Page 4 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER FOUR

Jade

I rip another towel from the soggy mountain and chuck it at the metal bin. It smacks the side with a sharp clank, then slumps to the floor, dragging my dignity with it. Doesn’t matter. I keep going. Just keep throwing.

Welcome to Jade Howell’s exclusive, punishment-fueled performance.

The place is empty, thank God. Coach definitely planned it this way, making sure I’d be alone. Not that I blame him. It’s not like he wants me anywhere near his precious players.

As if I would want anything to do with hockey players after my last round with a certain cocky athlete.

I grab another stack of towels and shove them in the bin, pretending the sweat on my forehead is from work and not from Coach Howell’s voice echoing on repeat: Stay the hell away from my niece.

Pretty sure the team has that line tattooed on their brains by now.

I get it. I’m the landmine. Handle with caution.

Like I’m cursed. Or toxic. Or both. Uncle Rick’s rules are just another way to keep me at arm’s length, like the postcards he sent instead of showing up after he left for Cessna.

Years of “I’ll visit” promises, broken every time, and now he thinks he can control my life?

I reach for a towel near the bench and freeze. My hand brushes the top of a pair of battered, worn-in skates. They are scarred to hell and look completely out of place in this shiny, new D1 locker room.

These skates have a story. History.

Towels forgotten, I pick them up. For what, exactly? To examine them? Toss them? Set them on fire? Who knows. I should put them out of their misery and dump them in the trash. Pretend it was an accident.

Maybe they’re one more leftover no one wants.

Like me.

Damn it.

I bite my lip, furious, as the weight of it all presses down. But before I can move, a low, rough voice grunts behind me.

“That’s mine.”

I spin. And holy hell, it’s him. Mr. Hotty from the club.

In a towel, slung low on his hips. He winces slightly as he shifts his weight, one hand adjusting the towel carefully.

I force my eyes up, but they get snagged by water droplets trickling down his chest, slow and deliberate.

His wet and messy hair clings to his scalp.

He stands there like some cruel, delicious joke the universe decided to play.

My breath stutters.

“What?” I blurt, way more stupid than smooth.

He doesn’t blink. His gaze stays fixed on me. “The skates.”

Right. The skates.

I move too fast, setting them down, and they crash to the floor, whacking my foot. I yelp, hopping on one foot, clutching the other.

“Jesus!”

He smirks. Of course he does. And why does he have to look so damn good ? He’s just leaning against the locker with one shoulder rolled down, eyes crinkled at the corners for fuck’s sake. The asshole stares like he has all day.

“What are you even doing here?” His tone isn’t mean, just curious. And a little accusatory.

That snaps me out of whatever daydream he held me under.

“Community service.” I cross my arms, knowing full well he thinks I’m a stalker. But two can play these games. “Why are you so interested?”

“Because you left me hanging,” he says, stepping closer, “and now I find you in our locker room.”

“Ease the swelling in your head, Big Boy.”

His grin curves like he knows exactly what I meant … and what I didn’t. Great. He probably thinks I meant his monster cock. Fuck. He did have a rather impressive one.

“If you must know, I have to clean after you Neanderthals.”

His eyes widen for a moment, then narrow. And there it is, boys and girls. The recognition. I’m Coach Howell’s niece. The off-limits girl. Locker room landmine.

I square my shoulders. “Big shot Wildcat, right?”

He arches a brow, sizing me up like I’m a challenge.

My heart’s a riot.

“Why are you in here?” he asks again, closer this time.

I try not to stare at the way his wet hair drips down his neck. Focus, Jade. “Why do you care?”

He leans against a locker like it’s a throne and I’m trespassing in his kingdom. His eyes flick from me and the laundry pile, back and forth, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Your uncle made you clean this place? Harsh.”

I snort. “Yeah, well. He didn’t like me storming out to go clubbing.” Suddenly, Uncle Rick cares after being MIA for the past ten years.

It happened fast. One night, I was living with Coach Howell, back when he was just Uncle Rick and not the Wildcat god, and the next, I was standing in the driveway with my duffel bag, watching his truck disappear down the street.

He knelt down that night, told me he got the offer. The big one . Head coach at Cessna University. Everything he’d been working for.

My fingers dug into the edge of the porch step. “So you’re leaving?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

His smile faltered. “It’s not like that, Jade. This is a good thing.”

“Just not for me.”

I was eleven. Old enough to understand what opportunity looked like. Still young enough to feel like I wasn’t good enough to stay for.

He reached for my hand. “It’s not forever.”

“Yeah, right.” My voice cracked, and I hated it. Hated him for making me feel small, for making it true.

“I’ll visit. You can come and stay with me in the summer. We’ll figure it out.”

We didn’t. Not really. There were postcards. Calls that came late and ended early. The kind of half-effort love that keeps you dangling but never really holds on.

And the worst part? I believed him.

I watched his taillights disappear that night, tears streaking down my face even as I swore I didn’t care. Swore I didn’t need him.

I got really good at swearing things like that.

So yeah, him assigning me to towel duty? Probably feels like structure to him. Or maybe he thinks it’s character-building. But to me, it’s just another quiet reminder: You were never important enough to stay for.

“Hmm.” Mr. Hottie’s tone is laced with humor, knocking me out of my spiral, but I don’t miss the way his mouth twitches.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Just … didn’t picture Howell’s niece pulling laundry duty.”

“Well, here I am,” I shoot back. “Not exactly living the dream.”

That smirk breaks into a full smile. His confidence is magnetic and infuriating. The towel slips lower, and my brain short-circuits.

“Drew Klaas,” he says.

Klaas .

The name hits like a slap.

Klaas . No. No way. Not that Klaas.

I blink. Once. Twice.

Oh my God. This is him?

The guy I’m supposed to write a glowing character piece on for the journalism class Uncle Rick basically blackmailed me into taking.

Of course, it’s him.

Of course, the universe shoves me naked into a situation with the one guy who now holds the key to both my GPA and my punishment.

My stomach free-falls like someone just yanked the ground out from under me. The blood drains from my face and rushes to … other places because, of course, he’s standing there practically naked and smug as sin.

“You okay?” Drew asks, one brow raised, all too aware I’ve glitched.

I force air into my lungs. “My assignment,” I blurt. The words escape before I can choke them down. Damn it.

His smirk curves sharper, more amused now. He knows. Yep. And he’s enjoying every second of this little identity reveal like he’s got front-row seats to my meltdown.

“He made you sound like a mob boss’s daughter,” Drew says. “Like we’d end up sleeping with the fishes if we looked at you wrong.”

Not far off.

“So yeah,” I mutter. “I heard I’m off-limits. Like I’m radioactive or something.”

“I guess that makes us both toxic,” he says.

“Especially after what happened last night.” I wince, and inside I want to scream. Of course, my escape from reality would be with a fucking hockey player. A Wildcat on top of it. Maybe that’s why he seemed so familiar. “We should probably forget that happened.”

“It was a rather painful experience.”

I squint. “What?”

His stare is unreadable. After a beat, he sighs and says, “Nothing.”

He still stares at me like he can see through my skin, and for a second, I want to bolt. Just leave. Pretend this never happened and ghost the article, just like I’ve ghosted every other uncomfortable thing before this.

Classic Jade. Run before they get the chance to leave first.

A system that worked until my ex. But I’m not running now.

Something stops me. Maybe it’s the bruise I left on his pride or wherever else it is. Maybe it’s the way he’s so calm and cocky while I’m standing here unraveling like a pulled thread.

Or maybe I’m just so goddamn tired of people deciding who I am before I get a chance to show them.

This isn’t just some write-up for Howell. This is my grade. My ticket to graduation. My chance to prove I’m more than the messed-up girl he dumped a punishment on so that he wouldn’t have to deal with me.

I shouldn’t ask. I should walk out, flip him off, and make a scene that’ll go down in team history.

But I don’t.

I square my shoulders. Lick the fear off my teeth.

“We’ll do the interview and be done with each other.” My words come out sharper than I want. “You can stop stressing. I’m not here to collect a hockey boyfriend.”

“Good. Because I’m not interested in distractions.” He folds his arms, like what I said actually irritated him.

And then I see it.

The towel shifts, revealing what can only be described as impressive DNA. But his generous cock isn’t what stops me. No. It’s the angry purple and red bruise covering the tip.

Oh. My. God.

I branded him. It looks like a love note written in Morse code. With my teeth .

My cheeks burn. “Holy shit. Did I do that?”

“No one else sucked like they were trying to extract my soul through a straw.”

My mouth opens. Closes. I stand there flabbergasted, not knowing what to say.

“Um.” I can’t look away, too stunned by what I did. “I’m so sorry. I’m usually better than that.”

His lips curve up once again. “Yeah? Not the first time leaving evidence behind?”

My cheeks flame. “Of course, it’s the first time. Jesus.”

“Okay, okay.” His chuckles echo in the room.

I snap my gaze back to his and straighten my shoulders. The amusement dancing in his eyes irritates me. I don’t say anything else. I’ll be damned if he thinks he’s gotten to me. So, I let out a sharp breath and pretend nothing happened. Pretending I’m in control again.

Like I can shrug it all off.

Like I’m not imagining his eyes on me until I see him next.

“Don’t be late for the interview,” I say. Without another word, I yank the towel off without looking back and toss it in the bin on my way out.

Mr. Hottie will not get the best of me.