Page 11 of Blindside Me
Jade
I rip another towel from the soggy mountain and chuck it at the metal bin. It smacks the side with a sharpclank,then slumps to the floor, dragging my dignity with it. Doesn’t matter. I keep going. Just keep throwing.
Welcome to Jade Howell’s exclusive, punishment-fueled performance.
The place is empty, thank God. Coach definitely planned it this way, making sure I’d be alone. Not that I blame him. It’s not like he wants me anywhere near his precious players.
As if I would want anything to do with hockey players after my last round with a certain cocky athlete.
I grab another stack of towels and shove them in the bin, pretending the sweat on my forehead is from work and not from Coach Howell’s voice echoing on repeat:Stay the hell away from my niece.
Pretty sure the team has that line tattooed on their brains by now. I get it. I’m the landmine. Handle with caution. Like I’m cursed. Or toxic. Or both. Uncle Rick’s rules are just another way to keep me at arm’s length, like the postcards he sent instead of showing up after he left for Cessna. Years of “I’ll visit” promises, broken every time, and now he thinks he can control my life?
I reach for a towel near the bench and freeze. My hand brushes the top of a pair of battered, worn-in skates. They are scarred to hell and look completely out of place in this shiny, new D1 locker room.
These skates have a story. History.
Towels forgotten, I pick them up. For what, exactly? To examine them? Toss them? Set them on fire? Who knows. I should put them out of their misery and dump them in the trash. Pretend it was an accident.
Maybe they’re one more leftover no one wants.
Like me.
Damn it.
I bite my lip, furious, as the weight of it all presses down. But before I can move, a low, rough voice grunts behind me.
“That’s mine.”
I spin. And holy hell, it’s him. Mr. Hotty from the club. In a towel, slung low on his hips. He winces slightly as he shifts his weight, one hand adjusting the towel carefully. I force my eyes up, but they get snagged by water droplets trickling down his chest, slow and deliberate. His wet and messy hair clings to his scalp. He stands there like some cruel, delicious joke the universe decided to play.
My breath stutters.
“What?” I blurt, way morestupidthan smooth.
He doesn’t blink. His gaze stays fixed on me. “The skates.”
Right. The skates.
I move too fast, setting them down, and they crash to the floor, whacking my foot. I yelp, hopping on one foot, clutching the other.
“Jesus!”
He smirks. Of course he does. And why does he have to look so damn good?He’s just leaning against the locker withone shoulder rolled down, eyes crinkled at the corners for fuck’s sake. The asshole stares like he has all day.
“What are you even doing here?” His tone isn’t mean, just curious. And a little accusatory.
That snaps me out of whatever daydream he held me under.
“Community service.” I cross my arms, knowing full well he thinks I’m a stalker. But two can play these games. “Why are you so interested?”
“Because you left me hanging,” he says, stepping closer, “and now I find you in our locker room.”
“Ease the swelling in your head, Big Boy.”
His grin curves like he knows exactly what I meant … and what I didn’t. Great. He probably thinks I meant his monster cock. Fuck. He did have a rather impressive one.
“If you must know, I have to clean after you Neanderthals.”
