Page 125 of Blindside Me
I understand what he’s really asking. “Now the void doesn’t hurt as much anymore.” I focus on my skates, not ready to look at him. “I had a good heart-to-heart talk with my uncle earlier. It helped.”
We complete a full circle in silence, finding a rhythm that suits us. My legs remember the motion better than I thought they would. Muscle memory for the win. As we start a second lap, Drew’s shoulders relax, and his breathing deepens.
“This is where I go when I can’t breathe.” His voice is low, yet it holds honesty. “When everything gets too loud in my head.I’ve been coming here since I was a kid.” A pause. “I haven’t been here in a while.”
I study his profile as we glide forward. This Drew isn’t the same tightly wound player I’ve watched during games. Nope. There’s a peacefulness to him with the armor removed and the weight of expectations lifted.
“Why bring me here?” I ask quietly.
His eyes stay focused ahead. “Because this is the real me. Not the guy who hit Roman. Not the guy who walked away from you.” He swallows visibly. “Just … me.”
“I like that,” I admit.
Halfway through another lap, something in me unclenches. Maybe it’s the cold. Or his silence. Or just that he’s still holding on. Our movements become more synchronized with each passing minute. The only sounds are our blades cutting through ice and occasional nervous laughter when I nearly lose my balance. No music. No crowd. No expectations.
After several laps, Drew skates toward center ice, where he has left a second hockey stick. He scoops it up and flicks it toward me with a challenging look.
“Wanna try and beat me?” he asks.
I glance at the stick and back at him with raised eyebrows. “On ice? With coordination?”
His mouth quirks up at one corner, eyes warming with something close to the playfulness I’d missed. “You underestimate my terrible taste in dates.”
The word ‘date’ hangs between us, unexpected and loaded with possibility.
A smile breaks through my carefully maintained caution. “Wait, are you saying watching me embarrass myself on ice is your idea of romance, Klaas?”
The heat in his eyes gives me pause. I shake off the unwanted flutters and reach for the stick, holding it awkwardly. “Fine. But when I fall on my ass, remember this was your idea.”
He grins with a genuine, unreserved smile that transforms his face completely. “It’s a rather fine ass. The ice should be so lucky.”
“Ha-ha.” I feign offensiveness but don’t pull it off.
“Come on, Trouble.” He laughs.
Drew retrieves a puck from his pocket and drops it between us. What follows is the clumsiest game of one-on-one hockey ever played, with Drew deliberately missing shots and slowing his pace to keep it fun. Our banter flows naturally again, the rhythm we’d lost returning with each pass of the puck.
And when I finally score a goal, more through Drew’s strategic inattention than any skill of my own, the triumphant laughter that bursts from my chest feels like the first real thing I’ve felt in twelve days.
We collapse onto the bench, breathless and slightly sweaty despite the cold. Our shoulders barely touch, but it’s like static under my skin. I should move. I don’t.
Then he bends forward to unlace his skates, and the harsh rink lighting outlines his profile. I press my hands into my thighs to keep from doing something stupid like touching him. But those familiar movements I’ve sketched a dozen times have me aching to break my I-don’t-cave-to-men rule.
I focus on my laces, tugging them loose with clumsy fingers compared to his skilled movements. Our soft breathing and the gentle squeak of damp laces being pulled through eyelets break the stillness of the deserted arena. This quiet feels different from the silence of the past twelve days, companionable rather than hollow.
Drew sets his skates aside and stares out at the ice. His hands rest on his knees, knuckles still healing from the fight thatchanged everything. His gaze fixes on our crisscrossing tracks when he finally speaks.
“You made me want to be better. Not because you asked me. Just because you saw me, even the parts I hate.”
The confession hangs between us, honest and unadorned. He doesn’t follow it with an apology, promise, or a plea for forgiveness. He simply offers the truth and lets it stand on its own.
I study his profile. The way his jaw works as he waits for my response. The exhaustion etched into his features. He looks both younger and older than his age, vulnerable in a way he rarely allows himself to be.
“I found your skates,” I say after a moment. “In the trash.”
His eyes close briefly.
“They were destroyed.”
