely not something I put on for Drew Klaas.

I’m not that girl, and he’s not that guy.

We’re just … whatever we are, which is nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Wow,” Callie says from her bed, not looking up from her laptop. “That’s a lot of lip gloss for nothing .”

My ears burn. “It’s lip balm. It’s winter. My lips are dry.”

“Mm-hmm. And you just happen to be meeting a certain hockey player when your lips need the most attention.” She types something, then looks up with a smirk. “Interesting.”

“Don’t call him that.” I grab my navy-blue tote from the foot of my bed and shove my sketchbook inside. “And my lips need attention because I haven’t been drinking enough water.”

“So defensive.” She closes her laptop with a dramatic snap. “Just admit you’re dolling up for Hockey Boy. You’re wearing your cute sweater, your hair is curled, which happens approximately never, and you’ve reapplied that ‘balm’ twice.”

I freeze, my back to her, caught in the act of tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. How does she notice everything? “I’m not dolling up. I’m functioning as a decent human by not looking like I just rolled out of bed.”

“For your totally platonic trust exercise in the Art Building after hours?” Her voice drips with sarcasm as she air-quotes trust exercise . “What are you going to do, exactly? Make him pose naked while you sketch him from all angles?”

Fuck I wish. The mental image of Drew without clothes flashes through my mind, and I blink it away. “God, no. He’s stressed out. The guy lives on protein shakes and self-loathing. He needs a break.”

“And you just happen to be the one providing it?”

I rummage through my bag, pretending to look for something. “It’s not like that. You should see him during practice. He’s pushing himself too hard after his one-game suspension. So … I’m helping.”

And maybe I want to know what he thinks of my world when it doesn’t involve game footage or broken plays. When it’s just color and chaos and the kind of mess you don’t have to fix.

“By taking him to an empty art studio at night?” Callie arches an eyebrow. “Very selfless of you.”

“It’s quiet there. And Drew needs to do something with his hands that isn’t hockey related.” I find my keys and jingle them. “Like painting.”

“Painting.” She repeats flatly. “The guy who punched Roman Beaulier a couple of weeks ago because the dude got mad over him hooking up with his sister is going to paint ?”

My back stiffens. I knew the fight was over some girl, but I didn’t realize it was Sydney Beaulier.

Of course, Roman’s involved.

It’s always Roman, somehow. Always turning up in the wrong places, in other people’s mouths, like he never really left.

My throat dries. Hearing his name feels like a thumb pressed into a bruise I forgot was still healing.

I glance down at my hands and realize I’ve fisted the strap of my tote so tightly my knuckles have gone white.

“That’s why he needs this,” I say quickly, forcing the cool back into my voice as I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Look, I’m not trying to fix him or whatever. He just needs to remember there’s a world outside hockey.”

“And sleeping with you would definitely remind him of that.” Callie grins.

“We’re not sleeping together.” The heat behind my words startles even me. Maybe because it’s not just Callie I’m trying to convince. “But we did hook up once. At a club. Before I knew who he was.”

Callie’s eyes widen. “Get out. You’re just now telling me this?”

“It wasn’t important. I just needed to blow off some steam. Didn’t realize it’d come back to haunt me.”

She laughs. “Wow. No wonder he eyes you like he wants to eat you. Your boyfriend’s dying for another taste.”

“He’s not my—” I grab a small decorative pillow and throw it at her. She catches it with a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re transparent.” She hugs the pillow to her chest. Her voice softens, just a touch. “But I like seeing you care about something that scares you. Even if it does have abs and a grudge against joy.”

I flip her off as I head for the door. “Don’t wait up.”

“Wasn’t planning to!” she calls as I close the door.

In the hallway, I lean against the wall for a second and exhale. This is just me being nice. Drew needs someone who doesn’t expect perfection from him. Someone who’ll let him mess up paint on canvas instead of beating himself up over missed shots and wrong plays.

That’s all this is. Nothing more.

I’ve never been good at trusting people to stay. But tonight, I think I want him to.

I push off the wall and head for the stairs, ignoring the flutter in my stomach that suggests otherwise.

I push open the heavy door to the Art Building, catching it with my foot so Drew can follow.

He hesitates, shoulders bunched, moving like he’s bracing for a hit instead of just walking into a building.

The overhead lights catch in his still-damp hair, and his hockey bag is slung over one shoulder, making him look even more massive than usual.

He’s a total misfit here, hulking and broad among the easels and half-finished sculptures.

A bull in a China shop, except this bull moves with surprising grace for someone so solid.

“We’re technically not supposed to be here this late,” I say, flipping on the lights as we walk. “But I nabbed a key for my independent study.”

Drew scans the hallway, eyes snagging on a particularly abstract nude. “Pretty sure I’ve never set foot in this building before.”

“Exactly why I brought you.” I lead him down the corridor, past dark studios, and draped statues. “When’s the last time you did something that wasn’t hockey, protein shakes, or punching someone?”

His jaw ticks. “I don’t just go around punching people.”

“Tell that to Beaulier’s face.” I push into my favorite studio, the tiny one at the end with north windows. It’s mostly dark, just the glow from campus lamps outside. I turn on a single set of track lights, leaving the rest in a soft, shadowy half-light that feels way more intimate than I intended.

“That was different,” Drew mumbles and sets his bag down carefully, as if afraid the proximity might break something. “Beaulier had it coming.”

I set up two easels, side by side, and pulled out blank canvases. “Everyone always has it coming with you, don’t they?”

He doesn’t answer. He just stands there, hands awkward at his sides. I recall those hands on my waist that night at Beats, before I knew who he was, when he was just a hot stranger whose mouth tasted like cheap beer and something sweeter.

“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.