Page 34 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Drew

I run my fingers along the edge of the tape, pressing it firmly against my stick. The locker room buzzes with pre-game chatter and nervous energy, but the rapid thump of my heart drowns it out.

Colorado.

Roman’s team.

After the last text he sent Jade, my skin feels too tight, like I’m barely holding something dangerous inside. I focus on the ritual, tape, smooth, repeat, while my teammates laugh and toss gear around like we’re here for fun, not war.

Blake chucks a roll of athletic tape at Ryan, who catches it one-handed without glancing up from his phone. They’re talking about some hanging at Barton’s after the game, but I tune it out. I can’t afford to let myself get distracted. Not tonight.

Coach Howell’s warning from Sunday echoes in my head: “Keep your head in the game, Klaas. I know you’ve got history with Beaulier, but I need you to play clean. One suspension, and you can kiss your spot on the team goodbye.”

He only knows half of it. He doesn’t know that Roman’s text to Jade last night wasn’t just trash talk. It was calculated. Manipulative. The kind of message that makes me want to drive my fist through a wall. Or through Roman’s face.

And that rage? That’s exactly what I have to keep locked down. I will not become my father or brother.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking about, push it aside.” Blake drops onto the bench beside me, fully geared up except for his helmet.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. You’ve been taping that stick for ten minutes.”

I glance down. He’s right. I’ve wrapped so much tape that the blade looks like a mummy.

“I’m good.” I rip the excess off with my teeth.

What isn’t good is the look Jade had after receiving Roman’s text. She tried playing it off, but I could tell he got to her. I don’t take well to people messing with my girl.

“You don’t look good.” Blake leans closer, lowering his voice. “You look like you’re gonna murder someone.”

I grunt, not trusting myself to speak. The less I say, the less chance I’ll admit how close to the truth he is.

“Keep your beef with Beaulier under control,” Blake continues, “leave it in the locker room. We need you focused.”

“I’m focused.” The words come out sharper than intended. I shove my water bottle into my bag with more force than necessary.

Blake holds his hands up. “Just checking. Captain’s duty and all that.”

The whistle blows. Coach Howell stands in the doorway, clipboard in hand, face set in its usual pre-game intensity.

“Let’s go, gentlemen! Ice in five!”

My teammates whoop and holler, slapping each other on pads as they file out. I stay behind a moment, closing my eyes and breathing in the familiar locker room smells. I need to contain this. Channel it. Play clean, play hard, and pretend Roman doesn’t exist.

Yeah. Right.

The ice is perfect tonight, fresh and fast. The first period starts with a clean face-off, and I immediately slip into the game’s rhythm.

Skate, check, pass. My body knows what to do even when my mind wants to veer off course.

I keep my head down and my plays simple.

No risky moves. No fancy footwork. Just clean, physical hockey.

Between shifts, I scan the stands. Three rows up from the media section, Jade sits with her journal, blonde hair tucked behind her ears, and blue eyes locked on the ice.

She catches my gaze and offers a tight smile.

Something in my chest loosens just enough that I can breathe, at least until my next shift.

Roman hangs back during the first period. Smart. He knows I’m waiting for him. His team plays dirty, though, with cheap shots when the refs aren’t looking and sticks that somehow find their way between skates. I take it all, letting the little jabs fuel me without letting anything ignite.

The buzzer sounds. The first period ends 0-0.

I’m halfway to the bench during a line change when Roman’s voice slices through the buzz, just loud enough for me to hear.

“You like going after what’s mine, huh? She’s a nice piece of ass, isn’t she?”

My jaw clenches hard. I keep skating, one foot in front of the other. Don’t engage. Don’t even look.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he adds with a laugh.

I slide onto the bench, breathing hard. Ryan shoots me a concerned look, but I stare straight ahead at the ice. One. Two. Three. I count my breaths, forcing oxygen in, forcing the anger to simmer instead of boil.

Second period starts rougher. Colorado comes out swinging, pissed about our defense. I’m sharp and focused, playing some of my best hockey. When I hit the bench, Coach Howell nods approvingly from the bench.

Then it happens. Roman nails Easton with a brutal hit, slamming him into the boards. The crowd gasps as Easton crumples to the ice. The ref’s whistle shrieks.

My vision narrows. All I see is Roman’s smirk as he skates away. My knuckles go white around my stick. One wrong move, one quick cross-check when the ref isn’t looking, and I could wipe that smirk off permanently.

But Coach Howell is watching. So is Jade. It takes everything I have to swallow the fury and help Easton up instead.

“You good?” I ask as he wobbles.

“Yeah.” He spits out his mouthguard. “Bastard caught me off guard.”

The penalty gets called, two minutes for boarding. Roman skates to the box, looking bored. Our power play unit takes the ice, and I force myself to focus on the game, not on the asshole sitting in the penalty box watching me like he’s already won.

When play resumes at full strength, Roman lines up close for a face-off. His voice is quiet, meant only for me.

“Guess you’ve figured out she likes it rough. You think you’re the only one who’s had her up against a locker?”

My insides crack. Not breaks, not yet, but a definite fracture. My stick twitches in my hands, an involuntary tell that I’m close to swinging it.

But I skate away. Somehow, I put distance between us before I do something I can’t take back. From the bench, Coach Howell gives me an approving nod. He thinks I’m showing discipline. He has no idea that inside, I’m already bleeding.

The second period ends with us up 1-0. Blake scores a beauty, and our bench erupts. I barely celebrate, too busy holding the storm inside my chest. Coming out of the break, I catch Jade’s eye across the rink. She looks worried. Probably because I look like I’m about to lose it.

Third period. The tension in the arena has ratcheted up ten notches. Everyone senses that something’s about to blow between our teams. The hits get harder, the plays more aggressive. I match it all with clean, ruthless efficiency. It almost works. Almost.

Twelve minutes in, Roman skates near the media section where Jade sits. I watch from across the ice as he slows, says something, and gestures toward her. I can’t hear the words, but when her face hardens and shoulders tense, my insides snap.

The smart move is to skate away. Go back to the bench.

But when she flinches and that bastard grins…

I choose violence.

The distance between us disappears in a blur. I drop my gloves before I even realize what I’m doing.

“You like taunting your exes?” His gaslighting messages still burn in my chest.

“Do you hate that I got there first?” He spreads his arms, like he’s the king of the whole damn arena. “That I always arrive first?”

The implication burns deep, but this isn’t about us or hockey. This is about the way he makes her feel.

“Leave Jade alone.”

He smirks. “Why? She’s ruined goods.”

My fist answers.

I launch myself at him, all two hundred pounds. We hit the ice in a tangle of limbs and fury. My fist connects with his jaw before he can even get his arms up.

“Fucking bastard!” The words rip out of me as I land another punch.

“She was damaged goods before I got hold of her,” he spits out.

He bucks and lands a shot to my ribs that knocks the wind out of me. We roll across the ice, the cold biting into exposed skin where jerseys have pulled loose. I taste blood. Damn it. My lip must be split.

The crowd roars, the sound swelling until it’s all I hear. I’m vaguely aware of teammates and refs closing in, but all I see is Roman’s face, all I feel is the crunch as my knuckles connect with his nose. Blood spatters the ice.

He spits blood at my skates, still grinning like he’s won.

But I see her face in my mind, Jade, humiliated, cornered, and hurt.

That’s what he wanted. To reduce her to that again.

The ice is a blur of blood as Roman’s fist grazes my jaw. He leans in. “You’re nothing, Klaas. She left me, and she’ll ditch you too, Wildcat hero.” His words burn with regret and envy, like I’ve stolen his shot at Jade and the spotlight.

I didn’t steal anything, and this bastard knows it. “This is for making her feel like shit, motherfucker.” My fist drills his face, and bones crunch. Blood pours from his nose.

Whistles shrill, refs diving in, their shouts—“Klaas, stop!”—lost in the chaos.

Hands yank my jersey, dragging me back. Two refs grip my arms, their boots scraping as they haul me toward the tunnel for ejection.

Roman’s Colorado teammates swarm him, his nose and lip bleeding, eyes blazing with the same jealousy he spat at Jade in those texts.

Blake’s there, his captain’s grip tight on my shoulder, still sore from that fall weeks ago, making me wince, the pain a sharp anchor.

“Cool it, Drew!” Blake snaps, his voice cutting through the rink’s din, all responsibility now.

Skates clash, sticks clatter, and the Cessna crowd erupts, wild cheers for me, boos raining on Roman, and a few gasps from the stands where Jade might be watching.

A knot of Colorado fans chants “Beau-lier!” their voices sharp, fueling the rivalry.

My gut twists as I picture Jade’s face, those eyes that see too much, and the ones I’m terrified I’ve failed again.

The refs shove me off the ice, my skates dragging, the tunnel’s shadow swallowing me.

Roman’s glare follows, his torn jersey screaming rival, and the weight of my actions crashes in.

Scouts are up there, pens ready to write me off, and Coach Howell’s stare will be ice-cold.

My breath catches, heart pounding, not just from the fight but the fear this could be it, the moment I become Jake, the screw-up who lost everything.

A Cessna fan yells, “You showed ‘em, Klaas!” but a Colorado voice counters, “You’re done, Wildcat!” The words sear worse than Roman’s fist. My knuckles sting, fists clenched, as I’m pushed toward the locker room.

The rink fades, and the lights become too bright, crowd too loud.

I’m left with the truth: I fought for Jade, but also because I’m scared I’ll never be enough.

Not for her, not against a rival who can’t let her go.

The crowd comes into focus, though it’s not a good thing. Coach Howell glares daggers at me. Across the rink, Jade stands frozen, horror etched on her face.

That’s when I catch sight of Dad standing there, either mad or proud. I can’t tell.

The ref’s verdict is immediate. Game misconduct. Ejection. Suspension likely.

Venom floods my veins as I head toward the locker room, ripping off my helmet and throwing it against the wall. The clatter echoes through the suddenly hushed arena. The locker room tunnel feels miles long. Each step takes me further from the ice, but the rage doesn’t fade.

Once I’m out of sight, I slam my fist into the concrete wall. Pain shoots up my arm, but it’s not enough. My stick is still in my hand. I smash it against the wall, the blade splintering, matching the feeling inside my chest.

“That was stupid.” Easton’s voice comes from behind. He must have followed me off the ice. His hand clamps my shoulder, spinning me to face him.

I shrug him off, still breathing hard. “He had it coming.”

“Maybe. But Coach is going to murder you.”

I nod once, the first hints of regret seeping in. Not for hitting Roman. He deserved it. But for what it might cost. My spot on the team. The team’s momentum. Jade’s respect.

“What did he say to you?” Easton asks.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Easton studies me, eyes narrowed. “Must have been something about Jade.”

I don’t answer. Don’t need to. He knows me well enough to read my silence.

We stand there in the quiet of the locker room, the muffled sounds of the game echoing from the arena. My heartbeat gradually slows, the red haze fading. My knuckles are raw, bleeding slightly. My lip throbs.

“You’re starting to look like you regret it,” Easton observes.

“I don’t,” I say automatically. Then, quieter, “Not yet.”

The locker room door bangs open. Coach Howell storms in, face a controlled mask that’s scarier than outright yelling. He stops directly in front of me, close enough to watch the muscle twitching in his jaw.

“You’d better pray the NCAA doesn’t hand you down a suspension.”

Silence.

“You think this is what Jake would’ve done?”

The words hit harder than any punch I threw tonight. Because I know that answer. He would’ve done exactly what I did. And maybe for the first time, I see things through Jake’s lens. Perhaps it wasn’t his recklessness that ended everything.

It might have been his integrity.

Because when it comes to Jade? There’s no line I won’t cross. No consequence I won’t face. Anyone who hurts her deals with me.

I meet Coach’s gaze, refusing to look away even as the full weight of what I’ve done starts to settle. Blood from my lip has dried in a tacky line down my chin.

“Sir—” I begin.

“Not now.” He cuts me off with a sharp gesture. “Get cleaned up. We’ll discuss your future with this team tomorrow.”

He turns to leave, then pauses. “Whatever he said, whatever he implied, I hope it was worth it.”

“I was serious back at your house. She comes first. I’ll always protect her.”

There’s a slight softening to his hard stance as the realization of how serious I am hits.

That bastard won’t trash Jade.

I won’t allow it.

No matter what it costs.

The locker room door slams behind Coach, and silence settles in the aftermath. My pulse is still hammering. My fists ache.

But the adrenaline’s fading now. And what’s left behind is worse.

My chest clenches at the memory of Jade’s face as she stood in the crowd, frozen. The horror in her eyes.

She didn’t look proud.

She looked scared.

Not of him.

Of me.

And that? That’s what wrecks me. Not the blood on my lip. Not the bruise swelling on my ribs.

But the idea that I just became another reason for her to flinch.