Page 41 of Blindside Me
“I didn’t.”
“Funny. You looked distracted as hell.” He stops walking, forcing me to stop too. “Thought you didn’t do distractions.”
“I don’t.”
Easton studies me in the half-light. I look away, fixating on a flickering streetlamp.
“Sometimes,” he says slowly, “the truth is camouflaged even in plain sight.”
“There’s no truth to see.” I start walking again. “She’s just a class project.”
“Right.” Easton catches up in two strides. “And I’m just a mildly talented forward who got lucky.”
We reach my Jeep. I dig for my keys, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave. He doesn’t.
“All I’m saying is that whatever’s happening, or not happening, with you and Jade, it’s screwing your game. And you’re too good to let that slide.”
My mind flashes to Jade’s vision board from our project. The lighthouse on a rocky shore. “Something that doesn’t break under pressure,” she’d said. Her sketchbook full of messy brilliance. The warmth in her voice when she said “all in.”
She wants big things. Real things like stability and clarity. Stuff I’m not sure I can give. And Coach? He basically told me to stay away from her and focus. Don’t screw this up.
What could I offer her besides another reason to run?
“Just don’t wait until it’s too late to figure out what you actually want,” Easton says, backing away. “By the way, I saw Callie at the last game.”
My head snaps up. “Your ex was there?”
“Yeah, but she cut out before the game was over.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“No.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but I know it does.
“Did she transfer here?”
“Don’t know.” He looks uncomfortable. “Oh, one more thing. Blake thinks you’re losing your edge.”
“Great.” Just what I need. More people noticing my slipping performance.
“Later, man.” Easton gives a lazy salute and turns toward his car.
I watch him go, and then climb into my Jeep and sit. I don’t start the engine. The parking lot is nearly empty now. Just me and my thoughts, the most dangerous combination lately.
I grip the steering wheel. The shadows from the lights cut across my face, distorting my reflection in the rearview mirror. I barely recognize myself.
Hockey has always been my anchor. The one constant when everything else fell apart. Where the rules made sense, effort equaled results, and I knew exactly who I was supposed to be.
Now, some blonde writer with sharp blue eyes and a sharper tongue has me second-guessing everything.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, already knowing who it is before the name appears.
Jade:Finished my part of the analysis. Let me know when you’ve reviewed it. I’ve got ideas for the presentation that won’t put the class to sleep.
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering. I should reply. It’s just about the project. Professional. Simple.
But I don’t trust myself right now.
What scares me isn’t screwing up the project. It’s how much I want to see her again. How her text makes something in my chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with hockey or grades or anything I should be focusing on.
