Page 43 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

The confession hangs between us, honest and unadorned. He doesn’t follow it with an apology, promise, or a plea for forgiveness. He simply offers the truth and lets it stand on its own.

I study his profile. The way his jaw works as he waits for my response. The exhaustion etched into his features. He looks both younger and older than his age, vulnerable in a way he rarely allows himself to be.

“I found your skates,” I say after a moment. “In the trash.”

His eyes close briefly.

“They were destroyed.”

“I was angry.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “Not at you. At myself.”

I nod slowly, not trusting my voice just yet. I remember the mangled leather, the bent blades, and the vivid physical evidence of the storm raging inside him. As is the note on the back of my sketch: The only one to see me.

“I found my drawing, too,” I add quietly. “And the note.”

His eyes find mine. “Where? I thought I lost it.”

“They were inside the skates.”

His mouth slackens. “It must’ve somehow fallen when I cleaned my locker.”

“I saw the note.”

His eyes grow wary. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

“But I did.” I hold his gaze. “And I still think it’s true.”

The crease between his eyebrows smooths. One slow breath leaves him, chest rising and falling like he finally let himself exhale.

“I thought I had to be perfect.” His gaze falls back on the ice. “For my dad. For the team. For you.” He shakes his head. “But trying to be perfect just made me worse .”

“You don’t have to be perfect,” I say, my voice softer. “You just have to be you. That’s enough.”

His shoulder rises under my cheek on a held breath. Then it drops. A slight nod I feel more than see.

“I missed this,” I admit, my throat tight. “But I’m scared I’ll mess it up. People leave, Drew. I’m not … easy.”

He turns, his eyes intense, no mask left. “You’re it for me,” he says, voice low and steady, cutting through the rink’s chill. “Even if I don’t say it out loud every day—you’re it.” His hand finds mine, fingers lacing tight, and the words land like a vow.

My breath catches, heart pounding, and I lean closer, the static between us sparking. “You sure about that, Klaas? I’m a lot.”

He pulls me in, his lips brushing my ear, voice rough. “I’m sure, but I still need time.”

“Then I’ll give it.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the enormity of what we’re trying to rebuild settling between us. Neither pushes for more. There’s no rushed reconciliation, no desperate kisses, no sweeping declarations. Just an understanding that we’re trying to return our trust.

“Want to go around one more time?” Drew asks finally, nodding toward the ice.

My smile is small but genuine. “As long as we leave the hockey sticks behind. I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one night.”

“I won’t fault you for not having the hockey genes.” He winks while standing and offers his hand. I take it without hesitation this time and intertwine our fingers as if it’s the most natural thing to do.

We step back onto the ice, no longer pretending the handholding is about keeping me balanced. We skate slowly, side by side, not speaking because we don’t need to.

The empty rink feels like our own world, separate from the pressure and expectations that awaits outside. No coaches, no teammates, no whispered rumors or sidelong glances. Just us, moving together in the quiet.

There’s something almost magical about this moment, so different from the dramatic reunion I imagined. It’s quieter and more real.

We complete the circle, and when I glance at Drew, it hits me that he hasn’t asked for another chance. There are no grand promises or begging for forgiveness. Instead, he created this space. This neutral ground where we could just be together.

He came back to the ice. But this time, he brought me with him.

We glide to a stop near the exit, our momentum naturally returning to where we started. Drew’s hand remains firmly in mine, his warm grip solid. Not possessive, not desperate. Just present.

“I’m not fixed,” he says as we step off the ice. “Not even close.”

I squeeze his hand. “I’m not asking you to be.”

His eyes find mine, and the seriousness behind them steals my breath. “But I want to be … better. And I want to be better with you, not away from you.”

I study his face, searching for the mask, the perfect control, the walls that kept me out for so long. I can’t find them. In its place is something raw and honest. Drew without the armor.

“I’d like that,” I say, surprising myself with how true it feels.

Not perfect. Not fixed. But true.

We’re not who we were two weeks ago. And maybe that’s a good thing.

His shoulders drop, but it’s not relief on his face. It’s something deeper. Like he didn’t believe I’d meet him halfway until this moment.

Still, he hesitates. “I need a little more time. This isn’t me pushing you away. It’s me trying to make sure when I show up, I don’t come half-formed.”

His voice cracks a little on the last part, and everything pulls tight.

“Then take the time.” It stings to say, but I mean it. The last thing we need is to rush into a relationship, no matter how incredible the sex is. “I’m not asking you to have everything figured out.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m bailing again.”

“I won’t,” I reassure. “But I also won’t wait while you figure out if I’m worth showing up for.

That lands. He nods. Eyes dark and full of something I’m afraid to name.

Then he pulls me into his arms, and I let him. This time, I don’t freeze. I fold into his warmth, breathe the scent of ice and skin and something unmistakably Drew. His chin rests against the crown of my head, and for one breathless second, I’m steady again.

We don’t speak. We just hold on.

We’ve barely touched the surface of everything that needs to be said. There are still hard conversations ahead, about his father, about my ex, about trust and fear, and the scars we both carry.

But the weight of it all doesn’t scare me like it used to. Maybe because we’re holding it together this time.

Not alone.

When we finally enter the cold night air, stars scatter above like confetti. His hand brushes mine again, tentative and unsure.

This time, I reach first.

And when our fingers thread together slowly, it doesn’t feel like a grand gesture or a perfect fix.

It feels like a promise.

We cross the street in silence to a nearby diner. Some hole in the wall with a flickering neon sign that promises “good eating.” Hope they deliver.

My stomach growls loud enough to echo, and Drew’s mouth quirks like he’s fighting a laugh. “Hungry?” His voice is lighter now, the tension from earlier gone.

“Starving,” I say, nudging his arm with my shoulder. “Skating’s brutal, you know. You owe me fries.”

“Fries, huh?” He pulls open the door, and the bell overhead jingles. “Big spender.”

Inside, it’s half-empty, the air thick with the smell of coffee and burgers.

We slide into a booth with cracked vinyl seats that cling to my legs.

The waitress drops off two menus, but it’s pointless.

We both know what we want. Drew orders for us, like he’s done it a hundred times: two cheeseburgers, extra pickles for me, no onions for him. I raise my eyebrow at him.

“You remembered the pickles,” I say, folding my arms, but it’s not defensive. Not tonight.

He shrugs, eyes a little shy. “You mentioned it once. That diner near campus, when you stole half my fries.”

I laugh, surprised. “You counted?”

“Didn’t have to. You left ketchup smudges on my plate.” His smirk is softer than usual, not the cocky one he flashes at the team. “What’s with you and pickles, anyway?”

“They’re crunchy. Remind me of summers at my grandma’s, before Mom…” I trail off, picking at the corner of the menu. “She’d make these monster sandwiches, all crooked, pickles falling out everywhere.”

Drew nods, gaze steady. He doesn’t push. “My dad was all about PB&J. No crusts, because Jake hated them. Used to make me cut them off for him, like I was his personal chef.”

“Jake, huh?” I keep it light, matching his tone. “He boss you around a lot?”

“Only every day.” He laughs, but there’s something else there, just for a second. “Kid was a tyrant with a hockey stick.”

The waitress brings our food, plates steaming. I grab a fry, still hot, and point it at him. “Worst food combo you’ve ever tried. Go.”

He pops a fry in his mouth, thinking. “Ketchup on mac and cheese. Jake’s idea. Tasted like regret.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Gross. Mine’s peanut butter and tuna. Thought I was a genius at eight.”

Drew’s laugh is low, real, and it hits me right in the chest. “You’re a menace.”

We eat, swapping stories. His thing for dipping fries in milkshakes, my hatred for soggy cereal.

It’s nothing big, just us with greasy fingers and dumb stories, but it feels like everything.

Like maybe we’re figuring out who we are, not the hockey star and the girl with walls, just two people sharing fries under a neon sign.

I pause, wiping my hands, the weight of the night settling in. “You ever think I’m too much? All this—I gesture vaguely at myself—“chaos, sharp edges, messy?”

Drew’s eyes meet mine with an intensity I feel deep in my bones. “You don’t scare me. Not your sharp tongue, not your chaos. Not even the mess you think you are.” His voice is low and raw, like he’s been holding this in too long. “I can’t stay away from you, Jade. I don’t want to.”

My breath catches, and for a moment, the diner fades. It’s just us, and the truth that we’re done running from each other. I swallow, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m not good at this, Drew. People leave. I mess things up.”

He leans closer, his hand finding mine, fingers warm and steady. “If I lose everything else, I’ll regret it. But I’ll regret not choosing you more.” His eyes hold mine, unflinching. “I’m choosing you, Jade. Every time.”

I reach for his hand, fingers brushing his, and the spark is there, undeniable. “Fix yourself, then come back to me.”

“Always.”

I steal his last pickle to break the tension. He doesn’t complain, just watches me with that quiet intensity, like he’s memorizing this moment. I meet his gaze, and for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. This isn’t a fix. It’s a start.