Page 40 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Jade

Drew: Please be patient.

I volunteered to clean the locker room because pain feels like progress, and standing still isn’t an option right now. The maintenance crew already did the heavy lifting, but since I’m used to picking up after the guys, I put my name down before I could talk myself out of it.

“You sure about that, Jade?” Uncle Rick asked, eyebrows lifting. “That was supposed to be a one-time thing.”

I shrugged. “I need the distraction.”

The truth? I need the connection, even if it’s just breathing the same air Drew breathed ten days ago.

His text from a couple of days back still sits in my phone, like some kind of pressed leaf.

Two words. Polite. Careful. Not enough, but somehow everything.

Be patient. Like patience was a muscle I hadn’t torn to shreds already.

I snap on latex gloves and start with the benches farthest from his locker. Methodical. Precise. Spray, wipe, and move on. The rhythm settles my racing thoughts for about thirty seconds.

A strand of blonde hair falls from my messy bun. I ignore it. It can stay right where it is. Maybe it’ll hide the dark circles under my eyes.

I move to the next bench, then the next. Work my way around the U-shaped room, deliberately dragging out the trip to his locker. The guys are surprisingly neat, but I still find protein bar wrappers wedged between benches, a forgotten mouth guard, and someone’s damp jockstrap.

Why is it damp?

Concluding I don’t want to know, I drop the jockstrap into the laundry bin with a grimace. “Men are disgusting.”

But the words lack conviction. Drew’s space was always immaculate. Obsessively organized as if his life depended on every item staying exactly where he placed it. Control freak. Perfectionist. Broken.

No. I can’t think about that last one. Not yet.

I attack a scuff mark on the floor, channeling frustration into elbow grease. Ten days since Barton’s. Ten days of him avoiding me. Ten days of pretending I’m fine.

My roommate suggested therapy. I chose scrubbing a hockey locker room instead.

“This is stupid,” I mutter, but I keep cleaning because the alternative is my dorm. My sketchbook. My thoughts.

And right now, I’m afraid of all three.

My uncle stopped by my class yesterday, catching me after Creative Writing ended. Asked how I was holding up. I gave him the smile I perfected at thirteen when Mom walked out for the fourth time.

“I’m fine.”

“Drew’s suspension is two games,” he’d said as if that was what I was worried about.

“Good for him.”

He’d studied me for a beat too long. “If you need to talk ? —”

“I don’t.”

But maybe I do. Maybe that’s why I’m here, wiping down lockers where sweaty hockey players store their gear when I could be elsewhere.

Regardless of what my uncle was trying to say, I still can’t shake off the feeling he’s still watching.

I check all the shower stalls for stray washcloths. Reorganize the towel shelves. Twenty minutes later, I’ve run out of excuses to avoid the corner where locker Thirty-Three waits.

Drew’s locker.

I could leave now. Pretend I didn’t see the number. But my feet keep moving like they know better than I do.

I stare at the door. My hands hover. One breath. Two. Then I pull. The locker opens with a metallic groan.

It’s empty.

The hooks are bare, and the shelf is wiped clean. I don’t know what I expected to find, but emptiness wasn’t it.

I slam the locker shut, mind reeling. Uncle Rick said he’s coming back so why is it empty? Shaking off the eeriness sweeping through me, I grab another wrapper from the floor and toss it in the trash. When I move away, I catch a reflective shine coming from the trash can.

What the heck?

I lean in to get a closer look and gasp. Buried amongst the trash are Drew’s skates, shattered and unrecognizable. I blink, but their appearance doesn’t change.

A clean crack opens inside me as I lift to examine them.

These aren’t just worn out or beat up. They’re destroyed.

The right one’s blade is bent at an unnatural angle.

The right skate is cracked all the way up the side, just like my sketch.

Unusable. Abandoned. A perfect fucking metaphor for his absence.

Those skates were sacred to him. Old and battered, but he refused to replace them despite Coach’s repeated insistence. “They’re broken in just right,” he’d say, that rare half-smile playing on his lips.

Now the skates are just broken. And maybe he is too.

“Be patient with me.”

“Oh, Drew.” The words escape before I can stop them.

I turn them over to see if the blades are beyond repair, and a folded piece of paper flutters to the floor. My entire body stills at the familiar parchment.

No, it can’t be.

My fingers tremble as I unfold it. And sure enough. It’s my sketch of his backside. The one I drew weeks ago, before everything shattered. It’s not even my best work, just a half-finished picture I drew during practice.

Did he mean to throw it away? Somehow, I don’t think so.

I flip it over, eyebrows knitting at the handwritten scroll. There’s one problem. I never wrote anything on the back.

But Drew had.

Six words in his tight, cramped handwriting: “The only one to see me.”

My knees give out, and I sink onto the bench, the skates heavy in my lap. The locker room’s harsh fluorescent lights suddenly seem too bright, too exposing.

“The only one to see me.”

Not past tense. Present. Like he still believes it.

My throat constricts. The skates blur as my vision swims. I press my lips together, refusing to let the tears fall. Several years of my mom walking out trained me well. But this … this breaks something inside me I thought was already shattered.

Those skates tell a story of rage, loss, and pain. But the note? The note tells a different story. One where I mattered.

Matter.

Present tense.

I gather the skates and the sketch, tucking the paper carefully into my pocket. The locker room is clean enough. Right now, I need air that doesn’t smell like him.

I step into the hallway and pause at the trophy case, a twenty-foot glass monument to Cessna’s hockey history. Team photos from decades past. Championship cups. And award plaques. The latest award, the Defensive Player of the Year, was presented to none other than Andrew Klaas.

I picture the day he won this award, his smile tight and controlled. Always controlled.

Except for when he wasn’t. Like the moment he launched himself at Roman Beaulier, fists already swinging. Raw fury in his eyes. The way his entire body transformed into a weapon. All that control was obliterated in an instant.

For me.

A tear escapes, tracking down my cheek before I can stop it. Then another. I swipe at them with my sleeve, hating the weakness.

“Stupid,” I mutter. “He made his choice.”

But did he? The broken skates suggest a man destroying pieces of himself. The note suggests he still sees me as someone who sees him. Nothing makes sense anymore.

The tears flow at their own will. I try but fail to stop them when a presence snakes up behind me.

“You alright?” My uncle’s voice is gruff but laced with concern.

I don’t turn around. Can’t. Not with tears tracking down my face and Drew’s broken skates clutched to my chest like some tragic security blanket.

“I’m fine.” The lie comes automatically.

“You don’t look fine.”

Something in his tone, not judgment, just simple observation, makes me turn. Uncle Howell stands there in his Cessna University coaching jacket, hands in his pockets. His eyes flick to the skates in my arms, understanding dawning.

“Ah.”

That’s it. Just “ah.” Like finding his niece crying in a hallway, clutching his star player’s destroyed equipment, is perfectly normal.

Something snaps inside me. “No. Not ‘ah.’ Not fine. Not okay.” I lift the skates slightly. “What happened to these?”

He sighs, shoulders dropping a fraction. “Drew happened to them. After the fight, after the meeting with the athletic director. He came back here alone.”

I look down at the mangled leather, picturing Drew’s hands, those strong, controlled hands, tearing into his own equipment in blind rage or despair.

“Did you try to stop him?”

“By the time I found him, it was done.”

I stare at my uncle, suddenly seeing the shadows under his eyes that match mine. The strain around his mouth. This has been hard on him as well.

“I told you that you didn’t have to come here,” he says.

“Well, someone had to clean up the mess.” The double meaning isn’t lost on either of us.

His eyes soften slightly. “Jade?—”

“No.” I cut him off, a ten-day dam of hurt and anger finally breaching. “You don’t get to ‘Jade’ me right now. You left me, too.”

The words explode between us, too loud in the empty hallway. I’ve never said it so directly before, always dancing around the abandonment with careful jokes and forced smiles.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to defend himself. Just says, “I know.”

His simple acknowledgement deflates some of my anger, leaving raw hurt in its place.

“You were supposed to be there.” My voice cracks. “After Mom left again. After everything. And you took this job and disappeared.”

“I thought your mother had it under control.” He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “She threatened to cut me off completely if I interfered. And then you stopped answering my calls.”

“Because it hurt too much!” The words echo down the corridor. “Everyone leaves. Mom. You. Now him.” I glance down at the skates. “I’m tired of being left behind.”

Uncle Howell steps closer. “I ran,” he admits, voice low. “I knew she wasn’t okay, but it was easier to tell myself you’d figure it out.” He looks at the trophies behind the glass. “I convinced myself you’d be fine.”

The honesty surprises me and loosens something tight in my chest.

“I thought I was invisible to you,” I whisper.

“You think you’re invisible but never were to me.” His voice is firm now. “I saw you. I was just too afraid to do anything about it. Afraid I’d mess up worse than your mom did.”

I sniffle, embarrassed by the tears I can’t seem to control. “That’s a pretty low bar.”

The corner of his mouth twitches up. “Fair point.”

Silence stretches between us, less tense than before. I adjust my grip on the skates, but their weight is growing uncomfortable.

“He did this because of me,” I finally say.

Uncle Howell shakes his head. “No. He did this because of him. He’s terrified of becoming his father. His brother.”

I frown, confused.

“Drew’s father is…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully.

“Let’s just say the apple didn’t fall far from the tree with that punch he threw.

His brother Jake was the same way; he had a quick temper and was self-destructive.

Constantly getting into fights on the ice.

Scouts noticed and talked. The last game he played, he apparently got into an argument with his dad over his girlfriend. ”

My eyebrows raise accusatorily.

“Don’t judge. I hear more locker-room talk than the guys know.” His face turns grim. “He got into a lot of fights that night. One scout called him out on it. You can imagine his old man’s response. He ended up wrapping his car around a tree after fighting with his dad.”

“That’s awful.” I swallow past the lump of sadness lodged in my throat.

I knew he had died, but didn’t know the details.

The revelation sends a chill down my spine.

Drew’s fear makes more sense. His words outside Barton’s replay in my head: I wanted to hurt him, Jade. Really hurt him … and it felt good.

“He thinks he’s protecting me by staying away,” I say quietly.

“Probably. He’s got it in his head that he’s toxic.” Uncle Howell sighs. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s right.”

I look up, surprised. “You don’t?”

“No. And I won’t stand in your way anymore.” He gestures to the skates. “Doubt those can be fixed.”

“He wouldn’t want new ones,” I say automatically.

Uncle Howell nods, a small smile forming. “Exactly. Some things are worth saving, even when they’re a little broken.”

I look down at the skates in my hands, running my thumb over the deepest crack in the leather. “He’s not invisible either,” I whisper, more to myself than my uncle.

“No,” he agrees. “He’s not.”

We stand there in silence, and I don’t feel alone for the first time in years. My uncle’s presence beside me feels solid and real in a way it hasn’t since I was twelve.

“What are you going to do with those?” he asks, nodding to the skates.

I take a deep breath, a sense of determination settling in my chest. “I don’t know yet. But I’m not throwing them away.”

Uncle Howell nods, understanding what I’m really saying. Then he checks his watch. “I’ve got a meeting with the athletic director in fifteen. Will you be okay?”

The question is loaded with years of unasked versions of itself. This time, I don’t automatically say I’m fine.

“No,” I answer honestly. “But I might be eventually.”

He reaches out, hesitates, then gently squeezes my shoulder. “That’s my girl.”

He walks away, and I turn back to the trophy case, to Drew’s name, holding pieces of what he thought he needed to destroy.

Ten days of silence. Of thinking it was over before it really began.

But the note in my pocket says otherwise: “The only one to see me.”

He thinks I saw him, but maybe I’m the one who finally needed someone to see me back.

I don’t know if the skates can be fixed. I don’t know if we can.

But for the first time in ten days, I want to try.