Page 44 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER FORTY

Drew

My Jeep idles in the cracked driveway of my childhood home, engine rumbling like it knows I am having second thoughts. The house looks smaller than I remember. More beaten down. Peeling yellow paint curls away from the siding like the place is shedding its skin, trying to become something else.

Kind of like me.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, stretching my scarred knuckles across the leather. Fuck. I really hope I won’t need to use my fists. They’re barely healed. Not that I would hit my father. But self-defense? That’s another story.

I should drive away. Go back to campus. Back to the rink, where things made sense for the first time in days.

But running won’t fix anything. Not this. Not anymore.

Number one on my list of priorities is confronting Dad.

I kill the engine and step out. The lawn hasn’t been mowed in weeks, maybe months. Dead leaves still cling to the corners where the wind pushed them. Dad’s truck sits in the same spot, rust creeping up the wheel wells like a disease.

Twelve steps to the front door. I counted them every day as a kid. Still twelve. Always the same. Each one now feels like moving through concrete.

The porch creaks under my weight. The doorbell hasn’t worked since I was fourteen, so I knock. The sound echoes hollowly. My breath catches. My stomach tightens into that familiar knot.

Footsteps approach from inside. Heavy. Unhurried. The lock clicks, and the door swings open.

Dad fills the doorway, beer in hand. Not his first, judging by the glassy shine in his eyes. The gray strands streaking his dark hair makes him look older as does the lines carving deeper around his mouth. But his presence fills the space, making me feel like I’m taking up too much air.

“Well,” he says, voice rough from years of shouting and whiskey. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Dad.” I nod. “Got a minute?”

He snorts, like the question is ridiculous, but steps back to let me in. The stench of stale beer and microwave dinners greets me. Empty bottles and unopened mail litter the table. The TV drones in the background, tuned to some sports talk show.

The only clean thing in the house? The oak cabinet Mom loved. Still filled with trophies. Mine on the left. Jake’s on the right. Balanced. Like Dad always wanted us to be.

“You’re not here for a visit.” Dad drops into his recliner, the leather groaning under his weight. “Coach call you about the suspension?”

I remain standing, hands shoved deep in my pockets to keep them from fidgeting. “Two games. Already served. I’m back this week.”

He grunts. “That’ll look great to the scouts. Hothead on the ice. Liability.”

I swallow, throat suddenly dry. “It won’t happen again.”

“Sure, it won’t.” His laugh holds no humor. “Until the next time someone pisses you off.”

My jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” Dad leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You know what’s not fair? Throwing away everything you’ve worked for over some girl. That’s what this was about, right? Coach Howell mentioned his niece.”

The mention of Jade sends a jolt through my chest. Coach talked to him?

“It wasn’t just about her.” My voice comes out smaller than I intended.

“Right.” Dad snorts. “You punch the guy for fun.”

I glance at the trophies. Sixteen-year-old me thought hockey would save him by taking him away from this house. From Dad. Guess you can’t outrun your problems. My gaze shifts to my old bedroom. It’s a time capsule to a younger me.

“You haven’t touched my room,” I say.

“Why would I?” He shrugs. “Didn’t need the space.”

The loneliness in his words tries to pull at me, but I don’t reach for it. Not today.

“I came to talk about the fight,” I say.

Dad raises an eyebrow. “Guy say something bad?”

Roman’s voice echoes in my head. That cruel smirk. The filth he said about Jade.

“Yeah,” I say. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

Dad sighs, reaching for another beer from the six-pack by his chair.

The familiar sound of the cap twisting off sends a wave of apprehension through me.

How many nights did I lie awake counting those sounds?

One, two, three, four … each one bringing him closer to the version of himself I feared most.

“Look,” he says, gesturing with the fresh bottle, “you know how it is. Sometimes you gotta put people in their place. Show ’em they can’t just run their mouths without consequences.”

My shoulders tense, the muscles bunching tight across my back. This is what I feared. His approval. His reflection in me.

“That’s what I thought you’d say,” I mutter.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I face the window. The neighborhood has changed. But not him.

“You didn’t ask what the guy said. Or if I regret it. You just assumed I was right to hit him. Because you would’ve.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

That line lands like a punch.

“That’s what scares me,” I say. “How easy it is to become you.”

Dad’s face creases with confusion but softens into something almost like pride.

My stomach churns.

He takes another swig of beer, studying me over the rim of the bottle like he’s seeing me clearly for the first time in years. Not as the disappointment who couldn’t measure up to Jake. Not as the kid who flinched when voices got too loud. But as someone familiar. Someone like him.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that wasn’t a compliment.”

It’s not.

“When I hit him,” I say, the confession scraping up my throat like glass, “when I felt his jaw crack under my knuckles … I liked it. Wanted more. Didn’t care who saw.” I look him dead in the eyes. “That terrifies me.”

The room falls silent except for the low murmur of the TV. Dad sets his beer down slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. Then, a smile creeps across his face. Not warm. Not kind. Knowing.

“Of course you did.” He nods, as if we’re sharing some profound secret. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for years. All that control you’re so proud of? It’s just a mask. Deep down, you’re a Klaas man. We don’t back down. We don’t swallow shit. We hit back.”

“No,” I whisper. “We hurt people. And call it strength.”

His smile falters.

“I thought I hated you for what you did to us. The rage. The drinking. The silence after Mom left.” I swallow hard, fighting to keep my voice steady. “But what really scares me is how fast I became you.”

The trophies gleam dully behind the glass. Championships. Tournament MVPs. Perfect, polished moments captured in metal and wood. None of them shows the fear I lived with. The pressure to be perfect. To be better.

“You pushed Mom away,” I say. “I just did the same thing to my girl.”

He stiffens. “That’s different. Your mother?—”

“Left because she couldn’t take it anymore,” I finish for him. “The anger. The drinking. The way you’d shut down afterward, like you weren’t even here.”

The rawness of exposing the truth hangs between us. Dad stares at me, something shifting behind his eyes. Not anger. Not exactly. Maybe recognition of a different kind.

“I never hit her,” he says, voice low and defensive.

“No,” I agree. “You just made her feel like she was always walking on eggshells. Like one wrong word would set you off.” I meet his gaze directly. “Sound familiar?”

He doesn’t answer. Just grabs his beer.

“She left me, too, you know,” I say quietly. “Not just you and Jake.”

His hand stills. But the cold returns to his eyes.

“Made men out of you.”

That statement is all it takes for me to know he’ll never change. Never see it.

But I do.

Coach is right. I am nothing like the man in front of me. Sure, I have had my share of fights, but pummeling Roman was the only one I actually enjoyed. That was because he offended the person I love.

Love.

Yes, I love her.

Why couldn’t I see that before? Jade means everything to me.

The realization hits, and I cannot get out of there fast enough.

“I’m done letting fear make my choices.”

This constant need to prove who we are is what drove Jake to an early death. I won’t let that happen to me.

“You need help, Dad. Professional help. I hope you seek it.”

I walk out without waiting for a response.

The door closes behind me with a soft click, sealing my father in with his beer and ghosts. I don’t look back as I walk to my Jeep. Don’t need to.

I’m moving forward for the first time in years, not away.

Next: apologize to my teammates.

Then: win Jade back.

Not with promises.

With presence.

With truth.

With love.