Page 9 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER NINE

Jade

I tap my pen against my notebook, pretending to pay attention as Professor Martinez drones on about our upcoming assignment in Media Class. Any second now, she’ll drop the bomb about our semester project.

My gaze drifts, completely against my will, to Drew’s back.

His broad shoulders stretch the seams of his navy Cessna Wildcats hoodie, muscles shifting every time he moves.

His dark hair is still damp probably from some ungodly early-morning workout.

Of course, he’d hit the gym before an eight a.m. class. Perfectionist.

Which is probably why he was late.

He strolled in after the class started, but somehow, Martinez let it slide. Being a Wildcat must grant you immunity from basic classroom rules.

Figures.

I force my eyes back to my notes, ignoring the flutter in my stomach that I refuse to acknowledge. Sure, we had a moment in the corridor, but that was pure proximity and lack of caffeine. Nothing more.

As for me showing up at practice? Strictly for the article. That’s what I keep telling myself. I didn’t expect to see how hard he pushes himself. Or how much he gets in his own head. There’s a story there, and I’m just doing my job. That’s all.

I huff, doodling a jagged line. This is ridiculous.

I don’t care about Drew Klaas, his insane workout routine or the way he sits so straight, like someone jammed a hockey stick up his ass.

I already secured a partner. Hannah, the blonde next to me who takes meticulous notes, is perfect.

She’s safe, quiet, not a walking distraction with amber eyes.

No way I’m getting stuck with Drew for weeks.

“For your semester projects,” Professor Martinez cuts through my thoughts, “you’ll analyze the psychological factors that define you as a person, using media as your lens.

” Her glasses perch on her nose as she flips through a stack of essays.

Our preliminary assignments from last week.

I went hard on mine, arguing the media’s power lies in raw, messy emotion, probably because Uncle Rick pushed me into this class to “channel my energy” after my supposed meltdown.

Journalism’s my ticket to staying on his good side.

Martinez clears her throat. “I’ve paired you for this project based on your essays. Some of you see media as a tool for truth; others, a stage for human chaos. Those contrasts make for dynamic collaborations, so I’ve matched you to spark debate.”

My stomach sinks. Assigned partners? Since when do college students get assigned partners? I glance at Hannah, who clicks her pen nervously. Please let it be her.

Martinez starts reading names. “Hannah Ellis and Randal George.” Hannah’s shoulders slump, and she gives me a small, apologetic smile. Damn it.

I doodle harder, waiting, my pen carving swirls that might be Drew’s jawline. Get it together, Jade.

“Jade Howell and Drew Klaas,” Martinez says.

My pen snaps, the crack loud in the quiet room. Heads turn, including Drew’s from the front row. His eyes lock on mine, a flicker of surprise breaking his stoic mask before it settles back. I glare, but my pulse betrays me, thumping like I’m back in that club bathroom, his hands on me.

Martinez continues, oblivious. “Jade, your essay leaned into the media’s emotional pull.

Vivid, personal, and a bit chaotic. Drew, yours was methodical, arguing for objective, data-driven reporting.

You’re opposites, which is why you’re paired.

I want to see how you reconcile those perspectives in your project. ”

I sink lower in my seat, heat crawling up my neck, my sketchbook already open with rough headline drawings.

Drew’s jotting notes in a neat grid, his pen moving with surgical precision.

Opposites? That’s an understatement. Me, the girl who thrives on chaos; him, the guy who probably color-codes his protein shakes.

This is a nightmare. I catch Drew’s eye again, and he’s still looking, his jaw ticking like he’s as thrilled as I am.

Great. Stuck with Mr. Hockey-Is-My-Life, who skips study groups but aces tests, who trains so hard his teammates call him nuts.

And those arms, shifting under his shirt every time he moves. God, stop it, Jade.

“Your first milestone is due in two weeks,” Martinez says, snapping her binder shut. “Exchange contact information with your partners before you leave.”

Chairs scrape. Bags zip.

Hannah leans over, her voice low. “Tough break. Klaas is hot, but I hear he’s kind of a dick.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” I lie, shoving my notebook into my bag with more force than necessary.

She snorts. “I’m sure you’ll find out. Though I heard he’s been dodging parties since some chick gave him hickeyhead. Maybe he won’t be too obnoxious.”

My face burns, and I duck to grab my dropped pen. Hickey head? My tequila-fueled mistake has a nickname? Fuck.

“I don’t even want to know what that’s about.” I play it off and shove the rest of my stuff into my bag. “I can handle myself.”

“Never doubted it,” Hanna says, heading out.

Drew’s talking to some football player, probably another athlete with a hall pass for tardiness. The guy laughs, claps Drew’s shoulder. Drew’s lips twitch, almost a smile. I’ve never gotten that close to a smile from him. Not that I’m trying.

I linger by the door, scrolling my phone to avoid him. He glances up, says something to his friend, and heads my way. His walk is all control, every step measured. Years of training, I guess.

“So,” he says, stopping a safe distance away. “Guess we’re partners.”

His deep voice is deeper than I remember. It throws me off, and I blink, scrambling for casual.

“Guess so,” I reply, aiming for indifference. “I’m Jade.”

His mouth slants downward, but his eyes stay steady. “Think I know who you are by now.”

I smirk, letting the silence stretch. Students push past us, eager to escape.

“We should exchange numbers,” I finally say.

He nods and pulls out his phone. His clean, minty scent hits me as we swap, and I refuse to notice how close he is. Our fingers don’t touch. It’s like he’s careful, avoiding a penalty.

“When do you want to meet?” he asks, pocketing his phone.

I shake the thought off. It doesn’t matter.

“I have a Thursday deadline for the paper,” I say. “Friday?”

He shakes his head. “Practice.”

Of course. Practice. When isn’t he practicing? Saturdays are out due to games.

“Sunday?”

“Film review.”

Jesus. “Do you ever take a day off?”

Something like annoyance flickers across his face. “No.”

I sigh. “Fine. Sunday evening?”

“Seven works. Library.”

Not ‘Does seven work for you?’ Just a statement. Typical.

“Fine, but I think my dorm would be better.” At least until my roommate shows up. It’s not like Coach would approve of his precious player sneaking into his niece’s dorm. One wrong move and I’ll be the reason Drew’s benched—or worse.

He hesitates. “Given our situation with your uncle, do you think that’s a good idea?”

I shrug, caring less about what my uncle thinks. “It’s where my vision board is.”

“Your what?”

“Vision board.” I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it. Just be at Jasmine Hall, Room 378, at seven.”

The classroom is empty now. The flickering fluorescent light casts weird shadows on his face. He looks tired. Human. Not the perfect hockey machine everyone thinks he is.

“Good luck with the game Saturday,” I say, not sure why I’m offering encouragement.

His expression shifts minutely. His jaw tightens. His fingers flex on the backpack strap, knuckles white for a half-second. “You coming?”

He says it flatly as if it’s just business. Something twists in my gut. I shove it down. No use getting worked up over this asshole.

“To write about it, yeah.”

He nods, but his eyes get intense. Almost like a fear, which seems impossible for Drew Klaas. He’s always so controlled and confident on the ice.

Like yesterday at practice. I watched from the bleachers as he stayed after everyone else left, running one last drill until my uncle yelled at him.

He looked like someone trying to outrun something invisible. And suddenly, I wasn’t sure if he was a perfectionist … or just afraid to stop moving.

The memory makes me uncomfortable. Like I saw something I wasn’t supposed to. Something that contradicts the arrogant image I’ve constructed of him.

And there it is again—that pang of empathy. I’m trying my best not to care, but I don’t know the weight he carries.

“I should go,” he says, shifting his backpack higher. “Need to review some plays before class.”

“Right,” I say. “Hockey never stops.”

His eyes meet mine, and for once, I can read him: surprise. Like he didn’t expect me to understand.

“No,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t.”

He walks away without a goodbye. I watch him go, tall and straight-backed, parting the crowd. People move for him, like he’s got his own gravity.

I hate that I notice the muscles in his back. I hate that I’m curious about what drives him. I hate that I’ve spent the entire morning thinking about him when he probably hasn’t thought about me once.

Most of all, I hate that despite all my protests, there’s a part of me, a traitorous, inconvenient part, that’s looking forward to Sunday at seven.

Sunday at seven. Not a date. Not a distraction. Just a grade.

But when he looked at me like that … I wasn’t sure who I was lying to anymore.