Page 23 of Blindside Me
After my solo skate, I’m in the locker room, gear laid out in perfect rows, everything exactly where it should be. If my gear’s off, everything else is off. I’ve done this routine so many times I could do it blindfolded: same parking spot, same door, and same number of steps to the locker room. Routine keeps me grounded. Focused. And today, I need to focus more than ever.
My phone buzzes.
Dad:Early ice time today?
I don’t respond. He already knows the answer. I’ve been doing early ice since I was fourteen, since Jake flamed out, and the family spotlight swung to me. It’s never moved.
The door bangs open. Blake strolls in, Ryan behind him, a couple of other guys trailing. Tension creeps into my shoulders.
“Morning, sunshine,” Blake says, dropping his bag onto the bench beside mine. “You sleep at all, or just mainline coffee all night?”
“I slept fine,” I lie.
Ryan yawns. “Must be nice. I was up half the night finishing that econ paper.”
I don’t mention that I finished mine three days ago. Or that I’ve already started next week’s assignment. They wouldn’t get it. They don’t have to be perfect. They just have to be good enough.
“Elmwood’s bringing heat tomorrow,” Blake says, sitting to lace up. “Their defense has been shutting teams down all season.”
“We’ve got this,” Ryan says, like someone who’s never had to worry about failing. “Drew’s gonna clear paths for us all night, right, buddy?”
I grunt, focusing on taping my stick. Each wrap overlaps the last by half. Not too tight. Not too loose. Perfect.
More guys filter in. The noise level rises. Weekend plans. Last night’s party. Some girl Country’s into. Stuff I used to care about before my ass got put on the line.
I tune it all out and go deeper into my bubble.
“Hear anything about scouts?” someone asks.
My hands freeze mid-wrap. The question wasn’t directed at me, but it might as well have had my name on it.
“Heard Denver is sending someone to the Elmwood game,” another voice answers.
I resume taping, ignoring the spike in my pulse.
Coach Howell strides in. Instantly, the chatter dies.
“Morning, gentlemen. We’ve got a scout coming to Saturday’s game. He’s from the Avalanche.”
The room buzzes with excitement, but all I hear is white noise.The Avalanche.The same team scout that Jake… No. Don’t go there.
“This is an opportunity for all of you,” Coach says, eyes locking on mine. “Especially our defensive line.”
Easton whistles low, clapping me on the shoulder. “Spotlight’s yours, D-man.”
I nod stiffly. I should be pumped. Instead, the weight of expectation lands like a ton of bricks. Hope flares in my chest, but it’s edged with panic. This could be everything I’ve been working toward. Or the thing that unravels me completely.
“Hit the ice in fifteen,” Coach says, then steps out.
I mentally run drills, checklists, and worst-case scenarios before finishing taping and gearing up. Every movement is mechanical.
“You good?” Ryan asks.
“Fine,” I mutter, pulling my jersey over my head. “Just focused.”
“Don’t overthink it, man. You’ve got this.”
Easy for him to say. He doesn’t understand what’s at stake.
