Page 52 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

I lean into him, taking in our small kitchen with the mismatched chairs and faded light streaming through the tiny windows.

My neck cramps from hunching over the laptop, so I look up and stretch.

And see the vision board leaning against our wall.

Except now, it’s a collage of dreams we actually dared to share.

My Paris sketch sits in the top corner, quick lines of the Eiffel Tower with two silhouettes underneath.

A glossy photo of a packed hockey rink, clipped from a combine program, where Drew got his shot with the New York team, is next to it.

Then, there is a cutout of the Manhattan skyline glints below, his dream of making it big in the pros, right beside a quaint bookstore, torn from an art magazine.

And my favorite: a photo of this apartment, exposed brick and all, with Drew at the stove, caught mid-pancake-flip last Christmas, totally unaware I was watching.

The board is equal parts embarrassing and essential. Like most things about us.

I tilt my head, studying the vision board from a new angle.

My “Hockey Players Beware: I Bruise More Than Egos” shirt is slung over the chair, abandoned after last night’s shower.

The black fabric and bold white letters was a gag gift from Callie, post-Drew’s public declaration at the game.

I wore it to practice. Uncle Rick nearly had a coronary.

“You’re staring at it again,” Drew says, breaking into my thoughts.

I turn. He’s watching me, that half-smirk on his lips.

“Just making sure the universe gets the message,” I say, stretching my arms over my head. “Visualization is powerful, Klaas.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. “Right. Because cutting up magazines and glue-sticking them to foam board is how adults plan their lives.”

“Says the guy who literally makes lists for everything, including how to love me properly.”

His cheeks flush. Six months later, and he still gets embarrassed about that list. It’s adorable.

“That was different,” he mutters, planting a kiss on my neck.

“Sure it was.” I push away from the table and walk to the board, tapping the gallery photo. “This week’s showing at the Carter Museum has the same vibe. Just saying.”

Drew glances over his shoulder. “Subtle.”

“About as subtle as you leaving that workout schedule on my pillow last week.”

“That was for your benefit.” He points the spatula at me. “You said you wanted to ‘get swole’ for summer.”

“I said I wanted to carry my own camera equipment without breaking a sweat. Those are different things.”

“Semantics.” He shrugs, but the corners of his eyes crinkle.

This is us now. The banter is still there, but the edges have softened. The barbs still fly, but they’re cushioned with something new. Trust, maybe. Or the certainty that neither of us is going anywhere.

I trace a finger over the Manhattan skyline on the board. Drew’s dream, pinned right next to mine. We’d talked about New York late one night: him skating in front of screaming crowds, me signing books at a packed store. Two futures, tangled together, no longer separate.

“Think we’d kill each other in a place that small?” I nod at the skyline.

“Probably.” He stalks to where I stand. “You’d leave your art supplies everywhere. I’d organize them when you weren’t looking. You’d retaliate by rearranging my protein powders alphabetically instead of by function. Total disaster.”

“Yet here we are.” I gesture around our apartment. Bigger than the one in the photo, but just as lived-in. My sketches tacked up next to his game schedules. My art supplies in labeled bins he bought “just because.” His meal prep containers stacked beside my chaotic tea collection.

“Your exposed brick apartment has a serious pest problem,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me to him.

“What pest?”

“Hockey players. Very invasive species. Terrible roommates.”

I snort. “Good thing I have pest control strategies.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Extensive research on the species.” I run my hand down his chest. “They respond well to certain stimuli.”

“Such as?” His voice drops, heat flaring in his eyes.

I let my hand slide down to his abs, skin still electric from the memory of last night’s tangle of limbs and laughter and sweat-slicked skin. “Protein shakes. Slow jazz. And, for the really stubborn ones, impeccable blowjobs.”

Drew’s eyes go dark, the shift instant and impossible to ignore. He licks his lower lip, amusement gone, replaced with something dangerous and familiar in the best way. He leans in, hands braced on either side of me against the wall, boxing me in.

“I remember that research,” he murmurs, voice low. “Your sample size was impressive.”

“Still is.” I tilt my head, daring him to close the gap.

He does. Not with a kiss. Instead, he drags his teeth along my jaw, just hard enough to make me gasp. One palm splays across my lower back, yanking me flush to him, and now I’m the one humming, but it’s a high, involuntary sound that’s more a whimper than a song.

“Tell me,” he says, the words rough, “what’s the next step in your experimental protocol?”

I loop my arms around his neck, barely keeping my balance. “Controlled environment. Consenting adults. No interruptions.”

He grins, all alpha and mischief, and with one swift move scoops me up, bridal-style, toward the bedroom.

We barely make it past the threshold before he sets me down, hands roaming from shoulders to hips, mapping every inch of me like it’s the first time, or maybe the last, and my knees hit the mattress.

He tugs my T-shirt off, not bothering to unbutton it, just peels it up and over like he can’t bear to wait one second longer.

The air is warm, but his hands burn hotter where they glide over my skin, thumbing the line of my ribs, then the waistband of my shorts.

I shuck them off without a fight, panties following, because why pretend?

Drew looks at me like he’s taking in a piece of art.

Full-body, focused, reverent, and hungry at the same time.

He kneels at the edge of the bed, palms on my thighs, and pushes my legs wider, spreading me open with a gentle insistence that makes me arch into the touch.

The rawness in his gaze wrecks me; it’s never been just about sex with him, but holy shit, does it ever start there.

He drags his thumb up my inner thigh, stopping just shy of where I want him, and huffs a laugh when my hips buck. “You’re always so impatient.”

“Pot,” I gasp, “meet kettle.”

His smile is wolfish. He leans in, breath hot against my skin, and presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, then another, working his way up until his lips hover just over my clit.

The anticipation is torture, and he knows it.

His tongue darts out, the first flick barely a tease, and the sound I make is embarrassing, but who cares?

He licks again, this time slower, applying pressure, drawing lazy circles around the spot that already aches for him.

I thread my fingers through his hair, clinging, needing something to anchor me while my body vibrates under each flick of his tongue.

He’s relentless, alternating slow, torturous licks with fast, focused ones.

He’s mapping me, learning the new micro-reactions every time I twitch or gasp.

Drew has always been a fast learner, but what he does to me is more than muscle memory. It’s obsession.

He pauses, glances up. His pupils are blown, his lips slick. “Hands on the headboard,” he rasps.

I scramble upright, bracing myself. He slides my hips to the edge, and his mouth returns in a rush.

My thighs tremble around his head, and if he notices, he only grins harder against my skin, tongue and lips working together, bringing every nerve ending to the surface.

I’m already close. Pathetic, maybe, but it’s been a day, and I’ve been watching him all morning, back muscles rippling, jaw sharp, body moving with so much purpose that it’s like foreplay in motion.

I want to tell him this, but I can’t find words, just a babble of gasps and moans.

Then his finger is inside, curling, finding the spot in me that cracks everything open.

“Fuck, Drew. Don’t stop,” I beg, and he doesn’t.

He’s got one hand on my stomach to keep me from bucking off the bed, the other pressing deeper, matching the rhythm of his tongue until my body fractures under his mouth.

The orgasm is fast and hard, a crash that starts in my core and radiates out in hot white flashes through my vision.

My grip on the headboard turns my knuckles numb.

I half-sob, half-laugh, shuddering while he keeps working me, never letting up until I’m wrung out and twitching, pushed so far past the threshold I don’t even recognize my own noises.

Eventually, I collapse back, panting, brain emptied like a shaken Etch-a-Sketch. Drew crawls up beside me, all cocky satisfaction and damp hair, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You want to talk about sample size? Because I really think you should let me replicate those results.”

I try to glare at him, but my body is still melting into the mattress, so the best I manage is a lazy smile. “You’re such a nerd.”

He tugs me onto his lap, straddling his hips, and his cock is already hard against my thigh.

He’s still got his sweatpants on, but the waistband sags dangerously low, and the evidence of how much he wants me is impossible to miss.

I palm him through the fabric, feeling him twitch and swell even more. The power in it is heady.

He pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion, then lifts me to peel the sweats away, leaving nothing between us.

The way he looks at me—hungry, a little awestruck, barely contained—makes my skin fizz all over again.

He runs his hands up my sides, thumbs grazing under my breasts, and it’s almost too much. Almost.