Page 23 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Drew

The scrape of my skates on the ice is all wrong today. Off-tempo. Off-balance. My body showed up for practice, but I left my head somewhere else entirely.

I dig in harder, forcing myself through the tight pull in my muscles and the heavier pull in my chest. The puck ricochets off my stick, wide of the net.

A curse slips out before I can choke it back.

Coach’s whistle blares across the rink, sharp and slicing, and all I can think about is how Jade tasted when I kissed her like a man losing a fight he never had a shot at winning.

Usually, the rink is my sanctuary. The place where everything else disappears.

Not today.

Not after last night.

Not when I can picture Jade’s blonde hair spilling across her shoulders with vivid clarity. The way her blue eyes locked on mine, not backing down like everyone else does. Her mouth, soft against mine at first, then hungry.

I shake my head hard, skating faster. Push. Push. Push. The cold air burns my lungs. Good. I need the pain to focus.

I grab pucks from the bucket and set up for shooting drills. My first shot goes wide. Embarrassingly wide. Not even close to the net.

“Come on,” I mutter, grabbing another puck.

This one hits the post with a clang that reverberates through the empty rink. Better. But not good enough. Never good enough.

The third shot is weak, easily saved by a ghost goalie. I grit my teeth, frustration building. My timing is off. My balance feels wrong. Everything that’s usually automatic suddenly takes effort.

I try again. And again. Each shot worse than the last. My breathing gets heavier as anxiety cools my thoughts. This isn’t me.

I don’t miss.

And I don’t fail .

The sound of a door opening breaks my concentration. Coach Howell steps onto the ice, clipboard in hand. Please don’t call me over. Not today.

Our eyes meet across the ice, and his stern expression makes my stomach drop. Fuck. Does he know? Can he tell I was with his niece last night? That I had her pressed against her dorm room wall, her legs wrapped around my waist as she whispered my name?

He doesn’t say anything, just watches as I keep running my drill. Every movement feels stiff, mechanical. Like I’m a rookie again, overthinking every step.

I try a more complex shot, aiming to roof the puck into the top corner. It misses by a foot, clattering against the boards.

Coach’s whistle pierces the space, sharp and accusing. “Klaas! What the hell was that?”

I skate over, keeping my head down. “Sorry, Coach.”

“You’re telegraphing every move. A blind goalie could read those shots.” He narrows his eyes, studying my face. “You sick?”

“No, sir. Just tired.”

“Tired?” He repeats the word like it’s in a foreign language. “You think scouts care if you’re tired? You think they’re gonna make excuses for you next week?”

“No, sir.” The words come automatically.

“Then fix it. Rerun the shooting drill. And this time, actually hit the damn net.”

I nod, skating back to center ice. My cheeks burn with shame. I never get called out. I’m Drew fucking Klaas. I don’t make mistakes.

Except I did last night. With Jade. His niece.

I set up again, trying to clear my mind. But every time I line up a shot, I see Jade’s face. Hear her laugh. Feel her hands on my skin.

She isn’t the mistake. The mistake is me caving to my desires and taking what I wanted. What we both wanted.

But how the hell do we navigate this?

The assistant coaches arrive, huddled with Coach Howell at the bench. They glance my way and bend their heads together, talking in low voices. Are they discussing me? Do they know I let a woman get under my skin? That I am more like my brother than I want to admit.

Sweat beads on my forehead despite the chill. I wipe it away with the back of my hand, riding a surge I can’t skate off.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

The locker room door bangs open, and teammates start filtering onto the ice. Ryan arrives first, always early. His eyes find me immediately, brows furrowing as he watches me miss another shot.

“The hell, Klaas?” he calls, skating over. “You practicing how to miss now?”

I force a smile I don’t feel. “Just warming up.”

He isn’t buying it. Ryan’s known me for too long. “Yeah, sure. And I’m just here for the ice bath.”

More players join us, spreading out across the ice for warm-ups. Easton nods in my direction, then does a double take, no doubt noticing how off I look.

Coach blows his whistle, gathering us for drills. “Partner up. Passing exercises.”

Ryan slides next to me, bumping my shoulder. “Dibs on the zombie.”

I roll my eyes, trying to act normal. “Shut up.”

The first passing drill is simple. Basic. Something I could do in my sleep. Yet somehow, I keep fumbling the puck, my passes either too soft or wildly off-target. Ryan compensates, working harder to corral my errant passes without saying a word. But his eyes ask the questions his mouth doesn’t.

Water break comes after thirty minutes of increasingly frustrating drills. I stand at the bench, chugging water, avoiding Coach’s gaze. Ryan skates over and leans against the boards beside me.

“Yo, Klaas,” he says quietly. “You look like you just rolled outta somebody’s bed. You good, bro?”

My water bottle freezes halfway to my mouth. Does he know? Has he guessed?

“Bad night,” I manage, shrugging. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Ryan studies me for a moment too long. “Uh-huh. Wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain blonde English major, would it?”

The water I’m swallowing goes down the wrong pipe. I choke, coughing violently. Ryan pounds my back, smirking.

“Take that as a yes,” he mutters.

“It’s not—” I start, but Coach’s whistle cuts me off. Saved by the drill.

Back on the ice, Coach’s eyes track my every move. I can’t shake the feeling he knows exactly why I’m off my game. Every time he looks my way, guilt slams into me like a cross-check from behind.

All this guilt, and I didn’t even fuck her. But man, I wanted to. I wanted to …

I push harder with each drill, desperate to prove I’m still the perfect player they expect. Still in control. Still worthy of the pressure they’ve placed on me. My sprints become faster, more reckless. My hits during the defensive drill are too aggressive, drawing surprised looks from teammates.

“Ease up, Klaas,” Easton mutters after I slam him into the boards harder than necessary during a one-on-one.

But I can’t ease up. If I slow down, the thoughts of Jade looking up at me with her swollen lips will return. I can’t think about the breathy way she said my name or the feel of her silky skin under my hands. She’s Coach Howell’s niece. My coach’s niece. What the fuck am I thinking?

The next drill is one-on-ones, focusing on attacking versus defending. When my turn comes to attack, I push off hard, determined to make this perfect and show them all I’m still Drew Klaas, future NHL star. Not some lovesick idiot risking everything for a girl.

I deke past the first defender easily, picking up speed. The second defender, Country, moves to cut me off. I should pull up and reassess. It’d be the smart play. The safe play.

Instead, I try to beat him wide, pushing my edges too far, skating too fast. I overextend, trying to reach around him with the puck.

My inside edge gives way.

For a suspended moment, I’m airborne, the world tilting sideways. Then comes the impact. My shoulder hit the boards first, followed by my head snapping back. The crash echoes through the rink like a gunshot.

Pushing too hard to prove you’re fine always ends the same way—flat on your back, wondering where you screwed up.

Pain explodes across my left side. The wind rushes from my lungs in a violent exhale. I lay sprawled on the ice, staring up at the ceiling as the world spins around me.

“Shit! Drew!” Easton’s face appears above me, concern etched in his features. “Don’t move, man.”

Coach’s whistle blares three times. Isn’t that the emergency signal? Fuck! That hurts. The scrape of skates echoes everywhere as the team gathers around. Embarrassment burns hotter than the pain. I’ve never wiped out like this. Never lost control.

“I’m fine,” I insist, already pushing myself up despite the protest from my ribs. “I’m fine.”

Coach Howell appears, his face unreadable. “Sit the fuck down, Klaas.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.” His voice leaves no room for argument.

Humiliation burns through me as the athletic trainer attends to my injuries. Once stabilized, we head to the locker room for a more thorough examination. It doesn’t take long for him to conclude what I already know, I’m fine. Physically, anyway. Mentally? That’s another story.

Biting back a sigh, I hit the shower and let the water rain on me. My behavior during practice was unacceptable. I have to get my shit together. This weird flux I’m in is driving me crazy. I can only imagine it’s the same for Jade.

I finish my shower and head to the locker room. Most of the team filters out, heading to morning classes. Ryan pauses by my stall.

“How’s the shoulder?” he asks.

“It’s fine.”

“Your head wasn’t in it today. Whatever’s going on with you and Jade…” He hesitates. “Just be careful, man. Coach is protective. You’ve already been sidelined once.”

My heart lurches. “There’s nothing?—”

“Ryan,” Coach calls out. “A word.”

“Save it.” Ryan claps me on my good shoulder. “Your secret’s safe. But figure your shit out before you break your neck next time.”

After he leaves, I sit alone in the locker room, staring at the floor. The silence presses in from all sides.

“Klaas.”

I jerk my head up. Coach Howell stands in the doorway, arms crossed. My stomach does a slow, sick turn. He gives a sharp nod toward the hallway, then pivots and walks off. Guess he expects me to follow.

I do. Of course I do. I always do what’s expected of me. Always follow the rules. Until last night.

We stop in the empty hallway. Coach turns to face me. His expression is hard and unreadable.

“I don’t know what’s in your head today.” His voice is low, but it carries a warning. “And I don’t care. But fix it before it costs you everything.”

I nod mechanically, giving him the appropriate response. The expected response.

“Scouts will be here during next week’s home game.” His arms tighten across his chest. “You want them to see what I saw today?”

“No, sir.”

“Then get your head on straight.” He pauses, studying me. “Nothing matters more than hockey right now. Nothing. Understood?”

The question hangs between us, loaded with unspoken meaning. If he thought this was about Jade, he’d say something, right?

“Yes, sir,” I say, because it’s what I’m supposed to say.

He holds my gaze a moment longer, then nods once and walks away.

As I stand and watch him go, the question hits me with devastating clarity—if having it all, the scouts, the contract, the future I’ve worked toward my entire life, means losing the chance to be with her, do I even want it anymore?

The thought terrifies me.

More than any hit I’ve ever taken on the ice.