Page 46 of Blindside Me (Cessna U Hockey #3)

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Jade

There is a crackle in the air, the kind that makes your skin feel too tight for your bones. The crowd buzzes with excitement, but all the noise washes over me like static.

I tug my sleeves over my wrists, fingers twitching with nerves I can’t explain away. I should be focused on the game, on the ice, but my eyes find him instantly. Drew. Gliding across the rink with that same calculated precision, like every movement is another item checked off his mental list.

Warm-up drill. Check.

Wrist shot. Check.

Avoid looking at the stands where I’m sitting. Double-check.

He hasn’t looked this way once, and I hate how badly I wish he would.

“Could you be any more obvious?” Callie smirks, nudging my ribs with her elbow. Amanda and Maddy laugh beside her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I lift my hot chocolate to my lips, hoping the cup hides my expression.

“Sure.” She rolls her eyes. “You haven’t blinked since he skated out.”

My gaze drifts to the section behind the visitor’s bench. Three men in suits clutch notepads. Scouts. Of course, there would be scouts for Drew’s first game back. The universe loves its cruel timing.

“I’m just checking out the competition,” I lie, fidgeting with my sleeve. “Research.”

“Right. For what exactly? Your nonexistent hockey blog?”

I don’t answer, too caught up in watching Drew’s warm-up routine. The tension in his shoulders is visible even from here. That slight hunch that appears when he’s overthinking everything. I’ve sketched that posture enough times to recognize it in my sleep.

A cluster of players converges at center ice. Drew hangs back, tapping his stick twice against the ice before joining them. His ritual. Always the same. Two taps. Right foot forward first. Head roll to loosen his neck.

“Seriously, what’s the deal with you two anyway? Are you together-together, or what?” Maddy asks.

I tear my eyes away from the ice. “It’s … complicated.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we’re talking. Kind of. He texted before the game.”

“Ooh, sexting before puck drop?” Callie’s eyebrows wiggle suggestively.

I snort. “Hardly. Just ‘I’m thinking of you.’”

“That’s it?” Her face falls comically. “I was hoping for at least some eggplant emojis.”

Maddy leans forward. “Or at least the water droplets emoji. As in I’m going to make you?—”

“We get it,” Amanda laughs, shoving Maddy’s arm.

“It’s Drew. I’m shocked he used a contraction,” I say, deflecting.

But the truth is, those four words rattled around in my chest all morning. Not because they were particularly romantic, but because they were real. No grand declarations. No desperate pleas. Just Drew, acknowledging the space between us while still reaching across it.

The players disperse for final warm-ups. Drew skates backward, eyes focused on the drill unfolding before him. He looks good on the ice. Healthy. Whole. Like the past two weeks never happened.

“So what are you, then?” Maddy persists. “Friends with benefits? Star-crossed lovers? Two idiots who can’t admit they’re crazy about each other?”

“We’re … figuring it out.” My voice stays steady, but my hands betray me, trembling slightly against the Styrofoam cup. “It’s not like he’s my boyfriend. We haven’t had that talk.”

“Only sex?”

“Callie!” I hiss, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.

“What? It’s a valid question. I know you miss being dick drunk.”

True story.

“He needs to take time to figure himself out, and I’m giving it to him. His small texts remind me he’s trying. That he still cares. I won’t push. I’ll wait.”

Callie smiles but remains quiet.

The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of warm-ups. Both teams file toward their respective tunnels. Drew’s the last to leave the ice, his gaze sweeping across the stands once before disappearing.

“He’s looking for you,” Callie says quietly.

“Or checking the crowd size.” I take another sip of lukewarm hot chocolate.

“You’re impossible.”

The teams return moments later, lining up for the national anthem. Drew stands tall, eyes fixed ahead, that perfect mask of concentration back in place. The puck drops, and the game erupts in a crash of bodies against the boards.

I flinch every time Drew takes a hit, my body instinctively tensing.

He handles each collision with practiced ease, absorbing the impact and continuing play without hesitation.

But I notice the things others don’t like how his jaw clenches tighter than usual, or how his shifts are a few seconds shorter.

He’s playing cautiously. Controlled. It’s as if he’s afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t.

The first period ends scoreless. Drew heads to the locker room without looking up.

“You haven’t breathed normally since the game started,” Callie observes during intermission. “Might want to try oxygen sometime. It’s all the rage.”

I roll my eyes but force myself to inhale deeply. “I’m fine.”

“Obviously.” She stretches in her seat. “Nothing says ‘fine’ like watching a hockey game as if it’s a horror movie.”

The second period starts with increased intensity.

Cessna University takes an early lead, and the crowd erupts around us.

Drew assists on the goal, followed by his teammates crashing into him with celebratory hugs.

I catch a glimpse of his smile, not the tight, controlled one he uses for the cameras, but something genuine. Something real.

Twenty minutes and another Cessna goal later, Callie leans toward me, her voice barely audible over the crowd noise.

“So once he figures himself out, are you going to forgive him?”

I shrug, eyes still tracking Drew’s movements on the ice. The way he positions himself between his net and the attacking forward. The precise angle of his stick. He’s playing looser. More relaxed.

“I already did,” I admit.

Callie raises an eyebrow, studying my face. “Then why do you look like you’re waiting for a plane that isn’t coming?”

I sigh, finally looking away from the ice. “Because forgiving isn’t the same as trusting. And because...” I pause, searching for words that won’t make me sound pathetic. “Maybe I want to see if he’ll actually fight for me. Not just punch someone, but show up for real.”

Callie’s lips curl into a knowing smirk. “Damn. You want groveling.”

I can’t help but grin back. “Exactly.”

“And what does groveling look like to Jade Howell? Grand gesture? Public declaration? Diamond ring?”

“God, no.” I laugh, the sound surprising me with its lightness. “Just ... effort. Consistency. Showing up even when it’s hard.” I hesitate. “Especially when it’s hard.”

Callie nods, her usual sarcasm momentarily replaced with understanding. “For what it’s worth, he hasn’t taken his eyes off this section whenever he’s on the bench.”

I glance toward the Cessna bench. Drew sits on the end, water bottle in hand, gaze fixed determinedly ahead. But as I watch, his eyes flick briefly toward our section before returning to the ice. My heart stutters traitorously.

“See?” Callie says. “Boy’s got it bad.”

The buzzer signals the end of the second period with Cessna leading 2-0. Drew skates toward the bench, his movements smooth and confident. The crowd begins to disperse for intermission, the usual murmur of voices filling the arena.

But instead of the regular stats update, the announcer’s voice crackles over the speakers with an unusual pause. The arena quiets gradually as people notice the interruption in routine. The announcer clears his throat awkwardly, and I can hear the rustle of paper through the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, sounding slightly confused. “I’ve been asked to read something before intermission begins.”

My stomach drops inexplicably, a sudden premonition washing over me. No, no, no. He wouldn’t. Would he? No. Drew isn’t into public affirmation.

Next to me, Callie straightens, her expression shifting from boredom to interest.

“What’s happening?” I whisper.

She shakes her head, eyes narrowed on the announcer’s booth. “No idea. But everyone’s stopping.”

It’s true. The usual exodus to concession stands has halted, people turning back toward the ice with curious expressions. Halfway to their locker rooms, even the players have paused to listen.

The arena falls completely silent as the announcer begins to read.

The announcer’s voice echoes through the suddenly silent arena: I wanted to say I’m sorry, but that’s too easy.

Before he says the next line, I know who wrote these words, but I wait. Not wanting to believe. Not wanting to hope.

I’m sorry I walked away from Barton’s. I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. I’m sorry I can’t just text you like a normal person instead of writing this note. I don’t know if I’ll ever send it.

My body locks. Every molecule in me freezes.

No. He didn’t.

The words ripple through the crowd, but they’re aimed at me. They pierce through the air, the noise, and the ache I’ve been trying so hard to dull.

“I didn’t lose control because I’m broken. I lost it because I’m afraid of losing the one person who sees me even when I can’t stand myself.”

“I ghosted her because I thought she deserved better. But better isn’t perfect. It’s real. And I want real with her.”

Callie’s hand clamps down on my arm. “Oh my god,” she whisper-hisses. “He’s doing this. Right now. For you.”

My brain short-circuits. Thousands of people, scouts, teammates, everyone is listening. Watching.

And he’s confessing to all of them. Confessing to me.

The announcer keeps reading.

“This isn’t a stunt. This is just me, asking the girl I love to know it out loud. In front of everyone.”

Love.

The word detonates inside my chest.

I blink hard. Someone behind me gasps. Somewhere else, a girl sighs like she’s watching a romcom in real-time.

I scan the bench. Drew’s not there.

Oh no. Oh—God.

“Everyone’s looking at us,” Callie mutters. “Like the entire arena.”

Amanda and Maddie sit there shell-shocked, a permanent smile etched on their faces. But they’re staring along with everyone else.

Because Callie’s right. Heads are turning. The buzz has shifted. All eyes lock in on our section. On me.

My stomach flips.

“Move, idiot,” Callie nudges me harder this time, her voice urgent and low. “Before he thinks you’re saying no with your silence.”

I should sit still. Hide. Vanish.

But I can’t.

He said it. Out loud. In front of everyone. He risked everything, his reputation, his draft potential, his carefully constructed image, for this moment. For me.

If I stay frozen, if I let my fear win again, what does that say about me?

Maybe showing up means more than standing on the sidelines and hoping he proves something.

Maybe it means walking, on shaky legs and breath that won’t smooth out, toward the person already showing up for me.

I stand.

Gasps ripple as I move down the steps. Someone whispers, “That’s her.”

Another voice, “Get it, girl.”

I tune it all out. One foot, then the other.

I’m not running. I’m choosing.

The crowd parts like I’m part of the show. The security guards at the tunnel exchange glances before stepping aside. One nods. They already know who I am. I guess I’ve been expected.

The tunnel swallows me into the shadows. My eyes adjust to find Drew pacing in full gear, helmet off, hands raking through already-wrecked hair. He looks like he’s about to throw up or sprint onto the ice and pretend this never happened.

Then he sees me. And he stops. Like I’ve pressed pause on his entire world.

“Hey,” he says. Just that.

But it’s his voice that gets me. It’s rough and uncertain.

He just confessed his love in front of scouts, coaches, and an entire fan section, and now he’s nervous about me .

It’s so perfectly, absurdly Drew that something breaks loose in my chest. All the fear, all the hurt, and all the uncertainty dissolving into nothing.

I walk the last five steps and kiss him.

No hesitation. No speech. Just lips on lips and hands gripping his jersey because I need to feel that this is real.

He’s cold and warm all at once. Still. Then moving. Then wrapping his arms around me like I’m something he doesn’t ever want to let go of again.

When I pull back, his eyes are wide, searching mine for confirmation that this is real.

“You’re still an idiot,” I whisper, unable to keep the smile from my voice.

His grin splits wide. “But your idiot?”

“Yeah,” I breathe. “But don’t get cocky. That stunt bought you one point. You’ve got three more to go.”

“I’ve got a list,” he says, eyes dancing. “Number two involves your uncle.”

Before I can ask, a familiar shout echoes from deep in the tunnel.

“Klaas! You’ve got ten seconds to get your ass back to the lockers before I bench you for the rest of the damn season!”

Drew winces. “That’s item three, actually.”

I laugh and shove his chest. “Go. Before he storms out here and murders you.”

He backs away, but not before gripping my hand. “Are we good?”

I meet his gaze, steady and open.

“Yeah. We’re good,” I say softly. “But don’t stop fighting.”

He nods and squeezes my hand before releasing it. “I’ll find you after.”

“You better,” I call after him as he jogs down the tunnel.

I linger in the shadows, calm nowhere in sight, my lips tingling from his kiss.

The overhead lights of the arena spill back into the hallway. The crowd is murmuring again, half buzz, half disbelief. But I don’t care.

Let them stare.

Let them whisper about the girl who brought one of the team’s top players to his knees.

Because this isn’t a grand gesture made for applause.

This is Drew Klaas, the boy who is terrified of becoming a man like his father, standing under a spotlight and telling the truth anyway.

And this time, I didn’t have to beg to be seen.

I was already chosen.