Page 10 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER TEN

Drew

I sit alone in the locker room corner, lacing my lucky skates with the same pattern I’ve used since I was ten: left skate first, three loops through each eyelet, double knot with precisely one inch of lace remaining.

My shoulder twinges from that fall a while back, but I grit my teeth, focusing on the tape’s edges.

The upcoming game looms, but that’s not what’s getting to me.

Nope. It’s Dad’s last call, his voice sharp: “Don’t choke like Jake.

” I check my skates, laces taut, then my pads, adjusting them twice, like one wrong knot could unravel everything.

Blake slaps his locker shut, his captain’s stare landing on me. “You good, Klaas?” His voice is low, cutting through the chatter of teammates lacing up.

I nod, jaw tight, but my fingers fumble the tape, a rare slip. “Fine.”

He leans against the locker, arms crossed. “You’re checking your gear like it’s gonna betray you. Relax. You’ve got this.”

“Easy for you to say.” I rip the tape, the sound sharp. “Scouts are out there. One bad play, and I’m done.”

Blake’s eyes narrow, not unkindly. “You’re not your brother. Stop skating like you’re proving it.”

My chest tightens, and I slam my stick against the bench, the crack echoing. “I’m not Jake,” I snap, louder than I mean to. Heads turn, but I don’t care. The pressure’s a vice—Dad’s expectations, Coach’s warnings, Jade’s face in the stands, her trust I can’t afford to lose.

“Then don’t act like him,” Blake says, voice steady but firm. He claps my shoulder, the sore one, and I wince, masking it with a grunt. “Get out there and play your game, not his.”

I nod, swallowing hard, and grab my helmet, the weight grounding me.

The crowd’s roar filters through the walls, a reminder of what’s waiting.

I’m not just fighting for the win tonight.

I’m fighting the shadow of a name I can’t escape, and the fear that one wrong move could cost me everything. My shot, my future, and her.

“Yo, Klaas! Catch!”

“Twenty minutes, gentlemen!” Coach Howell’s voice cuts through everything. Standing in the doorway, he scans the room until he finds me. His face gives nothing away, but I know what he’s thinking. We share the same thought: Don’t be Jake.

He’s not just my coach. He’s the one who stepped in when everything fell apart after Jake’s failure. The one who believed in me when no one else did. The one pushing me to succeed, knowing how much it means to my family and our future.

No pressure.

“Circle up,” Coach Howell says, his voice steady, controlled.

Twenty-four sweaty bodies form a rough circle. I stand slightly apart, not touching anyone, focused on Coach’s face.

“Elmwood is undefeated this year.” Coach looks at each of us. “Tonight, that changes. They’re bigger, but we’re faster. They hit harder, but we’re smarter.” His eyes stop when they reach me. “This is your shot. Make it count.”

The words land like a physical weight on my shoulders. Not “our” shot. “Your” shot. Does everyone know he’s talking to me?

Someone slaps my back. I flinch.

“Hands in,” Blake says.

Twenty-four hands pile in the center. Mine is cold despite the locker room heat.

“Wildcats on three. One, two, three?—”

“WILDCATS!”

The sound explodes around me as I mouth the word silently.

The ice gleams under arena lights as I skate out for warm-ups. Each push and glide is measured and precise. I’m not wasting energy on flashy moves or speed drills. I need to save everything for the game.

The stands are filling up. Section 103 is halfway full. Row G is almost complete. Seat 8 is still empty.

Focus. Breathe.

I tap my stick against the goalposts, left, right, and crossbar. Another ritual. Another armor piece against failure.

When the puck drops for the first period, I’m ready. My mind calculates angles and trajectories with machine-like precision. I block a shot with my shin, clear the crease with a sweeping check, and position myself between Elmwood’s star forward and our goal.

“Klaas! Loosen up!” Coach Howell barks from the bench.

I register his voice but don’t look over. My shoulders are too tight. My turns too sharp. I’m playing robotically, effective but rigid. The scout arrives halfway through the first period and settles into his seat with a small notebook. I pretend not to notice.

I glance toward the bleachers, but my gaze doesn’t land on him.

It lands on her.

Jade sits halfway up, pen tapping her notebook, and eyes locked on the ice. On me.

She sees too much. I look away first.

The buzzer sounds. Period one: scoreless.

Back in the locker room, Coach makes adjustments and talks strategy. I nod at all the right moments, but his words blur together.

Don’t choke. Don’t be Jake.

The voice is louder now, drowning out everything else.

“Klaas.” Coach pulls me aside as the team files back out. “Get out of your head. Play your game.”

“Yes, sir.”

He grips my shoulder, his fingers digging in slightly. “I wouldn’t have put you on the ice if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

Second period starts stronger. I’m flowing better and thinking less. Then it happens. A routine play, a simple clear. Except my pass goes straight to Elmwood’s center.

Time slows down.

The center takes the puck and breaks away. It’s just him and our goalie now. I’m chasing, legs burning, and lungs screaming. Too slow. Too late.

He shoots.

Our goalie blocks it with a miracle save.

The crowd roars, but the memory of the crowd six years ago booms louder. Booing. Jeering. Jake skating off the ice, head down, career over after three turnovers in five minutes.

“Klaas! Get your head in the game!” Coach’s voice cuts through the flashback.

My pulse thuds louder than skates against ice. Every pass feels like a test, and every second feels like a countdown to potential disaster. The scout makes a note in his book. My stomach knots. Is he writing down my turnover? My mistake? Or does he even care?

The second period ends. Score’s still tied. Momentum’s theirs, and that’s on me.

Coach doesn’t single me out in the intermission talk. Doesn’t need to. His eyes say everything when they meet mine across the locker room.

Third period. My legs feel heavy as I take the ice.

The scout has moved closer to the glass. His almost white hair glows against his dark jacket, but his face remains expressionless. The same scout who watched Jake crash and burn. The same one who wrote the report that led to that fateful night between Dad and Jake.

Pressure surges, hot and fast. I nearly miss a line change, scrambling over the boards at the last second.

Ten minutes left. Still tied.

The puck comes to me. I try a breakout pass, but it’s too fancy and forced. It’s intercepted. Elmwood transitions and presses toward our goal.

I recover, racing back into a defensive position. Their forward fires a shot. I drop to one knee, extending my stick.

The puck deflects off my blade, high into the netting.

The whistle blows.

Coach calls me to the bench. "Simple plays, Klaas. Stick to the system.”

I nod, gulping air.

Back on the ice.

Five minutes left.

The puck battles intensify. Bodies slam against boards. Sticks clash. I’m in the thick of it, fighting for every inch of ice.

Three minutes left.

Blake wins a faceoff and slides the puck to me. I spot an opening, a lane to our wing, Ryan. I hesitate for a split second. What if I’m wrong? What if this is another turnover?

I make the pass anyway.

It connects perfectly. Ryan breaks away, dekes the goalie, and scores.

1-0 Cessna.

The crowd erupts. My teammates mob our scorer. I hang back, relief washing over me.

Elmwood pulls their goalie with a minute left. Six attackers against our five. They press hard. A shot comes from the point. I block it with my body and feel the puck smash into my ribs. Pain explodes through my side, but I clear the zone.

The final buzzer sounds. We win.

My teammates throw their gloves up and pile together at center ice. I join the celebration peripherally, going through the motions. We form the handshake line, but I move through it in a daze.

The scout is gone from his seat. I scan the arena but can’t find him. What did he see? What did he write? Am I Jake 2.0 or something else entirely?

The locker room vibrates with victory. Music blasts, while the guys whoop and holler.

“We just took down the best team in our division,” Country yells.

“Hell, yeah!” Ryan tosses his gear down and turns to me. “Celebration at Barton’s. You in?”

I run my hand through my sweat-soaked hair. “Not tonight.”

“What?! Why?” His hands actually land on his hips as if scolding me.

“I need to stay focused.”

“You won’t get into a fight. Not tonight.” Blake tries to reassure me, but I answer with a shrug.

“You haven’t been out since your suspension,” Ryan says, pointedly.

“Is it fear of getting into trouble or afraid of hickey head?” This comes from someone in the background.

A collective groan ripples through the locker room, and I take the opportunity to slip to the showers. The quicker I get dressed, the faster I can escape. I won’t subject myself to that scrutiny again.

I’m about to step on the cold tile when Easton stops me.

“Seriously, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“It’s just … You’ve always been serious, but you’d also let loose. Hell, you’ve always been the life of the party.”

“Until it cost me.” My jaw sets, fists tightening around my towel. It’s easy for Easton. He doesn’t want to go pro. But for me, I don’t want to do anything else but play.

“I get it. I just … I don’t know, man. I hate seeing you this way.”

“I’ll be fine.” I tilt my head, smirk sliding into place. “But thanks for caring.” My mocking tone wipes the concern from his face.

“Asshole.”

“There’s my guy.”

“Fine. I’ll back off.” He shakes his head. “But quit brooding. You had a great game. Teams would be idiots not to include you in the combine this year.”

Yet, they’ve passed me by for the past three years.

I shower quickly and change even faster. My ribs throb where the puck hit them. I’ll have a bruise tomorrow, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is whether I did enough.

I slip out while the celebration continues and find a quiet hallway near the rink. The stands are mostly empty now, and the maintenance crews are already at work. I lean against the concrete wall and close my eyes. My chest heaves, not from exertion but from fear finally catching up to me.

What if I’m not good enough? What if I never escape Jake’s shadow? What if Coach Howell’s faith was misplaced?

“You look like you lost instead of won.”

I snap my eyes open. Jade stands a few feet away. Her blonde hair and blue eyes catch the fluorescent lighting.

“Just getting some air,” I say, straightening up, wincing at the pain in my side.

“Bullshit.” She steps closer. “You played great. Why are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding.”

She raises an eyebrow. “So you regularly skip victory celebrations to stand alone in empty hallways?”

I don’t answer. Don’t know what to say.

“You blocked that last shot with your body,” she says. “That took guts.”

I shrug. “It’s the job.”

“Is the job also beating yourself up after a win?” She leans against the wall next to me, close but not touching. Her warmth drifts in my direction, calm and grounding. “Everyone’s talking about how clutch you were. Everyone except you.”

I study the floor, the scuffs on my shoes, anything but her face. “They didn’t see the turnover in the second. They didn’t see how close we came to losing because of me.”

“But they saw everything else.” Her voice softens. “What did that feel like? The win?”

I start to deflect the way I always do when someone gets too close to what’s really going on. But something in her expression stops me. She’s not asking to make conversation. She genuinely wants to know.

“Honestly? Relief.” The word comes out before I can stop it. “Just … relief that I didn’t blow it.”

She nods like she understands, though how could she? She doesn’t know about Jake, the scout, or everything riding on tonight. She sees the hockey player. The hothead. But something makes me think she sees a lot more.

“My uncle talks about you, you know.” She picks at a thread on her sleeve. “Says you’re the most talented player he’s coached, but you’re so afraid of making a mistake that you never play freely.”

The observation hits too close to home. I bristle. “Coach should worry about the team, not my mental state.”

“He worries about both.” She meets my eyes. And when she does, a weightlessness settles in my chest. It’s as if she’s not just seeing me but understanding me. “And for what it’s worth, I get it. The pressure. The fear of fucking up when it matters most.”

“Do you?” The question comes out sharper than I intended.

“I do,” she simply says. “But Drew, I hope you know you’re more than a stat line.”

Six words. That’s it. But something in me settles. Not because she believes in me, but because she sees through me, past the performance, past the mask, and doesn’t flinch.

And damn it, I feel it. The space between us tightens and charges with something I don’t want to name. Want is the wrong word. Need is worse. It’s just … connection.

She shifts slightly, brushing my arm with hers. A tiny spark ignites as her gaze lingers longer than it should.

I should say something. Step away. Push down whatever this is.

Instead, I say, “Thanks.”

She nods. “Sure. But for the record? That wasn’t Jake’s game out there tonight. That was all you.”

I freeze. “How do you?—”

“Coach mentioned it. The whole Jake thing.” She shrugs. “He worries you’re carrying a weight that isn’t yours.”

She turns to leave, then pauses. “I overheard there’s a party at some bar called Barton’s if you decide actually to celebrate instead of overthinking.”

“You going?” There’s always a celebration at Barton’s after every Wildcat win. The bar caters to us.

She shrugs. “Don’t know. Guess you’ll have to show up and find out.”

Trouble with a capital T.

I watch her walk away, my thoughts scrambled. The dread doesn’t press as heavily on my chest. The voice in my head is silent for the first time all night.

In its place, six quiet words:

You’re more than a stat line.