Page 123 of Blindside Me
“That bullshit might work on someone else, but not me.” Coach’s voice sharpens. “You’re not your father. You’re not your brother. You proved that the minute you walked in here to face this. You didn’t run. The question is, are you going to prove it to Jade?”
The silence that follows feels charged with possibility and terror in equal measure. The weight that’s been crushing me for twelve days, guilt, shame, and self-hatred, shifts slightly. Not gone, but different. Lighter somehow.
I rise from the chair, legs steadier than I expected. Coach didn’t tell me to leave Jade alone. Didn’t ban me from the team. Didn’t say I was too far gone. He offered something I never expected: a choice. Better yet, a chance.
“I don’t know if I’m enough,” I admit. “But I want to try.”
Coach nods. “That’s where it starts. Not with perfection, just choice.”
I rise, lighter than I’ve felt in days.
“And Jade?”
“Your call.” He picks up a pen, signaling the end of our conversation. “Just know: if you break her, I break you.”
The threat should be jarring, but instead, it feels right. Like proof that he cares enough to protect her. That he’s trying to show up now, too.
“Fair enough.”
I move toward the door, pausing with my hand on the knob. “Thank you. For the second chance.”
“Don’t thank me.” Coach looks up, his expression unreadable. “Prove me right.”
I nod once, firmly. The silence I’ve been drowning in finally breaks, replaced by clarity. If I want Jade, I have to choose her. All of her. The messy parts and the beautiful ones. I have to knock on her door instead of hoping she’ll always be the one to find me.
I step into the hallway, every breath clearer than it was ten minutes ago. My phone is already in my hand before I register the decision. This time, I’m not waiting for her to find me. I’m going to find her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Jade
The parking lot is nearly empty, with just one four-by-four Jeep near the entrance and an echo of wind brushing gravel. I double-check the text on my phone.
Meet me at Ridgeview. Dress warm. Trust me.
The last part,trust me,makes my chest tighten.
I shove my phone into my coat pocket and pull my scarf tighter, boots crunching against gravel as I approach the community rink. I breathe in the pine and cold metal. The lights are off inside, except one: a single glow above the ice that flickers faintly through the windows like a pulse.
I hesitate at the door. Is this some dramatic setup for Drew to tell me goodbye in poetic silence? The sound of blades slices across ice. Rhythmic. Unhurried.
I conclude I’m being ridiculous and push the door open.
The rink is empty and quiet. The cold stings my cheeks. And Drew is already out there, cutting slow lines across center ice like he belongs to it, like it’s the only place that still understands him.
A stick in hand.
No helmet.
Just him, backlit by a flickering overhead light like a ghost I wasn’t ready to stop missing.
He wears simple black sweats and a faded gray T-shirt. His face looks softer somehow, still focused, but not carrying the weight of perfection. If I hadn’t seen the destroyed skates, I’d never believe they were the same person. His T-shirt clings to his back, damp from effort, stretching across shoulders I used to sketch.
I press a hand to my scarf like it might smother the sudden heat curling low in my belly.
A loose strand of hair falls across his forehead as he loops back toward center ice. The light catches his profile, highlighting the sharp jawline I’ve penciled so many times I could draw it blindfolded. He looks good. Whole, even. While I’ve been drowning in hurt and anger, has he been healing just fine without me?
The thought tastes bitter, and I shift my weight. My boot squeaks against the rubber floor.
