Page 45 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Drew

I hesitate outside the locker room like I haven’t been here a thousand times before.

The door is slightly ajar, familiar loud voices spilling out.

My pulse kicks harder. I’ve taken hits to the ribs that felt less brutal than the weight of walking in here again and knowing I let them down.

Not just suspended. Not just benched. I humiliated them.

And if I want to earn their respect back, it starts with the truth. No excuses. No hiding.

The second I step inside, twenty heads swivel toward me. The usual pre-practice noise dies fast, swallowed by a silence that lands sharp and heavy.

My throat tightens. Every stare lands like a body check. Some surprised. Some skeptical. A few are unreadable. My suspension ended yesterday. Two games missed. Two losses on the board. Maybe avoidable if I’d kept my shit together.

I move to my locker, the one place that’s always made sense, and sit. The bench creaks under my weight. My back stays straight, my shoulders braced, but my eyes won’t lift. Not yet. I’m not ready to see what I broke.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Ice Avenger himself,” Blake’s voice breaks the silence, his tone light but pointed. “Defender of women’s honor and destroyer of jawbones.”

A ripple of laughter loosens the room’s tension. Someone throws a balled-up sock that hits the wall near my head.

I don’t smile. Can’t. Not yet. My hands grip my gym bag too tightly, knuckles still showing the fading evidence of what I did. My jaw clenches as I stare at my locker nameplate: KLAAS, 33.

“You guys done?” I ask, voice rougher than intended.

“Not even close,” Ryan calls from across the room. “Beaulier’s still drinking through a straw.”

More laughter. I close my eyes briefly because they know that’s an exaggeration. Beaulier’s nose is broken at best.

I push to my feet, clearing my throat. May as well get this over with.

“I owe you all an apology,” I say, the words scraping my throat raw.

The room falls quiet again. Twenty faces, all waiting. I’ve never been good with words, but I owe them this.

“I fucked up.” My voice comes out steady despite the earthquake in my chest. “The suspension. The missed games. The embarrassment to the program. All of it. That’s on me.”

Nobody interrupts. The silence pushes me to continue when I’d rather crawl into my locker and disappear.

“I let my temper cost us.” My eyes move around the room, meeting theirs one by one. “I let me cost us. Two games we couldn’t afford to lose. I put myself before the team, and that’s not who I want to be.”

Blake watches me with an expression I can’t read. Ryan’s eyes stay fixed on his skate laces. Easton’s usual smirk has faded to something more serious.

“I’m figuring out why I lost control like that.” This is harder. Vulnerability has never been my strong suit. I glance down at my scarred knuckles and continue, “And how to make sure it never happens again. You deserve better than a teammate who can’t keep his shit together when it matters.”

The locker room remains quiet. Just the hum of the ventilation system and the distant sound of pucks hitting the boards from early arrivals already on the ice, that for once isn’t me.

Easton leans forward, a smirk returning full force. “Bro, we all knew you were holding tension from Hickey Dick. Should’ve just hit the ice with that energy sooner.”

“Excuse me?” I laugh too, short and surprised, but the weight doesn’t lift. Not completely. They don’t know what it costs. And I’m not about to tell them.

“Dude.” He waves a hand dismissively. “You’ve been wound tighter than my grandmother’s girdle since Thanksgiving. Something had to give.”

Blake laughs, and the sound breaks something loose in my chest. “You’re not supposed to bodycheck the entire state of Colorado, Klaas. Just the guys wearing the wrong jersey.”

“So what was it?” Ryan pipes up, finally looking at me. “His fucking attitude or revenge for hickey dick?”

I stare at him, heat climbing my neck. “That bruise didn’t come from his sister.” Not a lie. “I fell wrong.”

“Bullshit!” The entire room responds in perfect unison, followed by more laughter.

I can’t help it. I laugh too, a short, startled sound that feels foreign in my throat. But inside, I’m flinching. No way am I going to drag Jade into this. She’s not some locker room story for these guys to pick apart.

“Mystery Girl for the win.” A voice from the back calls.

“It wasn’t about a girl.” Entirely. I meet their eyes again. “It was about me. Stuff I’ve been holding in too long.”

The guys exchange glances but don’t press further. I’m grateful for that small mercy. What happened between Jade and me is ours, not entertainment for the team.

“For what it’s worth,” Blake says, rising from his spot to approach me, “that right hook was a thing of beauty.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Ryan groans. “Coach will have us doing suicides till graduation.”

Blake claps my shoulder, his hand warm and solid. “Glad you’re back, man. Wasn’t the same without you scowling at everyone’s tape jobs.”

The knot in my chest loosens slightly. I didn’t expect forgiveness to come this easily. Didn’t think I deserved it.

“Just…” Blake’s voice drops so only I can hear. “Whatever’s going on with you and Coach’s niece, and don’t give me that look. I have eyes, so handle it better, yeah?”

I nod once, a tight jerk of my head. “Working on it.”

Easton’s voice cuts through the moment. “You know the rule, Klaas. First guy back from suspension owes everyone wings.”

“Since when is that a rule?” I ask, but my heart isn’t in the argument. The familiar banter feels like home after weeks of tension and silence.

“Since always,” he insists. “It’s in the bylaws, section four, paragraph seven: ‘Thou shalt provide Buffalo Wild Wings upon return from hockey jail.’”

I roll my eyes, but the gesture feels like stepping back into a skin that fits. “Fine. But I’m not ordering for Easton. Guy thinks lemon pepper is a food group.”

This time, the laughter feels earned. Like maybe I haven’t completely fucked everything up after all.

The guys return to their pre-practice routines. And I’ve been welcomed back, for now.

Not because I’m perfect. Not because I didn’t mess up.

But because I owned it, and that’s what teams do. They catch you when you fall.

That’s the first lesson in figuring out who I want to be. Not the guy who never fails. But the guy who owns it when he does.

Country argues with Ryan about some girl from a party last weekend, while Blake methodically wraps his wrists with the same precise movements he’s used since freshman year.

The normalcy feels like a gift after weeks of isolation, like I’ve been handed back a piece of myself I’d forgotten was missing.

I pull my practice jersey over my pads, and for the first time in weeks, my shoulders don’t feel weighed down by concrete. The guys move around me, chirping and shoving, a choreographed chaos I’ve missed more than I realized.

“Heads up,” Ryan calls.

A puck flies toward me. I catch it one-handed, the weight familiar against my palm. Ryan studies me from across the room, his gear half-on, expression more serious than his usual pre-practice demeanor.

“So…” he says, voice casual but eyes intent. “What’s next?”

I spin the puck between my fingers, feeling the edges, the worn spots, and the weight. A month ago, I’d have deflected. Given some canned answers about focusing on the game and taking it one day at a time. The standard hockey player bullshit we’re all trained to repeat.

But I’m tired of deflecting. Tired of hiding behind perfect answers that mean nothing.

“Trying to win back the girl I almost lost,” I say, the words coming easier than expected.

Ryan’s eyebrows lift slightly. Across the room, Country pauses mid-tape job. Not many guys are paying attention, but those who are don’t bother hiding their surprise.

“The coach’s niece?” Ryan clarifies, keeping his voice low.

I nod once, running my thumb over the puck’s surface. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t know it was that serious,” Country says, eyes on his tape but ears clearly tuned to our conversation.

I didn’t either, not until I nearly destroyed it. Not until the two weeks of silence showed me what missing her felt like.

“It is,” I say simply.

Country looks up then, studying me with the same assessing gaze he uses on opposing teams. “Good. About time you admitted it.” He finishes wrapping his tape and tears it with his teeth. “So what’s the plan? Grand gesture? Flowers? Public declaration?”

I almost laugh at how wrong all those options sound for Jade. She’d hate them. Hate the spotlight, the clichés, the performance of it all.

“Just…” I search for the right words. “Showing up. Being honest. Not running away when it gets hard.”

Country nods like this makes perfect sense. “Soon?”

Adrenaline spikes, and I embrace the rush. “Yeah. Soon.”

“About fucking time,” Ryan mutters, but there’s no heat in it. “The whole ghost routine was getting old.”

I throw the puck back to him harder than necessary. He catches it with a smirk.

Around us, the team continues their preparations.

Easton yanks his jersey over his head, his voice muffled as he continues to tell a story about a bartender from last weekend.

The freshman defensemen huddle in their corner, nervous energy making their movements sharper, faster.

Coach’s voice echoes from the hallway, clipboard already in hand.

I open my locker and begin methodically checking my gear. Skates first, running my fingers along the edges to check for nicks or dents. Stick next, feeling the curve, the grip at the sweet spot where the puck seems to find me. Every piece in its place. Every movement exact.

The routine grounds me, but for once, I don’t feel like I’ll shatter if I miss a step. Even the new skates don’t wind me up. That ironclad grip I kept on everything is loosened. Just enough to breathe.

“If you need backup,” Country says, standing to adjust his pads, “we’ve got you.”

My head jerks back. “What do you mean?”

“If you need us to create a distraction, vouch for you, or just be there, we’ve got you.” He shrugs like this is obvious. “That’s what teams do.”

I stare at him. The simplicity of it shouldn’t rattle me.

But it does. For years, I’ve carried everything alone.

Convinced myself it was the only way to survive.

To excel. To be enough. The weight of expectations, family legacy, and personal demons all balanced on shoulders that were never meant to carry so much alone.

And here’s Country, offering to help carry the load like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal.

“Thanks,” I manage, the word inadequate, but all I can offer.

Coach’s whistle pierces the air. “Five minutes, gentlemen!”

The locker room shifts into higher gear, the last pieces of equipment are secured, water bottles are filled, and final preparations are made. I finish lacing my skates, the new ones I need to embrace, left first, three loops, double knot. The ritual remains, but the desperation behind it has faded.

As I stand, stick in hand, I sigh as an odd twinge settles in my heart. This feels different somehow. Still me, but with a new outlook. Something that wasn’t there before the fight, the suspension, and the long silence with Jade.

Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s just the absence of fear.

I follow Blake toward the door, mind already planning how to approach Jade. Not with rehearsed speeches or careful strategies. Just honesty. The messy, imperfect truth about who I am and who I want to be with her, if she’ll let me.

A plan formulates.

Across the room, Easton’s talking shit about something dumb as usual, but I don’t hear it. I’m already thinking ahead.

Of loudspeakers.

Of crowds.

Of a voice Coach hopes reaches the one person who needs to hear it most.

“Hey, Easton.” My voice is low but sure. “You still owe me a favor, right?”

Easton quirks a brow. “Depends. Is this about wings or about something that’s going to get me benched?”

I can’t stop the smile spreading across my face. “Neither. But I need your help.”

Easton studies me, then nods. “I’m in.”

I don’t say more. Don’t need to. For the first time in weeks, I know exactly what I have to do.

For the first time in my life, I don’t want to be perfect. I want real. And that feels like the biggest win already.

The cold hits my face like a reset button as we file onto the ice. I’m not skating to escape something. I’m skating toward something. I don’t know if I’ll say everything right. I don’t even know if she’ll open the door.

But I’m done hiding. Done letting fear make choices for me. If she answers, I won’t let silence speak for me again.

I won’t leave her waiting in the dark.

Not ever again.