Page 42 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Jade

The parking lot is nearly empty, with just one four-by-four Jeep near the entrance and an echo of wind brushing gravel. I double-check the text on my phone.

Meet me at Ridgeview. Dress warm. Trust me.

The last part, trust me, makes my chest tighten.

I shove my phone into my coat pocket and pull my scarf tighter, boots crunching against gravel as I approach the community rink. I breathe in the pine and cold metal. The lights are off inside, except one: a single glow above the ice that flickers faintly through the windows like a pulse.

I hesitate at the door. Is this some dramatic setup for Drew to tell me goodbye in poetic silence? The sound of blades slices across ice. Rhythmic. Unhurried.

I conclude I’m being ridiculous and push the door open.

The rink is empty and quiet. The cold stings my cheeks. And Drew is already out there, cutting slow lines across center ice like he belongs to it, like it’s the only place that still understands him.

A stick in hand.

No helmet.

Just him, backlit by a flickering overhead light like a ghost I wasn’t ready to stop missing.

He wears simple black sweats and a faded gray T-shirt.

His face looks softer somehow, still focused, but not carrying the weight of perfection.

If I hadn’t seen the destroyed skates, I’d never believe they were the same person.

His T-shirt clings to his back, damp from effort, stretching across shoulders I used to sketch.

I press a hand to my scarf like it might smother the sudden heat curling low in my belly.

A loose strand of hair falls across his forehead as he loops back toward center ice.

The light catches his profile, highlighting the sharp jawline I’ve penciled so many times I could draw it blindfolded.

He looks good. Whole, even. While I’ve been drowning in hurt and anger, has he been healing just fine without me?

The thought tastes bitter, and I shift my weight. My boot squeaks against the rubber floor.

Drew’s head snaps up, and our eyes lock across the ice. He stills immediately, lowering his stick to his side.

He skates to the edge and braces a hand on the boards.

“Hey,” he says, breath fogging in the air.

“Hey.” I nod at the nearly dark rink. “Did you rent out the world for the night?”

He shrugs, mouth tugging into something that might be a smile. “I figured if I were going to try again, I’d start where I don’t mess things up.”

He taps his stick against the edge of the bench, and I follow his glance.

A pair of skates with laces curled neatly on the bench. Waiting.

“I didn’t bring you here to talk,” he says gently. “Not yet. I just wanted to skate with you.”

Something in my chest stutters.

“No games. No team. Just ... this.”

I walk over, eyeing the skates like they might bite. “I haven’t skated in years. Not since before my uncle left.”

“They should fit. Your uncle helped me with the size.”

My head snaps up. “My uncle knows you’re here?”

Drew’s jaw tightens slightly. “We talked. Earlier today.”

The implications of that send my thoughts spinning. What did they discuss? What was said about me?

“I can explain everything,” Drew adds quickly. “But not like this. Not with boards between us and words that won’t come out right.” He taps the ice with his stick. “This first. If you want.”

I should say no. Should demand explanations and apologies before giving him any part of myself again. But there’s something in the way he watches me, cautious, hopeful, afraid, that makes me reach for the skates.

I move to a nearby bench and sit, removing my boots with fingers that aren’t quite steady. The skates are new, not rental quality, but decently made. They slide onto my feet more comfortably than I expected.

My fingers feel clumsy as I fumble with the laces. The little betrayers. Halfway through the second skate, I glance up to find Drew watching me from the ice. He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me like maybe being here means more than I realized. The simple acknowledgement makes my heart skip.

I finish lacing up and stand unsteadily, wobbling slightly as I approach the entrance.

Stepping onto the ice, I immediately lose my balance, arms flailing in an embarrassing windmill motion. Drew glides forward, stopping just short of touching me. He doesn’t laugh or tease. He extends his hand, palm up.

“You can hold onto me.” He shrugs. “Just this once.”

I hesitate momentarily before placing my hand in his, accepting his olive branch.

His calloused fingers close around mine, and that warm tingly feeling, the one that feels like home, worms its way through me.

I’d forgotten how perfectly our hands fit together, and how naturally my fingers slide between his.

“Okay.” I nod, gripping tighter as my skates threaten to slide in opposite directions. “But if I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

A real smile this time, small but genuine. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

I side-eye him, unsure if that’s supposed to be a double entendre or something innocent. I let it slide.

We begin skating slowly, making a wide loop around the rink’s perimeter.

I’m tense at first, and every muscle is rigid as I concentrate on not falling.

Drew’s hand is steady in mine, his pace adjusted to my wobbly movements.

His hand steadies at my waist. Not firm but lingering.

Warm. He rolls his shoulder slightly, like it’s stiff.

I pretend his hold is just for balance, but my pulse doesn’t get the memo.

“I can’t remember the last time I did this,” I admit, my breath visible in the cold air. “Probably before my uncle left for Cessna. He used to take me to the rink when my mom disappeared.”

Drew’s fingers tighten imperceptibly around mine. “And now?”

I understand what he’s really asking. “Now the void doesn’t hurt as much anymore.” I focus on my skates, not ready to look at him. “I had a good heart-to-heart talk with my uncle earlier. It helped.”

We complete a full circle in silence, finding a rhythm that suits us. My legs remember the motion better than I thought they would. Muscle memory for the win. As we start a second lap, Drew’s shoulders relax, and his breathing deepens.

“This is where I go when I can’t breathe.” His voice is low, yet it holds honesty. “When everything gets too loud in my head. I’ve been coming here since I was a kid.” A pause. “I haven’t been here in a while.”

I study his profile as we glide forward. This Drew isn’t the same tightly wound player I’ve watched during games. Nope. There’s a peacefulness to him with the armor removed and the weight of expectations lifted.

“Why bring me here?” I ask quietly.

His eyes stay focused ahead. “Because this is the real me. Not the guy who hit Roman. Not the guy who walked away from you.” He swallows visibly. “Just … me.”

“I like that,” I admit.

Halfway through another lap, something in me unclenches.

Maybe it’s the cold. Or his silence. Or just that he’s still holding on.

Our movements become more synchronized with each passing minute.

The only sounds are our blades cutting through ice and occasional nervous laughter when I nearly lose my balance. No music. No crowd. No expectations.

After several laps, Drew skates toward center ice, where he has left a second hockey stick. He scoops it up and flicks it toward me with a challenging look.

“Wanna try and beat me?” he asks.

I glance at the stick and back at him with raised eyebrows. “On ice? With coordination?”

His mouth quirks up at one corner, eyes warming with something close to the playfulness I’d missed. “You underestimate my terrible taste in dates.”

The word ‘date’ hangs between us, unexpected and loaded with possibility.

A smile breaks through my carefully maintained caution. “Wait, are you saying watching me embarrass myself on ice is your idea of romance, Klaas?”

The heat in his eyes gives me pause. I shake off the unwanted flutters and reach for the stick, holding it awkwardly. “Fine. But when I fall on my ass, remember this was your idea.”

He grins with a genuine, unreserved smile that transforms his face completely. “It’s a rather fine ass. The ice should be so lucky.”

“Ha-ha.” I feign offensiveness but don’t pull it off.

“Come on, Trouble.” He laughs.

Drew retrieves a puck from his pocket and drops it between us. What follows is the clumsiest game of one-on-one hockey ever played, with Drew deliberately missing shots and slowing his pace to keep it fun. Our banter flows naturally again, the rhythm we’d lost returning with each pass of the puck.

And when I finally score a goal, more through Drew’s strategic inattention than any skill of my own, the triumphant laughter that bursts from my chest feels like the first real thing I’ve felt in twelve days.

We collapse onto the bench, breathless and slightly sweaty despite the cold. Our shoulders barely touch, but it’s like static under my skin. I should move. I don’t.

Then he bends forward to unlace his skates, and the harsh rink lighting outlines his profile. I press my hands into my thighs to keep from doing something stupid like touching him. But those familiar movements I’ve sketched a dozen times have me aching to break my I-don’t-cave-to-men rule.

I focus on my laces, tugging them loose with clumsy fingers compared to his skilled movements.

Our soft breathing and the gentle squeak of damp laces being pulled through eyelets break the stillness of the deserted arena.

This quiet feels different from the silence of the past twelve days, companionable rather than hollow.

Drew sets his skates aside and stares out at the ice. His hands rest on his knees, knuckles still healing from the fight that changed everything. His gaze fixes on our crisscrossing tracks when he finally speaks.

“You made me want to be better. Not because you asked me. Just because you saw me, even the parts I hate.”