Page 20 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Jade

The media lab door groans when I push it open.

I’m late, but the only person who’d care is already inside.

Drew sits hunched over his laptop, the blue-white glow slicing harsh shadows across his face.

Of course, he’s early. Of course, he’s already working.

That’s Drew Klaas for you, always trying to prove something, even if it’s just to himself.

His head jerks up at the sound, those brown eyes narrowing before recognition kicks in. I pretend not to notice how his shoulders relax when he sees it’s me.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” he says, clicking something on his screen.

“Yet here I am. A woman of mystery.” I drop my bag on the floor with a thud.

The room is dim. Most overhead lights are off, just a few desk lamps throwing puddles of yellow over the workstations. It’s late, and the campus beyond the windows is dark except for the odd security light. The air feels heavy, the kind that settles right before a storm. You can almost smell it.

“You could’ve started without me,” I say, pulling up a chair.

“Tried. Couldn’t get the audio levels right.” Drew doesn’t look at me when he says it. He hates admitting defeat, even the small kind.

I kick off my sneakers and prop my feet on the edge of the desk, deliberately messing with his organized chaos. A tiny rebellion, but I can’t help myself. Drew’s eye twitches, but he says nothing.

“Saw you score the game-winner from the blue line,” I say, reaching for his laptop. “Not bad for someone allegedly off his game.”

My fingers brush his as I grab the mouse. He doesn’t pull away fast enough, and there it is, that jolt of awareness that never quite disappears between us—a hum just under my skin.

I focus on the project timeline on the screen, pretending I don’t feel it.

Drew leans over my shoulder, close enough that I catch his minty-clean scent. His breath grazes the edge of my neck, and goosebumps race down my arms.

“You watched?” A smirk plays on his lips. Not a full smile, Drew Klaas doesn’t do those, but this is real.

I shrug, aiming for casualness and missing by a mile. “I needed background noise while I sketched. You just happened to be loud.”

“Right.” He draws out the word, not buying it for a second. He shouldn’t.

We settle into an easy rhythm, working on our media studies project.

“So, what did my uncle say about your shot?” I ask. No way am I admitting how many times I scrolled through footage of Drew on the ice, but I couldn’t stop. His movements are fluid, even in slow motion.

“That I got lucky.” Drew reaches past me to adjust something in the edit. “And that I need to be quicker on my defensive transitions.”

“He said that after you scored the winning goal?”

“He said it because I let my man get past me twice in the second period.” His jaw tightens. “He’s right.”

Classic Drew. Even when he wins, he finds the flaws. I want to tell him to lighten up, but that’s not how this works between us. Not yet.

As I edit, I open my sketchbook beside the keyboard, doodling between adjustments. It keeps my hands busy while my brain chews through editing problems. Drew watches my pencil move, tracking the shapes and shadows.

“You still do that,” he says softly.

I look up. “Do what?”

“Draw when you’re thinking.”

I close the book, suddenly self-conscious. How did he even notice? “Bad habit.”

Drew shakes his head. “You ever think about doing it for real? I heard Cessna has an excellent art school.”

“I’m not trying to be an artist.” I push the book away.

His eyes narrow. “But you’re always sketching. I see you in the…” He stops himself. “You’re always sketching,” he repeats.

I stare at the screen, watching the timeline blocks stack up. The cursor blinks, waiting for my next command.

“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.”

“You really believe that?”

“I do.” And I mean it. For all his flaws, Drew has never lacked determination.

He leans in, voice dropping. “You ever write characters afraid to want what they shouldn’t?”

I turn to face him, our faces now inches apart. “All the time. There’s something hot about wanting what you can’t have.”

His eyes drop to my mouth, and my body naturally tilts toward him. Control frays to threads. If he kisses me, I won’t stop him.

The space hums with an unspent yes. I can count his eyelashes, see the tiny scar above his right eyebrow that he told me was from a childhood fall, and smell the coffee on his breath.

He doesn’t pull away. His voice is rough. “If I start, I won’t stop.”

“Coach said no distractions,” I whisper, even though I’m the distraction now, and he’s mine.

The reminder is enough to break the moment. Drew pulls back, his jaw tight.

“Right,” he says, looking anywhere but at me.

Smooth, Howell. Nothing kills the mood like bringing up your overprotective uncle.

“But this doesn’t feel like a distraction,” I add softly.

Drew’s eyes meet mine again, darker now. “No. It feels like the only thing that makes sense.”

The tension hangs between us as I grab my phone and stand. My legs shake. I need space to breathe, to think.

I glance at the window. Fat drops of rain start hitting the glass, smearing the yellow security lights. The storm’s here.

“I should probably head out before the rain turns biblical,” I say, trying for lightness.

Drew stands too, close enough that if I reached out, my fingers would brush his chest—the very hard chest I want to trace with my hands. “Let me walk you out.”

“No need.” I back toward the door. “I like the rain.”

“I don’t like you walking across campus alone.”

“I’ll be fine. Seriously. Don’t follow me like last time. Besides, we have our voice-overs to do.”

He grumbles, not liking it, but he knows I’m right.

“And one more thing,” I say, trying for normal. “When you record your ‘deep reflections,’ try not to sound like you’re narrating a TED Talk.”

Drew’s mask slips back into place, and he’s once again the controlled, focused athlete I know. “I’ll try not to cry into the mic.”

I pause at the door, looking back at him. The distance between us feels both vast and nonexistent.

“You’d be surprised how powerful honesty sounds,” I say, more softly.

I leave, feeling Drew’s eyes on me as I walk away. In the silence of the hallway, I exhale. My control wobbles, so I palm the wall and breathe.

Behind me, Drew’s chair creaks as he turns back to the desk. The clicking of keys resumes. He’s working as if the moment never happened.

The storm’s outside now, but the wreckage is happening in here.