Page 115 of Blindside Me
He’s gone a moment later. The front door slams.
Blake’s eyes find mine again. The playful edge is gone, replaced by something worse: concern. “You gonna keep walking around like you lost the championship or actually do something about it?”
“Do something about what?” I know exactly what he means, but I want to make him say it.
“You know what.” Blake leans back, running a hand through his dark hair. “Jade.”
The name hits like a body check: hard, sharp, and impossible to ignore.
“There’s nothing to do.”
“Bullshit.”
“I made my choice.” The words taste like ash. “It’s better this way.”
“Better for who?” Blake doesn’t back down. He never does. It’s what makes him a good captain and a pain-in-the-ass friend. “Because from where I’m sitting, you look miserable, and based on what Callie told Amanda, Jade isn’t doing much better.”
Something sharp twists behind my ribs. “She told her that?”
“Indirectly. She said Jade’s been spending her time writing or sketching. Something about dark colors and sharp lines.” Blake’s voice softens slightly. “Doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots, man.”
I stare at the muted hockey game. The players move in their choreographed patterns, a dance I know by heart. It’s easier than facing the truth in Blake’s words.
“I said drop it,” I mutter.
Blake stands, clearly done. “You look like shit, Klaas. And you’re acting like it, too.”
He leaves, and the soft click of the door feels louder than a slam.
I’m alone again. Just me, the silence, and the echo of Jade’s laugh.
I drag myself off the couch. The bathroom light flickers before settling. I stand in front of the sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Jesus. I do look like hell between the bruises, a healing lip, and shadows under my eyes.
I lean closer. My jaw. Jake’s eyes. Dad’s mouth. I back away.
“You’re not them,” I whisper. The mirror doesn’t believe me.
I splash cold water over my features. It shocks my skin but doesn’t clear my head. I dry off with a towel that should’ve been washed three days ago and head to my room.
It’s too neat. Too controlled. Everything is in its place except me.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. I still remember the first second I saw her.
Not when I met her, but when I saw her. That night in the club, before the bathroom, before the kiss, before the chaos. She stood at the edge of the dance floor, hair wild, eyeliner smudged like war paint, drink in hand like it was armor.
She didn’t look at me like she knew who I was. Not the hockey player. Not the Klaas kid. Just a guy in a place he didn’t belong.
And God, she looked like fire and fury. Like a dare. Like someone who wasn’t afraid to be too much.
I wanted her before she even touched me. Not because she was hot,she was, but because she looked like freedom. Like everything I wasn’t allowed to want.
And when she grabbed my shirt and dragged me toward the back hallway, it didn’t feel like losing control. It felt like breathing. Like someone finally saw the part of me I never let out. The part that didn’t want to be perfect.
Maybe that’s what scared me the most about her. Even then.
She didn’t want the hockey player. She wanted the real guy. And I don’t know if I’ve ever known what that looks like.
