Page 30 of Blindside Me
I tap my stick against the goalposts, left, right, and crossbar. Another ritual. Another armor piece against failure.
When the puck drops for the first period, I’m ready. My mind calculates angles and trajectories with machine-like precision. I block a shot with my shin, clear the crease with a sweeping check, and position myself between Elmwood’s star forward and our goal.
“Klaas! Loosen up!” Coach Howell barks from the bench.
I register his voice but don’t look over. My shoulders are too tight. My turns too sharp. I’m playing robotically, effective but rigid. The scout arrives halfway through the first period and settles into his seat with a small notebook. I pretend not to notice.
I glance toward the bleachers, but my gaze doesn’t land on him.
It lands on her.
Jade sits halfway up, pen tapping her notebook, and eyes locked on the ice. On me.
She sees too much. I look away first.
The buzzer sounds. Period one: scoreless.
Back in the locker room, Coach makes adjustments and talks strategy. I nod at all the right moments, but his words blur together.
Don’t choke. Don’t be Jake.
The voice is louder now, drowning out everything else.
“Klaas.” Coach pulls me aside as the team files back out. “Get out of your head. Play your game.”
“Yes, sir.”
He grips my shoulder, his fingers digging in slightly. “I wouldn’t have put you on the ice if I didn’t think you could handle it.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Second period starts stronger. I’m flowing better and thinking less. Then it happens. A routine play, a simple clear. Except my pass goes straight to Elmwood’s center.
Time slows down.
The center takes the puck and breaks away. It’s just him and our goalie now. I’m chasing, legs burning, and lungs screaming. Too slow. Too late.
He shoots.
Our goalie blocks it with a miracle save.
The crowd roars, but the memory of the crowd six years ago booms louder.Booing. Jeering. Jake skating off the ice, head down, career over after three turnovers in five minutes.
“Klaas! Get your head in the game!” Coach’s voice cuts through the flashback.
My pulse thuds louder than skates against ice. Every pass feels like a test, and every second feels like a countdown to potential disaster. The scout makes a note in his book. My stomach knots. Is he writing down my turnover? My mistake? Or does he even care?
The second period ends. Score’s still tied. Momentum’s theirs, and that’s on me.
Coach doesn’t single me out in the intermission talk. Doesn’t need to. His eyes say everything when they meet mine across the locker room.
Third period. My legs feel heavy as I take the ice.
The scout has moved closer to the glass. His almost white hair glows against his dark jacket, but his face remains expressionless. The same scout who watched Jake crash and burn. The same one who wrote the report that led to that fateful night between Dad and Jake.
Pressure surges, hot and fast. I nearly miss a line change, scrambling over the boards at the last second.
Ten minutes left. Still tied.
