Page 19 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Drew

Stale pepperoni, sweat-soaked hoodies, and whatever ungodly science experiment is mutating under the fridge fill the air. Welcome to the jock house.

I drop into the lumpy armchair, sinking so deep it might swallow me whole. My iPad rests on my lap, screen frozen on last season’s power play footage, but I’m not really watching. My eyes keep drifting to my phone. Still blank. Still nothing.

I won’t check her contact.

But my thumb hovers anyway, twitching like it’s got a death wish.

Easton and Ryan argue halfheartedly over a missed call from the game, which is playing muted on the television.

I couldn’t care less. Econ notes and protein shake bottles are scattered across the coffee table, casualties from our failed attempt at pretending we study.

Someone left a spoon in the peanut butter jar.

A sweaty pair of compression shorts dangles over the back of the couch like a war trophy.

You can tell the girlfriends haven’t been here in a while. Can’t say I blame them.

I shift in the recliner, unable to get comfortable, but it’s not the cushions. It’s the tension that’s been riding me for days, ever since the night Jade pulled me into her chaos and left me drawing in it.

The phone burns in my pocket. I pull it out again.

Still nothing.

“You’ll wear out your screen, man,” Easton says without looking away from the TV.

I lock the phone. “Just checking the time.”

“Yeah? What time is it then?” he fires back.

I swallow. “Late.”

Ryan snorts. “Jesus, you sound like my dad.”

I flick my iPad awake to keep my hands busy. The freeze-frame blurs in my vision. I should be analyzing the defensive setup. I should be preparing for our biggest stretch of the season. Instead, all I see is her.

Jade.

Her words have been on repeat. “You’re already enough, Drew. You just don’t believe it yet.”

It’s haunted me ever since.

A puck-shaped stress ball pelts me in the face. I pick it up and chuck it back at Easton without looking. “What the fuck, dude?”

He just grins. “We’re ordering another pizza. You in?”

“No,” I say, too fast. “Already ate.”

Ryan laughs. “Since when? You barely touched your food before disappearing after practice.”

“What are you, my mother?” I shrug like I didn’t forget. Like I didn’t lose my appetite somewhere between missing her and hating myself for it.

“Dude, someone has to be.”

“For real,” Easton says, eyeing me now. “You’ve been broody as hell. And not even the fun, dangerous kind. Just the sad, walks-alone-on-campus type.”

“Maybe he’s finally writing poetry,” Ryan adds. “We gonna find a sad boy notebook under your mattress?”

I scowl, flicking through the plays I’m not absorbing. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, sure. That tone really sells it.” Easton stretches, kicking an empty Gatorade bottle across the floor. “You’ve been ghosting everyone. Blowing off teammates, missing house parties?—”

“And skipping Friday rounds at Barton’s,” Ryan adds, mock-offended. “That’s practically a team violation.”

I shake my head. “Got other priorities.”

They both go quiet for a beat. I can feel them looking at me. Feel them adding it up.

Ever since the suspension, I’ve been different. Missing that game hit harder than I let on. Being benched while the guys battled without me … watching Coach’s expression when the clock ran out … seeing them win without me … cracked something loose inside me.

It wasn’t just an embarrassment. It was the realization that one wrong step, one distraction, and everything I was working for could slip away.

And now, that wrong step has a name.

Jade.

“Whatever. Figure it out.” Ryan sets his phone down. “Scouts don’t care about your mood. They care if you’re off your game. Which, by the way, you are.”

The words hit. Not because they’re mean, but because they’re true. My stats have dropped. My shots are missing the net. My passes are sloppy. Coach Howell pulled me aside after yesterday’s practice, his face lined with concern I didn’t want to see.

“Whatever’s happening off the ice? Fix it, Klaas. Before it follows you on.”

He didn’t say it, but I saw it in his face. The suspicion. The math he was doing in his head.

His niece. Me.

The late-night locker room sightings. The sudden drop in my stats.

“Maybe it’s the Coach’s niece,” Easton says, casual as ever, and my spine stiffens so fast it feels like whiplash. “Jade, right? The one you couldn’t stop staring at during practice?”

My pulse quickens. Air’s gone from the room.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I manage, but even I don’t sound convinced.

Easton just smirks. “Sure, you don’t. You’ve been acting like someone stole your dog and then slept with your girlfriend. Since neither of those things happened, the process of elimination says it’s Jade.”

I stare at the game footage until it all blurs together. “I’m just focused on impressing scouts. The NHL draft doesn’t care about my love life.”

“Maybe,” Ryan says, leaning forward. “But Coach does.”

He lets that hang for a moment, then adds, “Overheard him talking to Daniels. Said someone’s slipping. Said he’s watching.”

My gut twists.

Daniels.

The assistant coach who works directly with the defensemen. With me.

“It was me,” I admit, voice low. “It’s been me for a while.”

The room falls silent. Even the muted TV can’t cut the tension. I can’t sit here anymore. I stand too fast, my muscles locking up as I try to play it cool.

“Where are you going?” Ryan asks. “It’s almost eleven.”

“Rink,” I say, grabbing my duffel. “Need to work on my wrister.”

“You already practiced twice today,” Easton points out. “Morning skate and team practice.”

“Not enough.” I sling the bag over my shoulder like it’ll carry the weight pressing down on me. “Glove side’s weak. I need to fix it.”

Ryan and Easton exchange a look, and I pretend not to notice. It’s the same look they gave each other when I stayed an extra hour after practice yesterday. And the day before that.

“Drew,” Ryan says, his voice low. “You’re chasing ghosts, man.”

“I’m not trying to fix everything.” Just one thing.

Just her.

Jade did me a solid by forcing me to take time away from the sport. It worked, too. For a few hours, it was just the two of us, her and me, and paint. It was therapeutic.

It didn’t last.

“Sure feels like you are,” Easton says. “And if you keep this up, it’s not just your shot Coach will notice.” He pauses. “He’s gonna figure out who’s got your head spinning sideways.”

That lands hard because he’s not wrong.

And if Coach Howell finds out what I really want … I’m done. Not just benched. Branded.

“Can’t afford the time off.” I dig out my car keys. “Three NHL scouts at the game next week.”

I don’t give them time to answer.

I slam the door behind me and step into the night air. I head to my car, letting the quiet settle my thoughts.

But they land on one.

You’re already enough. You just don’t believe it yet.

And maybe that’s the problem.

I finally do believe it.

I can’t lose the person who made me see it.

Not now.

Not before it’s too late.