Page 41 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Drew

I’ve thrown punches that hurt less than what I’m about to do. My knuckles still ache, not from the fight, but from the skates I tore apart after. Twelve days of silence between me and everyone who matters. Twelve days of hiding from what I had become. I’m tired of running.

I don’t knock. Just turn the handle and step inside before I lose my nerve.

Coach Howell looks up from his stack of papers, eyes widening, before nodding once and motioning to the chair across from him.

“I was going to call you in,” he says, voice calm but unreadable. “Glad you beat me to it.”

I sit, posture rigid, shoulders tight with guilt I’ve dragged around like extra weight in my gear bag. For the first time since Barton’s, I’m ready to take whatever he’s about to throw at me. Or at least, I’m pretending I am.

Coach studies me like he’s deciding whether to coach or cut me loose. The silence stretches until I have to fight the urge to fill it.

“The NCAA made their ruling,” he finally says.

My breath catches. This is it. The moment I learn that my career is over before it really started.

“Two-game suspension. No permanent mark on your record.”

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by the sting of guilt. I don’t deserve this leniency. Don’t deserve a second chance after what I did. My head drops forward slightly as I process.

“That’s … good.” The words taste hollow.

Coach doesn’t let them settle. “Is it? Because you look like you lost more than a game.”

My fists clench on my knees without my permission. “I lost control, Coach. Could’ve hurt him worse. Could’ve hurt the team.”

“But you didn’t. And now you get to move forward.” His eyes narrow slightly. “If that’s what you want.”

The question lands hard. Is that what I want? To move forward, to pretend nothing happened? To act like I didn’t reveal what lurked beneath all that careful control?

Coach leans forward, elbows on his desk. “You want to talk about why you lost it out there? Or are we going to pretend it was just about trash talk?”

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. The practiced excuses wither before I can voice them. I figured he’d say something about Jade, but I never suspected he’d guess there’s something more going on.

“It wasn’t just about what he said.” The confession scrapes up my throat like broken glass. “It was … something else. Something in me.”

“Go on.”

I stare at my hands. The split knuckles are healing, but they’ll leave scars just like Jake’s did. And what Dad’s does after every bender.

“My dad has a temper.” The words come stilted. “It’s the kind that breaks furniture and walls.” I shift my gaze to the ground as shame coats my cheeks. “And sometimes people.”

Coach doesn’t react, but his attention sharpens. He knows part of this, but it bears repeating.

“Jake was the same. My brother. Quick to fight. Quicker to drink after.” I force myself to look up, to meet his eyes. “I always told myself I wouldn’t be like them. That I could control it.”

“But?”

“But I liked it.” The admission hangs between us, ugly and raw. “When I hit Roman, when I felt his jaw crack under my fist … I liked it. Wanted more. Same rush my dad gets. Same high Jake chased right into that tree.”

Coach’s jaw tightens slightly. “You think I didn’t know?”

My breath stalls.

“I coached Jake. Watched him self-destruct. I know about your dad’s DUIs. Everything.”

“I promised myself I’d never be like them. Never lose control like that. And then I did. On center ice. In front of everyone.” My voice drops. “In front of Jade.”

The name falls between us like a grenade with the pin pulled. Coach’s jaw tightens slightly at the mention of his niece.

“I didn’t mean for things with your niece to get this far,” I continue, the words tumbling out now that the dam has broken.

“I thought I could handle it. Keep myself in check. But I messed up, and if you think I should stay away from her—” I swallow hard, shoulders hunched forward.

“I will. She deserves better than someone like me anyway.”

It guts me to say it, but I mean it. Because it’s true. Because Jade deserves someone whole, not someone held together with tape, discipline, and fear.

Coach Howell is quiet for so long that I think he didn’t hear me. Then he sighs, a heavy sound coming from somewhere deep.

“I don’t have a lot of rules in life, Drew. But ‘don’t date my niece’ seemed like a pretty straightforward one.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I didn’t forbid it because I didn’t like you.”

I blink, thrown off-balance. “Then why?”

“Because I know what kind of pressure you’re under. Because I’ve seen what happens when you bottle things up too long.” He leans back in his chair. “And because I’ve watched you skate around the edges of your life for three years, afraid to commit to anything but hockey.”

The assessment lands like a body check. Direct. Brutal. True.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Would you have listened?” He raises an eyebrow. “Or would you have shut down, transferred to another program, run away like you always do when something gets too close?”

Each word strikes with precision. I think of all the times I’ve walked away. From relationships. From friendships that demanded more than surface connection. From Jade at Barton’s.

“I’m not…” I start, but the lie dies on my tongue. “I don’t mean to run.”

“But you do. Every time.” Coach’s voice softens slightly. “Same as I did when things got hard with Jade’s mom. When raising a teenager seemed too complicated.”

The parallel lands like a revelation. Coach Howell sees me because he is me. Or was. A man who chose safety over risk, distance over connection.

“So what now?” I ask, the question smaller than I intend.

Coach studies me, and I see past the coach to the man for the first time. The uncle who failed. The brother who tried. The person still figuring out how to show up.

“That depends,” he says. “On whether you’re ready to stop running.”

Coach Howell stands and rolls his chair back with a squeak against the linoleum. He moves to the shelves behind him and picks up a small frame, studying it. The fluorescent light reflects off the glass, but there’s no mistaking that the girl in the picture is a younger Jade.

“Violence isn’t the way,” he finally says, turning back to me. His eyes are tired but clear. “It never is. Not on the ice, not off it.”

I nod, throat tight. He’s not telling me anything I don’t already know, but hearing it feels different. Necessary.

“But showing up for someone? That matters.” His voice softens, almost like he’s talking to himself. “God knows I didn’t do that enough for Jade or her mother.”

The mention of Jade sends a jolt through my chest. Her name in his mouth feels like permission and warning all at once.

“When her mom would take off, I’d call and check in.” Coach’s jaw tightens. “But I never stayed. Never showed up at the door. Just made sure she had food and money and told myself that was enough. Even when she stayed with me, I wasn’t truly there.”

He turns from the shelves, facing me fully.

“It wasn’t enough.” The words hang heavy between us. “I thought distance was safer. For me. For her. I was wrong.”

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with how accurately he describes my choices. The silence I’ve subjected Jade to. The walls I’ve built. The distance I convinced myself was protection.

“If you’re going to be in Jade’s life,” Coach continues, “you better do it with your eyes open. You don’t get to run when it gets hard. You don’t get to decide what’s best for her without asking. And you sure as hell don’t get to use her as a reason to punish yourself.”

The words land like a challenge, not a permission slip. Not at all what I expected when I walked through that door.

“I figured you’d tell me to stay away from her,” I admit.

“Would that work?” His eyebrow lifts slightly. “Seems to me forbidding things just makes them more appealing. Especially to hardheaded hockey players.”

A small, reluctant smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Probably not.”

“Here’s what I know.” Coach leans against the shelving unit. “My niece doesn’t trust easily. Doesn’t let many people in. But she let you in, for whatever reason.”

My chest tightens at the thought. She did. She saw parts of me nobody else was allowed to see and didn’t run. Until I made her.

“So now you’ve got a choice,” Coach says. “You can keep believing you’re damaged goods, destined to become your old man. Or you can decide to be better. To show up. To stay even when it gets messy.”

I stare at my hands, the healing cuts on my knuckles. “What if I can’t? What if I’m too much like them?”

“That bullshit might work on someone else, but not me.” Coach’s voice sharpens. “You’re not your father. You’re not your brother. You proved that the minute you walked in here to face this. You didn’t run. The question is, are you going to prove it to Jade?”

The silence that follows feels charged with possibility and terror in equal measure. The weight that’s been crushing me for twelve days, guilt, shame, and self-hatred, shifts slightly. Not gone, but different. Lighter somehow.

I rise from the chair, legs steadier than I expected. Coach didn’t tell me to leave Jade alone. Didn’t ban me from the team. Didn’t say I was too far gone. He offered something I never expected: a choice. Better yet, a chance.

“I don’t know if I’m enough,” I admit. “But I want to try.”

Coach nods. “That’s where it starts. Not with perfection, just choice.”

I rise, lighter than I’ve felt in days.

“And Jade?”

“Your call.” He picks up a pen, signaling the end of our conversation. “Just know: if you break her, I break you.”

The threat should be jarring, but instead, it feels right. Like proof that he cares enough to protect her. That he’s trying to show up now, too.

“Fair enough.”

I move toward the door, pausing with my hand on the knob. “Thank you. For the second chance.”

“Don’t thank me.” Coach looks up, his expression unreadable. “Prove me right.”

I nod once, firmly. The silence I’ve been drowning in finally breaks, replaced by clarity. If I want Jade, I have to choose her. All of her. The messy parts and the beautiful ones. I have to knock on her door instead of hoping she’ll always be the one to find me.

I step into the hallway, every breath clearer than it was ten minutes ago. My phone is already in my hand before I register the decision. This time, I’m not waiting for her to find me. I’m going to find her.