Page 13 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Drew

The locker room is nearly empty, with most guys showered and gone by now.

Thank fuck. The last thing I want to do is talk to people.

Practice was a shitshow. I missed a read on their forward, and let a puck slip through on a breakout.

Coach’s glare burned worse than the sprints he made me run after.

This happening on Fan Appreciation Day makes it worse.

More people watching, more chances to notice how far off my game is.

I’m zipping my gear bag when my phone buzzes. Dad’s name lights up the screen. Fuck. I could let it go to voicemail, but he’ll just call again, angrier. I step into the hallway’s dim light and answer.

“Hey, Dad,” I mutter, already bracing.

“Watched the practice feed,” he starts, no hello, no warmth. “That breakout in the third? You froze. Left a gap their guy could’ve driven a truck through. What the hell was that?”

My jaw clenches, teeth grinding. I forgot they live-streamed practice during this day. “It was one play. I recovered.”

“Didn’t look like it.” He pauses, and I can hear the disappointment. “Jake used to choke like that. Got cocky, lost focus, and tanked his shot. You know that.”

My fingers crush the phone, plastic groaning. Jade’s face flashes in my mind, her smirk in class, challenging me to keep up. I shove the thought down. She’s a distraction, a risk I can’t take. “I’m not Jake,” I snap, but my voice shakes, betraying the fear crawling up my spine.

Silence, thick and heavy. Then, his voice grows colder. “You’re my last chance, Drew. Don’t throw it away like he did.”

The call cuts off. I stare at the dark screen, my reflection warped in the glass—Jake’s jawline, his eyes, staring back like a ghost. Jade’s laugh echoes in my mind, and I wonder if no distractions means losing something I’m not ready to let go.

My fist twitches, begging to smash something, but I jam the phone in my pocket instead.

The weight of his words presses down, heavier than the gear slung over my shoulder, as I head toward the exit.

I need to get things under control before teammates start noticing. I snapped at Country when he asked if I was okay, telling him to mind his own game. Total dick move. I’ll apologize tomorrow. Maybe.

My jaw aches from clenching it for the past two hours. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, drilling into my skull like ice picks. Despite the hallway being nearly silent, everything feels too loud, too bright, too much.

It doesn’t help that there’s been radio silence from the scout.

Bastard.

At least he didn’t torch me in a write-up like what he did to my brother.

Small victories, I guess.

And just like that, Sunday night is back in my head.

Jade across from me in her dorm, her knee brushing mine.

The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was lost in thought.

How she laughed at something I said. A real laugh, not a fake one.

Her hand on mine when we reached for the same pen.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Block it out. Focus, idiot. She’s off limits. A distraction. The kind I don’t do.

“Yo, Klaas. You planning to murder that bag, or what?”

I look down. My knuckles are white, gripping the handles so hard they’re about to rip. Easton stands in front of me, gym bag slung over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in that knowing way of his.

“What do you want?” I mumble, stepping around him.

“Just checking if you’re still with us.” He steps in line beside me. “Did Jade reject your thesis or your heart, bro?”

My head snaps to his. “What?”

“You’ve been broody since Sunday.” He smirks. “Which is impressive because broody’s your baseline.”

“I’m fine.” I keep walking. “Just tired.”

“Uh-huh.” Easton doesn’t miss a step, keeping pace. “So it’s a coincidence you’ve been acting like someone pissed in your protein shake ever since you spent all Sunday working with her?”

“We’re just working on a project.”

“Right.” Easton nods slowly. “That explains why you nearly took Country’s head off when he asked about your study date.”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Sure, Klaas.” He side-eyes me. “And I’m not the best-looking guy on the team.”

I let out a huff. “Can we drop it?”

“Fine.” He raises his hands in surrender. “Just saying, you might want to figure out what’s got you so worked up before Coach benches you for real.”

I clench my bag tighter and push open the door, not bothering to check if Easton follows. He does, of course. Three years as teammates, he’s immune to my moods.

The night air is warm as we step outside. The parking lot is mostly empty, just a few cars scattered under the yellow glow of security lights. Campus is dead at this hour. For once, I’m grateful.

“You missed passes tonight that you could make blindfolded,” Easton says, breaking the silence. “Half the team noticed.”

I shove my hands into my pockets. “I had an off night.”

“You’ve had a few of those lately.” His voice loses its teasing edge. “You used to play like you had something to prove. Now it’s like you’re scared to prove it.”

I don’t answer. What am I supposed to say? That he’s right? That something’s off inside me, and I don’t know how to fix it.

“Jade was in the stands tonight,” Easton says, too casual.

My steps falter. “What?”

“Yeah, showed up about halfway through practice. Sat in the corner with her notebook.” He shrugs. “Thought you might’ve noticed.”

“I didn’t.”

“Funny. You looked distracted as hell.” He stops walking, forcing me to stop too. “Thought you didn’t do distractions.”

“I don’t.”

Easton studies me in the half-light. I look away, fixating on a flickering streetlamp.

“Sometimes,” he says slowly, “the truth is camouflaged even in plain sight.”

“There’s no truth to see.” I start walking again. “She’s just a class project.”

“Right.” Easton catches up in two strides. “And I’m just a mildly talented forward who got lucky.”

We reach my Jeep. I dig for my keys, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave. He doesn’t.

“All I’m saying is that whatever’s happening, or not happening, with you and Jade, it’s screwing your game. And you’re too good to let that slide.”

My mind flashes to Jade’s vision board from our project. The lighthouse on a rocky shore. “Something that doesn’t break under pressure,” she’d said. Her sketchbook full of messy brilliance. The warmth in her voice when she said “all in.”

She wants big things. Real things like stability and clarity. Stuff I’m not sure I can give. And Coach? He basically told me to stay away from her and focus. Don’t screw this up.

What could I offer her besides another reason to run?

“Just don’t wait until it’s too late to figure out what you actually want,” Easton says, backing away. “By the way, I saw Callie at the last game.”

My head snaps up. “Your ex was there?”

“Yeah, but she cut out before the game was over.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“No.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but I know it does.

“Did she transfer here?”

“Don’t know.” He looks uncomfortable. “Oh, one more thing. Blake thinks you’re losing your edge.”

“Great.” Just what I need. More people noticing my slipping performance.

“Later, man.” Easton gives a lazy salute and turns toward his car.

I watch him go, and then climb into my Jeep and sit. I don’t start the engine. The parking lot is nearly empty now. Just me and my thoughts, the most dangerous combination lately.

I grip the steering wheel. The shadows from the lights cut across my face, distorting my reflection in the rearview mirror. I barely recognize myself.

Hockey has always been my anchor. The one constant when everything else fell apart. Where the rules made sense, effort equaled results, and I knew exactly who I was supposed to be.

Now, some blonde writer with sharp blue eyes and a sharper tongue has me second-guessing everything.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, already knowing who it is before the name appears.

Jade: Finished my part of the analysis. Let me know when you’ve reviewed it. I’ve got ideas for the presentation that won’t put the class to sleep.

I stare at the message, my thumb hovering. I should reply. It’s just about the project. Professional. Simple.

But I don’t trust myself right now.

What scares me isn’t screwing up the project. It’s how much I want to see her again. How her text makes something in my chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with hockey or grades or anything I should be focusing on.

I drop the phone onto the passenger seat.

The truth hits me like a blindside check:

I don’t know what I want. But I know how she makes me feel. And that’s starting to matter more than I want it to.

I rest my forehead against the steering wheel and close my eyes. Tomorrow, I’ll reset. Lock it all down. Focus on what matters.

But tonight, alone in this dark parking lot, I can admit, to myself, that maybe what matters is changing.