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

CHAPTER THREE

Drew

“Did Coach rip you a new one?” Blake, our captain, frowns, eyes scanning the locker room as if he’s gauging team morale. “We can’t afford this kind of heat, Klaas.”

“Benched.” I drop my gear with more force, the bag hitting the floor with a heavy, echoing thud. I plop my ass on the wooden bench, wincing as the bruise from that club night pulses, a sharp reminder of my screw-up. My jaw clenches, trying to shove down the heat creeping up my neck.

“Fuck.” Easton’s voice cuts through, a grin in his tone.

“Man’s acting like we lost the Frozen Four,” someone mutters.

“It was just one game.”

“Yeah, and we can’t afford to lose any of them,” Blake says, voice steady and calm. He’s the team’s moral compass, annoyingly accurate. “Focus up, or Colorado’s gonna bury us again.”

I glance around. Eyes on me. Some are sympathetic, some pissed, and some blank. I get it. My cockiness blew the game against our biggest rival, the University of Colorado. The same assholes who knocked us out of the playoffs last year and went on to win the Frozen Four.

“This is on me,” I say, jaw tight, fingers digging into my palms. “Won’t happen again.”

“Better not,” Jonas, better known as Country, says with a low laugh. “Not with Howell already on edge about his niece moving in.”

I peel off my damp shirt, the motion tugging at the bruise, making me hiss under my breath. Of course, someone brings her up.

“Wait, that’s real?” Easton perks up, like a dog hearing a treat jar. “Heard she’s wild.”

“Think we’ll meet her?” another guy asks.

“Don’t even look in her direction unless you want to skate with no balls,” Blake says, voice firm. “Coach was dead serious.”

I focus on unlacing my worn-out skates, pretending I don’t care. I do. But I can’t show it. Ryan’s still watching like a mother hen.

“Wild or not,” someone mutters. “not worth dying over.”

“Or getting benched for,” Ryan, my other roommate, adds.

The room shifts, uneasy.

I snort. “It’s not about her. I got into a fight. Big deal.”

“With our rival, dumbass.” Blake really can be annoying at times.

“And you hooked up with his sister,” Easton chimes in.

“Not like I knew ,” I say, shrugging. “She came onto me.”

“You told him, what was it…” Blake taps his lips with his finger before dead-eyeing me. “She went hard on you?”

I shrug. “Just telling the truth.”

Blake snorts. “You’re a dumbass.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.” I toss my skates aside like they personally offended me.

“Better watch it. Those things are barely held together.” Blake points at my tattered skates, wearing his signature smirk.

I grunt. But he isn’t wrong. Doesn’t change anything, though. These are my good luck charms. Way better than the new ones collecting dust at the back of my locker.

The room drifts back to low chatter, but I feel the glances. The judgment. The disappointment no one says out loud.

I lean forward, elbows to knees, sweat dripping from my hair onto the floor. My chest is still tight. Maybe it’s not just the practice.

It’s the weight.

The expectations.

The comparisons.

You’ll end up worse than your brother.

That one stings. Maybe Coach knew exactly where to aim.

Jake Klaas, the family legend, the golden boy who burned out faster than a cheap lighter.

The one everyone compares me to behind whispers of regret and loss potential.

And I’m the unlucky bastard wearing his name on my back, like a ticking time bomb.

I’ve spent years proving I’m not him. Not another cautionary tale. Not another fuck-up with a temper and something to prove. But lately?

Lately, I’m not so sure.

I wipe the sweat off my face, breathing slow.

No more partying. No more girls.

Focus on the future.

Or there won’t be one.

“Did you actually sleep last night?” Ryan asks, quieter than the rest. His voice is calm, but I can hear the real question, You good?

I nod, even though it’s a lie. “Yeah. Enough.”

He doesn’t buy it, but lets it go. That’s Ryan. He sees more than he says. Always has. Probably why Coach Howell trusts him like a son, and why he got picked up last season.

“Still can’t believe he benched you,” Ryan says after a beat. “You’re the best D-man we’ve got.”

“Doesn’t matter if I’m not on the ice,” I mutter. “Coach says jump, we jump. Or sit. Whatever.”

The truth is, I need that ice. It’s the only place I ever feel in control. Where the noise dies. Where it’s just the puck, the goal, and that rush in my chest that says I’m alive.

And now, to prove just how lucky I am, Coach is having me interviewed by his niece. But everyone knows this isn’t luck.

It’s punishment.

It’s Howell reminding me who’s boss.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s a test.

I don’t even know what kind of girl she is. Wild, sweet, cold, indifferent, it doesn’t matter. She’s off-limits.

Which means she’s dangerous.

Which means I’m already screwed.

Needing a shower, I stand, shove the thoughts aside, and make the biggest mistake of my life. I drop my pants.

“Holy shit, what the fuck is going on with your dick?” Ryan blurts. “Did you let some puck bunny autograph your stick with her teeth?”

Heads whip around. Silence hangs for half a second before the entire locker room zones in on me.

Exposed. A fat, dark purple bruise right on the tip of my junk.

Perfect.

I throw my arms out, like, here you go . “Told you she went hard.”

Laughter explodes. The whole room loses it. I force myself to act chill, even as heat crawls up my neck. It’s just a bruise. A massive, shame-stained one, but still. I won’t let them see that it gets to me.

“You weren’t kidding,” one of the forwards says. “That’s insane.”

“Dude, I think you’re supposed to use protection for that,” someone else jokes.

“If only Roman knew how hard his sister gave head, he wouldn’t have thrown the first punch.”

“Yeah, I think his sister left the bigger bruise.”

Guilt lands heavier than I expect. Her brother started it, but she’s the one taking the hit. And yeah, maybe she did know who I was. Maybe she wanted the fight. Still, blaming her for another girl’s work feels off.

“She got you good,” someone else says. “What’s her number?”

I shrug, pretending it doesn’t matter, but still wanting to protect Mystery Girl. Strange . “Thought she was just some random puck bunny.”

“Looks like a rabid one,” the transfer mutters.

Guys start crowding around, drawn by horror and curiosity.

“Damn, she fucking hoovered your ass,” Easton says.

Someone snorts. “Hoovered?”

Easton clarifies, “Like the vacuum cleaner.”

“That couldn’t have felt good,” Blake says, eyeing me like I’m a medical anomaly.

“She was getting off on it,” I shoot back. “It was … hot .”

No chance I’m admitting how much it hurts now. Should’ve cut the gin after round four. That numbing buzz? Gone. Regret? Full force.

Ryan’s face shifts from worry to relief. “That’s why you wanted an icepack? Dude, I thought you pulled something.”

“I’m fine,” I say. Then mutter, “Well, except for my dick.”

More cackling. The crude jokes keep coming.

“Never seen a hickey dick before.”

“That’s not a hickey dick. That’s hickey head .”

“Hardcore foreplay,” Country laughs. “She could’ve at least finished you off.”

“Pretty sure she did ,” a defenseman says. “Like finished you.”

The teasing snowballs. It’s relentless.

“Should we call the trainer? Or the fuckin’ coroner?”

“Do they make prosthetics for that?”

“I can’t believe he’s not limping.”

“How you gonna piss?”

“Does it hurt?”

I don’t even know which dumbass to answer. So I don’t. I just stand there, arms loose at my sides, letting them gawk.

My jaw tightens, but I manage a grin. “As much as you’d like to find out … don’t worry. It won’t fall off.”

More laughter. More noise. I try to tune it out, but it’s buzzing in my ears, too loud, too fast. All of it feels like high school again, dick jokes, bad decisions, and spiraling fast.

And I’ve seen where spiraling ends.

The laughter dies down as guys start heading for the showers, but Blake hangs back. He’s not grinning anymore. Great. I know that serious face. He’s about to drop some captain wisdom.

I brace myself, grabbing my towel. The last thing I need is a pep talk.

“Hey, Klaas.” Blake’s tone is so low, I doubt anyone hears. He jerks his head toward the corner by the lockers. “A word?”

I follow, my gut twisting. Blake’s been a Wildcat as long as me, but he knows the league history. Knows about Jake. Everyone does, but most are smart enough not to bring it up.

He leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Look, I get it. Blowing off steam after a loss. But that fight Saturday? Then disappearing on Sunday? It’s got shades of your brother all over it.”

My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into palms. “Don’t go there, man.”

Blake doesn’t flinch. “I have to. I watched Jake play when I was a kid. He was a beast on the ice. Faster than you, even. But off it? The partying, the fights, the girls … It caught up. One bad night, one stupid decision, and boom. Career over. Scouts walked away. I don’t want that for you.”

Heat rushes to my face, a mix of anger and shame.

I remember the headlines: “Klaas Crashes Out—Another Family Flameout?” It was almost like a premonition.

Dad’s calls after, drilling me: Don’t be like him.

Be better. The pressure hits like a body check, and I shove back against the locker, the metal cold against my skin.

“I’m not Jake,” I grind out, but my voice cracks. “One fight doesn’t make me him.”

Blake nods, but his eyes say otherwise. “Maybe not. But you’re pushing it.

Coach sees it too. That’s why the bench.

And if the scouts hear about the bar brawl?

They’ll see the name Klaas and think history is repeating.

” He claps my shoulder, firm but not pitying.

“You’re better than that legacy, dude. Lock it down before it locks you out. ”

He walks off, leaving me staring at the floor.

My chest tightens like it did when Dad called after Jake’s accident, his voice flat: “Don’t make the same mistakes.

” I slam my fist into the locker, quiet, controlled, but the sting doesn’t help.

Blake’s right. One more slip, and I’m not just benched. I’m buried.

I head to the showers that are thinning out.

“Hey, Klaas, does your insurance cover it?” The question starts another wave of teasing.

“Do you need insurance to get laid?”

“He’s not laid. He’s laid out .”

That’s it.

“Okay,” I snap. “Enough about my dick.”

They keep laughing anyway, and I fake a chuckle, playing it cool. But the second I turn away, the grin drops.

Fuck .

It did hurt. Still does.

I should regret it considering the outcome, but her enthusiasm was hot.

She took my cock like a champ. No intimidation.

Just deep-throated commitment that turned savage until the door exploded open, and everything went to hell.

Blue-balled and marked like a caution sign.

Worth it in the moment. Stupid in the light.

I stalk toward the showers, shoulders tight, jaw tighter. It’s not just the pain. It’s the way this whole thing feels like déjà vu.

This is exactly the kind of shit that got me benched back in high school. The drinking. The girls.

The kind of shit that wrecked Jake and why they passed on me during the draft.

I won’t forget the look on Dad’s face, disgust turning to disappointment, and then the heavy silence he never broke. The day he realized Jake wouldn’t make it. And that I might not either.

He looked at Jake like he was already gone.

Later that night, he was.

I twist the shower knob hard enough to crack bone. Water blasts down, drowning the locker room noise. Steam and heat wrap around me.

I lean my head against the tile and let the sting hit me because the truth is, I’m skating a thin line, and everyone knows it. This isn’t just about getting benched. It’s about who I’m becoming.

Jake had the talent, the drive, the legacy.

And he still lost everything.

I won’t be next. I can’t be.

If I have to bruise every inch of my body to prove I’m not him, I will. If I have to swallow every dumb joke, every whisper, every dig, I will.

Because when I’m back on that ice, I’ll be the one leaving bruises. The one lighting up the scoreboard.

The only hickey that’s gonna matter?

Is the one I leave on our rival’s net.