Page 133 of Blindside Me
I pull my practice jersey over my pads, and for the first time in weeks, my shoulders don’t feel weighed down by concrete. The guys move around me, chirping and shoving, a choreographed chaos I’ve missed more than I realized.
“Heads up,” Ryan calls.
A puck flies toward me. I catch it one-handed, the weight familiar against my palm. Ryan studies me from across the room, his gear half-on, expression more serious than his usual pre-practice demeanor.
“So…” he says, voice casual but eyes intent. “What’s next?”
I spin the puck between my fingers, feeling the edges, the worn spots, and the weight. A month ago, I’d have deflected. Given some canned answers about focusing on the game and taking it one day at a time. The standard hockey player bullshit we’re all trained to repeat.
But I’m tired of deflecting. Tired of hiding behind perfect answers that mean nothing.
“Trying to win back the girl I almost lost,” I say, the words coming easier than expected.
Ryan’s eyebrows lift slightly. Across the room, Country pauses mid-tape job. Not many guys are paying attention, but those who are don’t bother hiding their surprise.
“The coach’s niece?” Ryan clarifies, keeping his voice low.
I nod once, running my thumb over the puck’s surface. “Yeah.”
“Didn’t know it was that serious,” Country says, eyes on his tape but ears clearly tuned to our conversation.
I didn’t either, not until I nearly destroyed it. Not until the two weeks of silence showed me what missing her felt like.
“It is,” I say simply.
Country looks up then, studying me with the same assessing gaze he uses on opposing teams. “Good. About time you admitted it.” He finishes wrapping his tape and tears it with his teeth. “So what’s the plan? Grand gesture? Flowers? Public declaration?”
I almost laugh at how wrong all those options sound for Jade. She’d hate them. Hate the spotlight, the clichés, the performance of it all.
“Just…” I search for the right words. “Showing up. Being honest. Not running away when it gets hard.”
Country nods like this makes perfect sense. “Soon?”
Adrenaline spikes, and I embrace the rush. “Yeah. Soon.”
“About fucking time,” Ryan mutters, but there’s no heat in it. “The whole ghost routine was getting old.”
I throw the puck back to him harder than necessary. He catches it with a smirk.
Around us, the team continues their preparations. Easton yanks his jersey over his head, his voice muffled as he continues to tell a story about a bartender from last weekend. The freshman defensemen huddle in their corner, nervous energy making their movements sharper, faster. Coach’s voice echoes from the hallway, clipboard already in hand.
I open my locker and begin methodically checking my gear. Skates first, running my fingers along the edges to check for nicks or dents. Stick next, feeling the curve, the grip at the sweet spot where the puck seems to find me. Every piece in its place. Every movement exact.
The routine grounds me, but for once, I don’t feel like I’ll shatter if I miss a step. Even the new skates don’t wind me up.That ironclad grip I kept on everything is loosened. Just enough to breathe.
“If you need backup,” Country says, standing to adjust his pads, “we’ve got you.”
My head jerks back. “What do you mean?”
“If you need us to create a distraction, vouch for you, or just be there, we’ve got you.” He shrugs like this is obvious. “That’s what teams do.”
I stare at him. The simplicity of it shouldn’t rattle me. But it does. For years, I’ve carried everything alone. Convinced myself it was the only way to survive. To excel. To be enough. The weight of expectations, family legacy, and personal demons all balanced on shoulders that were never meant to carry so much alone.
And here’s Country, offering to help carry the load like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal.
“Thanks,” I manage, the word inadequate, but all I can offer.
Coach’s whistle pierces the air. “Five minutes, gentlemen!”
