Page 118 of Blindside Me
Now the skates are just broken. And maybe he is too.
“Be patient with me.”
“Oh, Drew.” The words escape before I can stop them.
I turn them over to see if the blades are beyond repair, and a folded piece of paper flutters to the floor. My entire body stills at the familiar parchment.
No, it can’t be.
My fingers tremble as I unfold it. And sure enough. It’s my sketch of his backside. The one I drew weeks ago, before everything shattered. It’s not even my best work, just a half-finished picture I drew during practice.
Did he mean to throw it away? Somehow, I don’t think so.
I flip it over, eyebrows knitting at the handwritten scroll. There’s one problem. I never wrote anything on the back.
But Drew had.
Six words in his tight, cramped handwriting: “The only one to see me.”
My knees give out, and I sink onto the bench, the skates heavy in my lap. The locker room’s harsh fluorescent lights suddenly seem too bright, too exposing.
“The only one to see me.”
Not past tense. Present. Like he still believes it.
My throat constricts. The skates blur as my vision swims. I press my lips together, refusing to let the tears fall. Several years of my mom walking out trained me well. But this … this breaks something inside me I thought was already shattered.
Those skates tell a story of rage, loss, and pain. But the note? The note tells a different story. One where I mattered.
Matter.
Present tense.
I gather the skates and the sketch, tucking the paper carefully into my pocket. The locker room is clean enough. Right now, I need air that doesn’t smell like him.
I step into the hallway and pause at the trophy case, a twenty-foot glass monument to Cessna’s hockey history. Team photos from decades past. Championship cups. And award plaques. The latest award, the Defensive Player of the Year, was presented to none other than Andrew Klaas.
I picture the day he won this award, his smile tight and controlled. Always controlled.
Except for when he wasn’t. Like the moment he launched himself at Roman Beaulier, fists already swinging. Raw fury in his eyes. The way his entire body transformed into a weapon. All that control was obliterated in an instant.
For me.
A tear escapes, tracking down my cheek before I can stop it. Then another. I swipe at them with my sleeve, hating the weakness.
“Stupid,” I mutter. “He made his choice.”
But did he? The broken skates suggest a man destroying pieces of himself. The note suggests he still sees me as someone who sees him. Nothing makes sense anymore.
The tears flow at their own will. I try but fail to stop them when a presence snakes up behind me.
“You alright?” My uncle’s voice is gruff but laced with concern.
I don’t turn around. Can’t. Not with tears tracking down my face and Drew’s broken skates clutched to my chest like some tragic security blanket.
“I’m fine.” The lie comes automatically.
“You don’t look fine.”
