Page 116 of Blindside Me
My fingers find the nightstand drawer and pull it open almost against my will. The folded paper sits where I left it, tucked under an old playbook and a roll of athletic tape. I haven’t looked at it since the night she gave it to me before everything fell apart.
When I unfold it, the paper crackles softly in the quiet room. A sketch, half-finished, just like everything else between us. It’s me from behind, on the ice during practice. My number clear on my jersey, but that’s not what catches in my throat. It’s the details that only someone really looking would notice: the way my right shoulder sits slightly higher than my left due to an old injury, the worn spots on my practice jersey that I refuse to replace, and the exact angle of my stance when I’m waiting for the drill to start.
She saw me. Really saw me. Not just the version I present to the world, all discipline and control, but the imperfect human underneath.
My fingers trace the pencil lines, careful not to smudge her work. I remember the night she gave it to me. Coming back from an away game, dying to see her. Warmth filled my chest when I saw the sketch she drew.
“It’s not finished,” she’d said, suddenly shy. “Just something I worked on during practice.”
I couldn’t speak when I first saw it. Nobody had ever drawn me before. Nobody had ever looked closely enough to capture the details she did.
That night was when I knew I was a goner.
I fold the paper again, slowly along the same creases. The weight of everything unsaid presses against my chest until I can barely breathe.
Blake’s words echo in my head.You’re gonna keep walking around like you lost the championship, or actually do something about it?
I grab my phone from my pocket and flip to her contact. Pause. And swipe away.
Not yet.
I open the notes app instead.
I start typing, delete what I’ve written, and start again. Words have never been my strong suit. I’m better with numbers. Statistics. Angles on the ice. But for her, I need to try.
I wanted to say I’m sorry, but that’s too easy.
The words appear letter by letter, my thumbs barging across the screen.
I’m sorry I walked away from Barton’s. I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. I’m sorry I can’t just text you like a normal person instead of writing this note. I don’t know if I’ll ever send it.
The truth is, I’m scared. Not of you. Of me. Of what happened on the ice. I saw myself become someone I promised I’d never be. Someone like my dad. Someone like Jake. And the worst part is, in that moment, it felt good to let go.
You said I was protecting myself by pushing you away. You were right because loving you terrifies me. Not because of you. Because of what it means to really care. To have something to lose.
My dad lost my mom, and it broke him. Jake lost himself, and it killed him. I thought if I kept you at a distance, I could protect us both.
But I miss the way you laugh. I miss the way you call me on my bullshit. I miss the way you see me, really see me, even when I don’t want to be seen.
I don’t know if I’m fixable. I don’t know if I can be the person you deserve. But I want to try. If you’ll let me.
My fingers stop, hovering over the screen. The room feels too quiet, too still for the storm raging inside me. These are justwords on a screen. Words I’m not even sure I can send. But it’s a start. A crack in the armor I’ve built around myself.
I set the phone next to Jade’s sketch. Two fragile things I’ve been too afraid to hold. Neither is finished. But maybe neither am I.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Jade
Drew: Please be patient.
I volunteered to clean the locker room because pain feels like progress, and standing still isn’t an option right now. The maintenance crew already did the heavy lifting, but since I’m used to picking up after the guys, I put my name down before I could talk myself out of it.
“You sure about that, Jade?” Uncle Rick asked, eyebrows lifting. “That was supposed to be a one-time thing.”
I shrugged. “I need the distraction.”
The truth? I need the connection, even if it’s just breathing the same air Drew breathed ten days ago. His text from a couple of days back still sits in my phone, like some kind of pressed leaf. Two words. Polite. Careful. Not enough, but somehow everything. Be patient. Like patience was a muscle I hadn’t torn to shreds already.
