Page 2 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER TWO

Drew

Cold sweat beads on my forehead, stinging my skin as I leave the ice.

Coach Howell waits in the shadows, arms crossed, face unreadable but loaded with more meaning than he’ll ever say out loud.

We both know why he’s waiting for me. The clipboard in his hand taps against his thigh as I get closer, each smack like a countdown, the game clock winding down on my season.

“Saturday night.” That’s all he says at first.

I rip off my helmet, jaw clenching. My knuckles, still raw from the fight, rake through my sweaty hair. I try to catch my breath before he knocks it out of me again.

He jabs a finger into my chest. “What the hell is wrong with you? Saturday night was brutal.” He leans in, coffee and frustration thick on his breath.

I wince, the words landing like a check into the boards. My shoulders hunch, and I force my gaze to his shoes, the rubber floor slick under my skates. The fight, the bar, the girl. It’s all a blur of bad calls, and his voice cuts through every excuse I don’t dare make.

“You think this is funny?”

No. But I’m sure as hell trying to act like it doesn’t freak me out. The rest of the team snicker as they head to the locker room, eating up the show. I hate them right now. Almost as much as I hate myself.

“Your little spectacle made a fool of this team.” Spit collects in the corners of his mouth. He’s pissed. “You picked a fight. A fucking street fight.”

“I didn’t pick—” I start, but his glare shuts me up.

“We can’t have your name plastered all over the papers. We’re trying to keep the fight low-key, but the scouts? If they hear about this, you’re done. There are hundreds of other guys fighting for a spot.”

My balls shrivel up inside me, and it’s got nothing to do with the current condition of my manhood.

“You think you can just skate through the season like this?”

I stare at his shoes, keeping my mouth shut. My silence only pisses him off more.

“I asked you a question, Klaas!”

“No, sir,” I mumble, swallowing the bitterness in my throat. “Won’t happen again, Coach.”

“Damn right, it won’t,” he barks. “Benched next game. Hope your little fan club was worth it.”

The words punch me harder than any hit that motherfucker landed. But benched? He can’t bench me.

If I’m not playing, then I’m not winning. And if I’m not winning, I have nothing. “But sir?—”

“Get your act together, or you’re off the ice permanently.”

That gets me. I shift my weight. Pain shoots through my dick, and instead of focusing on my future, that crazy, hot chick from last night fills my head.

It was all good until it wasn’t. But isn’t that how it always goes?

The mark she left is a constant reminder that my life sucks.

I should care more about this meeting, but I’m too pissed.

At Coach. At my teammates. At that girl from Saturday night who started it all.

“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again.” That’s a damn lie.

No matter how much I push myself, I always need some relief.

This time, it just happened to be with our rival’s younger sister.

And then the girl from the dance club last night.

Maybe Coach is right. I should slow down.

Two girls in one weekend is a lot, even for me. Does it count if I didn’t blow my load?

“I need everyone one hundred percent focused this season. No exceptions.” His stare drills through me. “Least of all, you.”

His voice is low and fierce. I don’t answer. I can’t. The threat sits between us, heavy as the stink of the locker room. Benched? No. He wouldn’t really do it. He taps his clipboard, setting off warning bells in my head. But yeah, he just did.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I’m tired. More than tired. I shift, but my feet slide a little on the rubber floor. Another jolt of pain shoots from the tip of my dick, and I almost whimper. I shut it off and rein in my grimace.

He glances down at the clipboard. “And despite everything, you show up late to practice today.”

Not that late. Maybe half an hour. But late is late, and Coach doesn’t need to say more. I’m screwed. Completely screwed.

My fingers dig into my palms, remembering the feel of the other guy’s shirt as I swung him into a wall. The crunch of my knuckles into his jaw. Negative attention is the last thing I need right now, and I should’ve been able to stop myself.

“Do you even care about this season?”

I flinch. I fucking care more than he knows.

That’s why I was out there just now, beating the shit out of myself even with my dick throbbing like a goddamn drum.

That’s why I did three more sets of sprints.

That’s why I couldn’t breathe after the game Saturday night.

I had to go somewhere, anywhere, to blow off steam.

Had to feel like something more than just a disappointment. I say none of this.

“It won’t happen again,” I finally manage. My voice sounds weak. Uncertain.

Coach grunts. “Yeah. You’re damn right it won’t. You’re lucky I’m not cutting you completely.”

I rock back on my skates, biting back a gasp. That’s twice in five minutes he’s threatened to cut me, and the word echoes louder than the Zamboni as all the energy drains from my body. He’s serious.

I stay quiet, letting him think I’m a lazy, reckless piece of shit because arguing won’t change his mind.

He knows my dad’s counting on me not to mess this up, and he still stands there, arms crossed, beyond frustrated.

But that isn’t what gets to me. Nope. It’s the hint of pity buried deep in his gaze.

“Is this about the new kid?” I ask, teeth gritted. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Maybe Coach wants to give him ice time and get me out of the way.

Coach Howell just stares at me. I stare back. There’s no give in his face. He taps the clipboard again. My hands clench and release. Clench and release.

“We’ve got enough problems to solve without you running wild,” he says.

The corridor spins, and I’m not at the bar after the game.

I’m back at the club, lights flashing and bass pulsing through my veins.

The girl’s lips on my ear, promising things I shouldn’t have listened to.

I tried not to, but her body pressed against mine did things.

Made me lose control. One more drink. One more hour. One more stupid decision.

I shove the thought away.

“How long am I benched?” My voice shakes, trying to ignore the pain shooting through my cock.

“That’s up to you,” Coach says.

It feels worse than getting hit on the ice. Worse than getting hit Saturday night. I have to know. I have to see if he’s serious. “Next game?”

“You think I’m bluffing?” He glares, shaking his head again. “Consider this your last warning. No game against Austin State. Maybe more if you keep this shit up.”

I stare down at my feet, heart thumping. I worked too hard to blow it like this. To be like my brother Jake. I need to reassess what I’m doing and lock it down.

Coach’s shoes squeak against the rubber as he turns to go. I’m not ready for him to leave or stand here alone with nothing but the sound of his words in my head.

He stops.

“Cut it out, Drew,” he says. “Or you’ll end up worse than your brother.”

I grimace. He isn’t fucking around, going right for the kill. My whole chest tightens, but my fists clench tighter.

I don’t even hear myself. “What the fuck do you know about my brother?”

He’s calm when he answers, and I hate him for it. “Enough.”

It takes all my energy not to snap again. I’m sick and dizzy with it. It’s as if I’m still on the rink, skating laps until I fall over.

But my mind won’t stop. I can’t stop. Not until everything stops spinning. Not until the rage stops eating through me. Not until I fix this.

I don’t say another word, only nod. It seems to be enough as he turns to leave.

“As for coming into practice late, congratulations. You just became the lucky one my niece gets to interview.”

I groan, half hoping he had forgotten my tardiness. “Sir.”

“Be here tomorrow morning. Seven sharp.”

Great. Just what I want. An interview with the coach’s niece. The one he specifically told us to keep our hands off. Not that that would be a problem. No fucking way would I risk my chances any more than I already have.

But an interview? Last year was a disaster with the Rumor Has It article. No one wanted to land on that section. I heard they killed it. Maybe it’s back, and I’m the first victim.

Shaking my head, I head for the locker room.

I shove open the door, Coach Howell’s words still stinging in my ears. They cling to me, all hot and suffocating like sweat that won’t dry.

The guys look up from their benches, mid-laugh, mid-text, or mid-whatever the hell. Conversations cut off like someone had hit mute.

It’s time to pay the piper.

That piper being my teammates.