Page 12 of Blindside Me
His eyes widen for a moment, then narrow. And there it is, boys and girls. The recognition. I’m Coach Howell’s niece. The off-limits girl. Locker room landmine.
I square my shoulders. “Big shot Wildcat, right?”
He arches a brow, sizing me up like I’m a challenge.
My heart’s a riot.
“Why are you in here?” he asks again, closer this time.
I try not to stare at the way his wet hair drips down his neck. Focus, Jade. “Why do you care?”
He leans against a locker like it’s a throne and I’m trespassing in his kingdom. His eyes flick from me and the laundry pile, back and forth, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Your uncle made you clean this place? Harsh.”
I snort. “Yeah, well. He didn’t like me storming out to go clubbing.” Suddenly, Uncle Rick cares after being MIA for the past ten years.
It happened fast. One night, I was living with Coach Howell, back when he was just Uncle Rick and not the Wildcat god, andthe next, I was standing in the driveway with my duffel bag, watching his truck disappear down the street.
He knelt down that night, told me he got the offer.The big one. Head coach at Cessna University. Everything he’d been working for.
My fingers dug into the edge of the porch step. “So you’re leaving?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
His smile faltered. “It’s not like that, Jade. This is a good thing.”
“Just not for me.”
I was eleven. Old enough to understand what opportunity looked like. Still young enough to feel like I wasn’t good enough to stay for.
He reached for my hand. “It’s not forever.”
“Yeah, right.” My voice cracked, and I hated it. Hatedhimfor making me feel small, for making it true.
“I’ll visit. You can come and stay with me in the summer. We’ll figure it out.”
We didn’t. Not really. There were postcards. Calls that came late and ended early. The kind of half-effort love that keeps you dangling but never really holds on.
And the worst part? I believed him.
I watched his taillights disappear that night, tears streaking down my face even as I swore I didn’t care. Swore I didn’t need him.
I got really good at swearing things like that.
So yeah, him assigning me to towel duty? Probably feels like structure to him. Or maybe he thinks it’s character-building. But to me, it’s just another quiet reminder: You were never important enough to stay for.
“Hmm.” Mr. Hottie’s tone is laced with humor, knocking me out of my spiral, but I don’t miss the way his mouth twitches.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Just … didn’t picture Howell’s niece pulling laundry duty.”
“Well, here I am,” I shoot back. “Not exactly living the dream.”
That smirk breaks into a full smile. His confidence is magnetic and infuriating. The towel slips lower, and my brain short-circuits.
“Drew Klaas,” he says.
Klaas.
The name hits like a slap.
