Page 39 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Drew

The protein shaker tumbles from my hands and rolls off the coffee table, joining the pile of everything I’ve stopped caring about. I’ve been staring at the same hockey highlight for twenty minutes, the TV muted.

Seven days since I walked away from Jade at Barton’s. Three days of dodging her in hallways and slipping through doors before she could reach me. A week of proving her right that I’m a coward.

The suspension? Background noise. The real damage is what’s hollowed me out from the inside.

My workout shorts cling to my skin, still damp with sweat from the training session I couldn’t finish. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe through the sets without hearing Coach’s voice in my head.

“You’re letting the team down, Klaas.”

Am I, though? Or am I protecting them from what I really am?

The living room is a disaster zone with discarded equipment bags, Xbox controllers, and someone’s gloves draped over the lamp. Normally, the mess would drive me insane. Today, I barely notice.

I scroll through old game footage, but nothing sticks until I land on a practice scrimmage from three weeks ago. There, barely audible under the skate noise, is Jade’s laugh. I replay it. Again. Just to hear that sound that used to light me up from the inside.

Seven fucking days, and I miss her laugh like physical pain.

Replay.

“Jesus, Klaas, you look like shit.”

My head snaps up. Blake stands in the doorway, dressed in dark jeans and a button-down, calm and put-together. His eyes scan the mess and land on me.

“Team dinner’s in twenty. You coming?”

I grunt. My eyes drift back to the paused video.

Blake drops into the armchair across from me, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees. “Coach asked about you after practice.”

“And?”

“And I lied. Said you were handling the suspension like a professional.”

I almost laugh. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Prove me right.”

Footsteps pound the stairs. Easton appears freshly showered, wearing a shirt that costs more than my monthly grocery budget.

“Whoa,” he says, stopping short when he sees me. “Your hair looks like you got punched again.” He points to his head, miming a disaster zone. “You trying out a new look? ‘Electrocuted caveman’ vibes?”

His attempt at normal banter lands flat. My jaw tightens.

“Give it a rest, Easton.” Blake’s tone is sharper than usual.

Easton shrugs. “Car’s leaving in fifteen if you want a ride to Auntie B’s.”

He’s gone a moment later. The front door slams.

Blake’s eyes find mine again. The playful edge is gone, replaced by something worse: concern. “You gonna keep walking around like you lost the championship or actually do something about it?”

“Do something about what?” I know exactly what he means, but I want to make him say it.

“You know what.” Blake leans back, running a hand through his dark hair. “Jade.”

The name hits like a body check: hard, sharp, and impossible to ignore.

“There’s nothing to do.”

“Bullshit.”

“I made my choice.” The words taste like ash. “It’s better this way.”

“Better for who?” Blake doesn’t back down. He never does. It’s what makes him a good captain and a pain-in-the-ass friend. “Because from where I’m sitting, you look miserable, and based on what Callie told Amanda, Jade isn’t doing much better.”

Something sharp twists behind my ribs. “She told her that?”

“Indirectly. She said Jade’s been spending her time writing or sketching. Something about dark colors and sharp lines.” Blake’s voice softens slightly. “Doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots, man.”

I stare at the muted hockey game. The players move in their choreographed patterns, a dance I know by heart. It’s easier than facing the truth in Blake’s words.

“I said drop it,” I mutter.

Blake stands, clearly done. “You look like shit, Klaas. And you’re acting like it, too.”

He leaves, and the soft click of the door feels louder than a slam.

I’m alone again. Just me, the silence, and the echo of Jade’s laugh.

I drag myself off the couch. The bathroom light flickers before settling. I stand in front of the sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

Jesus. I do look like hell between the bruises, a healing lip, and shadows under my eyes.

I lean closer. My jaw. Jake’s eyes. Dad’s mouth. I back away.

“You’re not them,” I whisper. The mirror doesn’t believe me.

I splash cold water over my features. It shocks my skin but doesn’t clear my head. I dry off with a towel that should’ve been washed three days ago and head to my room.

It’s too neat. Too controlled. Everything is in its place except me.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. I still remember the first second I saw her.

Not when I met her, but when I saw her. That night in the club, before the bathroom, before the kiss, before the chaos. She stood at the edge of the dance floor, hair wild, eyeliner smudged like war paint, drink in hand like it was armor.

She didn’t look at me like she knew who I was. Not the hockey player. Not the Klaas kid. Just a guy in a place he didn’t belong.

And God, she looked like fire and fury. Like a dare. Like someone who wasn’t afraid to be too much.

I wanted her before she even touched me. Not because she was hot, she was , but because she looked like freedom. Like everything I wasn’t allowed to want.

And when she grabbed my shirt and dragged me toward the back hallway, it didn’t feel like losing control. It felt like breathing. Like someone finally saw the part of me I never let out. The part that didn’t want to be perfect.

Maybe that’s what scared me the most about her. Even then.

She didn’t want the hockey player. She wanted the real guy. And I don’t know if I’ve ever known what that looks like.

My fingers find the nightstand drawer and pull it open almost against my will. The folded paper sits where I left it, tucked under an old playbook and a roll of athletic tape. I haven’t looked at it since the night she gave it to me before everything fell apart.

When I unfold it, the paper crackles softly in the quiet room.

A sketch, half-finished, just like everything else between us.

It’s me from behind, on the ice during practice.

My number clear on my jersey, but that’s not what catches in my throat.

It’s the details that only someone really looking would notice: the way my right shoulder sits slightly higher than my left due to an old injury, the worn spots on my practice jersey that I refuse to replace, and the exact angle of my stance when I’m waiting for the drill to start.

She saw me. Really saw me. Not just the version I present to the world, all discipline and control, but the imperfect human underneath.

My fingers trace the pencil lines, careful not to smudge her work. I remember the night she gave it to me. Coming back from an away game, dying to see her. Warmth filled my chest when I saw the sketch she drew.

“It’s not finished,” she’d said, suddenly shy. “Just something I worked on during practice.”

I couldn’t speak when I first saw it. Nobody had ever drawn me before. Nobody had ever looked closely enough to capture the details she did.

That night was when I knew I was a goner.

I fold the paper again, slowly along the same creases. The weight of everything unsaid presses against my chest until I can barely breathe.

Blake’s words echo in my head. You’re gonna keep walking around like you lost the championship, or actually do something about it?

I grab my phone from my pocket and flip to her contact. Pause. And swipe away.

Not yet.

I open the notes app instead.

I start typing, delete what I’ve written, and start again. Words have never been my strong suit. I’m better with numbers. Statistics. Angles on the ice. But for her, I need to try.

I wanted to say I’m sorry, but that’s too easy.

The words appear letter by letter, my thumbs barging across the screen.

I’m sorry I walked away from Barton’s. I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. I’m sorry I can’t just text you like a normal person instead of writing this note. I don’t know if I’ll ever send it.

The truth is, I’m scared. Not of you. Of me. Of what happened on the ice. I saw myself become someone I promised I’d never be. Someone like my dad. Someone like Jake. And the worst part is, in that moment, it felt good to let go.

You said I was protecting myself by pushing you away. You were right because loving you terrifies me. Not because of you. Because of what it means to really care. To have something to lose.

My dad lost my mom, and it broke him. Jake lost himself, and it killed him. I thought if I kept you at a distance, I could protect us both.

But I miss the way you laugh. I miss the way you call me on my bullshit. I miss the way you see me, really see me, even when I don’t want to be seen.

I don’t know if I’m fixable. I don’t know if I can be the person you deserve. But I want to try. If you’ll let me.

My fingers stop, hovering over the screen. The room feels too quiet, too still for the storm raging inside me. These are just words on a screen. Words I’m not even sure I can send. But it’s a start. A crack in the armor I’ve built around myself.

I set the phone next to Jade’s sketch. Two fragile things I’ve been too afraid to hold. Neither is finished. But maybe neither am I.