Page 36 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Drew

The door to Barton’s swings open, and I step into the chaos like it might swallow me whole. Everyone’s celebrating. We won. I should be celebrating too.

Instead, I feel like I just buried something I’ll never dig back up.

The televisions are set to basketball games, and for once, I’m glad it’s not hockey. The wall of sound coming from the crowd should feel like victory, but it doesn’t. My split lip throbs with every heartbeat, and my raw knuckles scream when I shove them into my pockets.

Three hours since I tried to cave Roman Beaulier’s face in, and I still can’t wash away the red mist from behind my eyes.

“Klaas! My man!” Easton slaps my back, his grin stretched wide. “That right hook was fucking poetry. Beaulier’s gonna be drinking through a straw for a week.”

I grunt something that passes for acknowledgement. The crowd parts for us, for me, like we’re royalty. Or maybe they’re just afraid. Hard to blame them. I’m not sure I trust myself.

Blake slides up to my left, two beers in hand. “Here. Looks like you need this.”

I take it, my fingers curling around the cold glass automatically, but I don’t drink. Just hold it like a prop while my eyes scan the bar, searching for blonde hair that isn’t here.

The bartender nods at me from behind the counter. I recognize him from last semester’s history class. “The usual?”

“Whiskey. Neat.” The words come out without thought. Dad’s drink. Jake’s drink. The Klaas men’s solution to everything.

Drew quirks an eyebrow. “Beer not strong enough?”

I shrug.

The amber liquid appears in front of me. I lift it, breathe in the sharp, familiar scent. One sip burns all the way down, and I set the glass back on the bar, untouched after that.

Jake’s voice echoes in my head. Nothing kills the noise like whiskey, little brother. The night before he wrapped his car around a tree. Three fistfights during the game. Five whiskeys deep after arguing with Dad.

I push the glass away.

And then there was him.

I spotted my dad in the stands during warmup. He was tucked up near the edge in one of the VIP seats he never bothered to tell me he’d gotten. No wave. Just a look. Cold. Measuring.

I didn’t think about it again until I caught sight of him after the fight, standing at the top corner of the stands, arms folded. Not yelling, not shocked. Just … done. He was already turning away before the refs even blew the whistle.

I checked my phone after the game. One message. Just one.

“Real smart. Scouts were in the building, and you pulled that shit? Grow up.”

No concern. No, are you okay? No, what happened?

Just disappointment, crisp and impersonal.

I haven’t answered. Don’t know if I ever will.

I slip my phone from my pocket and open the two texts from Jade:

Jade: You alive?

And then, like a knife between my ribs:

Jade: You don’t have to protect me, you know. I’m not going anywhere.

I swear I hear her voice when I read it. Soft, stubborn, warm. And it guts me. Because she’s wrong.

I couldn’t even protect her from me.

My throat tightens. She doesn’t get it. This isn’t about protecting her. This is about me being exactly what I’ve always feared, my father’s son. Jake’s brother. A Klaas man who solves problems with his fists and then whiskey.

I type: I’m sorry.

Delete.

I shouldn’t have lost it like that.

Delete.

I’ll understand if you no longer want to see me.

Delete.

I’m at Barton’s.

Delete.

My thumb hovers over the screen. What can I possibly say that makes this right?

That explains how hearing Roman call her “damaged goods” made something snap inside me.

That I couldn’t stop myself because all I could think was that he’d hurt her before, and I couldn’t bear the thought of him hurting her again?

How do I tell her I’m terrified that I’m not the person she thinks I am?

I set the phone down, screen dark. The silence between us grows with every passing minute.

“She looked pale as hell leaving the arena,” someone says behind me. I don’t turn to see who, but my jaw locks tight. They could be talking about anyone.

“Wonder if Coach is gonna suspend him,” another voice adds.

“Worth it though, right? Beaulier’s been asking for it all season.”

My knuckles ache as I clench my fist under the bar. They don’t know shit about worth. About what it costs. Not just my spot on the team, maybe the whole season, but Jade’s trust.

The look on her face as they dragged me off the ice replays in high definition behind my eyes. Shock. Fear. Maybe disgust.

I grip the edge of the bar so hard my knuckles go pale again. If I’m just another Klaas man, hot-tempered, reckless, selfish, then maybe Roman was right. Maybe I don’t get to have someone like Jade.

Blake slides onto the stool next to me, his own drink untouched. “Coach decide anything?”

I shake my head, eyes fixed on the bar top. “Suspended until the NCAA’s decision.”

“You’re looking at a three-game suspension, minimum.” He keeps his voice neutral, captain mode engaged. “But the way Beaulier was running his mouth … any of us might’ve done the same.”

It’s a lie, but a kind one. None of them would have lost it like I did. They have control. I thought I did too, until tonight.

“You’ve got more texts coming in,” Blake nods at my phone, lighting up with notifications. “Might want to answer them.”

I flip the phone over. “It’s nothing.”

“Is it Jade?”

My head snaps up at her name. Blake’s eyes are steady, seeing too much.

“Look,” he says, lowering his voice, “whatever Beaulier said?—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine. But Jade does. She deserves to know why you went nuclear.”

I stare at the wall of liquor bottles behind the bar, each one catching light like tiny explosives. “She doesn’t need my shit.”

“That’s not your decision to make.”

“Trust me,” I mutter, “she’s better off without someone who?—”

“Someone who what? Cares enough to stand up for her?”

“Someone who can’t control himself.” The confession burns worse than the whiskey. “Someone who’s one bad moment away from becoming his old man.”

Blake leans back, tipping his head to the side, but doesn’t ask any questions.

I wouldn’t spill the family secrets anyway.

No one here knows the whole story. They don’t know about Dad’s rages, not the full extent anyway.

About Jake following the same path until that fateful night.

Or about my promise to never be that person.

A promise I broke tonight on center ice with hundreds watching.

I recheck my phone. Jade still hasn’t sent another text. Maybe she’s done trying.

Can’t blame her. I’m a walking red flag. My own mother couldn’t stick around, and she gave birth to me. Why would Jade be any different?

“You’re spiraling,” Blake says quietly. “I can see it happening.”

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.” He nudges my untouched whiskey glass farther away. “You need to talk to her, man.”

“I just…” My eyes drift back to the door. “I don’t even know what to say if she walks in right now. Sorry, I showed you exactly what you’re getting into if you’re with me. Or more appropriately, Sorry, I’m exactly who you should be running from.”

Blake doesn’t flinch. “How about I care about you enough to risk everything? ”

I freeze.

“Seems like a decent place to start,” he adds.

I stare at him, momentarily speechless. Here I only thought Jade was the only one ever to see. Am I made of fucking glass? Fuck.

“She gave you a chance,” he says. “That’s more than most guys get with her.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs. “Amanda says Jade’s reserved and doesn’t do relationships. Her ex was the only boyfriend she ever had. Something about her mom bailing on her a lot when she was a kid. She doesn’t trust easily.”

The irony slices deep. Here I am, trying to protect her from me, and I’m doing exactly what she feared most—leaving when things get hard.

My breathing turns shallow. My vision tunnels. The noise in the bar goes fuzzy around the edges.

I should text her. Call her. Something. But every time I try to form words, all I can see is my fist connecting with Roman’s face. The savage satisfaction I felt. The complete loss of control.

The bastard’s words echo: She was damaged goods before I got hold of her.

But the truth is, I’m the one who’s wrecked, and tonight proved it.

Someone jostles my elbow, spilling beer onto my sleeve. I don’t even flinch. The cold liquid seeps through to my skin, but I barely feel it.

“You’ve gotta snap out of this, man,” Blake says. “The team needs you focused.”

“The team might not have me for the rest of the season.” My voice comes out flat.

“Coach won’t let that happen. Not with scouts coming to watch the games.”

I almost laugh. Blake thinks this is about hockey. About my career. Like that’s the thing keeping me up at night.

The neon beer sign above the bar casts harsh blue shadows across my hands. I flex my fingers, watching the light play across the broken skin of my knuckles. The physical pain is nothing compared to the vise grip around my chest.

“Have you even looked at her messages?” Blake prods.

I turn my phone over, revealing the screen with Jade’s texts still displayed. Blake reads them, his eyebrows rising slightly.

“She’s not running,” he says. “So why are you?”

The question hangs there, unanswerable because I’m afraid. I’ve seen what happens when Klaas men love something. They destroy it. They can’t help themselves.

Maybe I didn’t just lose my spot on the team. Maybe I lost her. And if I did, that’s on me. Not Beaulier. Not Coach. Me.

The thought slices clean through whatever’s left of my focus. Because this spiral? This silence? This pushing her away before she can leave? It’s not protecting her. It’s proving her worst fear true.

My breathing becomes shallow, each inhale catching halfway.

The walls of Barton’s press closer. Bodies shift and move around me in a blur of color and sound.

Someone’s perfume—vanilla and something floral—triggers a memory of Jade’s hair spread across the pillow.

The way she looked up at me that night, uncertain but trusting.

I don’t deserve that trust. Never did.

Blake presses something cold into my hand. Water, not alcohol. “Drink this. You look like shit.”

I take a mechanical sip. The water helps, but only barely. My pulse still hammers too fast, my skin too tight.

“You’re overthinking this,” Blake says. “Just talk to her.”

“And say what? Sorry, I’m a violent asshole who can’t control his temper and tanked my hockey career?” The words come out sharper than intended. Blake doesn’t flinch.

“I’ll point it out again. You risked everything for her.” He squares his shoulders. “That seems like a decent place to start.”

I stare at him, momentarily speechless. Blake Morton, the teammate I’ve known for three years is a fucking saint. My mouth opens but closes when the crowd near the door shifts. My heart stops mid-beat at the group of girls entering and scanning the room. Callie first, then Amanda and Maddie, and?—

Jade.

She stands framed in the doorway for a moment, blonde hair slightly windblown, cheeks still flushed from the cold rink. Her eyes move across the bar methodically, searching. They land on me, and everything else fades to background noise.

I can’t read her expression. Not angry. Not sad. Just … intent. Determined. She says something to Callie without breaking eye contact with me, then starts moving through the crowd in my direction.

My entire body tenses. The few feet of sticky bar floor between us might as well be miles of broken glass.

God, please don’t look at me like you don’t know me.

My knuckles are white around my water glass. The bar noise recedes until all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears.

Blake stands, vacating the seat beside me with a significant look I barely register. My face remains carefully blank, a mask I’ve perfected over years of hiding what’s underneath.

Jade moves closer, weaving between bodies. Three steps away. Two. One.

She’s close enough now that I can see the flecks of darker blue in her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands, and the determined set of her jaw. My chest feels too small for the rush.

The air between us charges with everything unsaid.

I should stand. Say something. But I don’t.

Because I still don’t know which version of me she sees. And I’m terrified it’s the one my dad always warned me I’d become.