Page 101 of Blindside Me
But I see her face in my mind, Jade, humiliated, cornered, and hurt.
That’s what he wanted. To reduce her to that again.
The ice is a blur of blood as Roman’s fist grazes my jaw. He leans in. “You’re nothing, Klaas. She left me, and she’ll ditch you too, Wildcat hero.” His words burn with regret and envy, like I’ve stolen his shot at Jade and the spotlight.
I didn’t steal anything, and this bastard knows it. “This is for making her feel like shit, motherfucker.” My fist drills his face, and bones crunch. Blood pours from his nose.
Whistles shrill, refs diving in, their shouts—“Klaas, stop!”—lost in the chaos. Hands yank my jersey, dragging me back. Two refs grip my arms, their boots scraping as they haul me toward the tunnel for ejection. Roman’s Colorado teammates swarm him, his nose and lip bleeding, eyes blazing with the same jealousy he spat at Jade in those texts. Blake’s there, his captain’s grip tight on my shoulder, still sore from that fall weeks ago, making me wince, the pain a sharp anchor.
“Cool it, Drew!” Blake snaps, his voice cutting through the rink’s din, all responsibility now. Skates clash, sticks clatter, and the Cessna crowd erupts, wild cheers for me, boos raining on Roman, and a few gasps from the stands where Jade might be watching. A knot of Colorado fans chants “Beau-lier!” their voices sharp, fueling the rivalry. My gut twists as I picture Jade’sface, those eyes that see too much, and the ones I’m terrified I’ve failed again.
The refs shove me off the ice, my skates dragging, the tunnel’s shadow swallowing me. Roman’s glare follows, his torn jersey screaming rival, and the weight of my actions crashes in. Scouts are up there, pens ready to write me off, and Coach Howell’s stare will be ice-cold. My breath catches, heart pounding, not just from the fight but the fear this could be it, the moment I become Jake, the screw-up who lost everything.
A Cessna fan yells, “You showed ‘em, Klaas!” but a Colorado voice counters, “You’re done, Wildcat!” The words sear worse than Roman’s fist. My knuckles sting, fists clenched, as I’m pushed toward the locker room. The rink fades, and the lights become too bright, crowd too loud. I’m left with the truth: I fought for Jade, but also because I’m scared I’ll never be enough. Not for her, not against a rival who can’t let her go.
The crowd comes into focus, though it’s not a good thing. Coach Howell glares daggers at me. Across the rink, Jade stands frozen, horror etched on her face.
That’s when I catch sight of Dad standing there, either mad or proud. I can’t tell.
The ref’s verdict is immediate. Game misconduct. Ejection. Suspension likely.
Venom floods my veins as I head toward the locker room, ripping off my helmet and throwing it against the wall. The clatter echoes through the suddenly hushed arena. The locker room tunnel feels miles long. Each step takes me further from the ice, but the rage doesn’t fade.
Once I’m out of sight, I slam my fist into the concrete wall. Pain shoots up my arm, but it’s not enough. My stick is still in myhand. I smash it against the wall, the blade splintering, matching the feeling inside my chest.
“That was stupid.” Easton’s voice comes from behind. He must have followed me off the ice. His hand clamps my shoulder, spinning me to face him.
I shrug him off, still breathing hard. “He had it coming.”
“Maybe. But Coach is going to murder you.”
I nod once, the first hints of regret seeping in. Not for hitting Roman. He deserved it. But for what it might cost. My spot on the team. The team’s momentum. Jade’s respect.
“What did he say to you?” Easton asks.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Easton studies me, eyes narrowed. “Must have been something about Jade.”
I don’t answer. Don’t need to. He knows me well enough to read my silence.
We stand there in the quiet of the locker room, the muffled sounds of the game echoing from the arena. My heartbeat gradually slows, the red haze fading. My knuckles are raw, bleeding slightly. My lip throbs.
“You’re starting to look like you regret it,” Easton observes.
“I don’t,” I say automatically. Then, quieter, “Not yet.”
The locker room door bangs open. Coach Howell storms in, face a controlled mask that’s scarier than outright yelling. He stops directly in front of me, close enough to watch the muscle twitching in his jaw.
“You’d better pray the NCAA doesn’t hand you down a suspension.”
Silence.
“You think this is what Jake would’ve done?”
The words hit harder than any punch I threw tonight. Because I know that answer. He would’ve done exactly what Idid. And maybe for the first time, I see things through Jake’s lens. Perhaps it wasn’t his recklessness that ended everything.
It might have been his integrity.
