Page 136 of Blindside Me
I flinch every time Drew takes a hit, my body instinctively tensing. He handles each collision with practiced ease, absorbing the impact and continuing play without hesitation. But I notice the things others don’t like how his jaw clenches tighter than usual, or how his shifts are a few seconds shorter. He’s playing cautiously. Controlled. It’s as if he’s afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t.
The first period ends scoreless. Drew heads to the locker room without looking up.
“You haven’t breathed normally since the game started,” Callie observes during intermission. “Might want to try oxygen sometime. It’s all the rage.”
I roll my eyes but force myself to inhale deeply. “I’m fine.”
“Obviously.” She stretches in her seat. “Nothing says ‘fine’ like watching a hockey game as if it’s a horror movie.”
The second period starts with increased intensity. Cessna University takes an early lead, and the crowd erupts around us. Drew assists on the goal, followed by his teammates crashing into him with celebratory hugs. I catch a glimpse of his smile, not the tight, controlled one he uses for the cameras, but something genuine. Something real.
Twenty minutes and another Cessna goal later, Callie leans toward me, her voice barely audible over the crowd noise.
“So once he figures himself out, are you going to forgive him?”
I shrug, eyes still tracking Drew’s movements on the ice. The way he positions himself between his net and the attacking forward. The precise angle of his stick. He’s playing looser. More relaxed.
“I already did,” I admit.
Callie raises an eyebrow, studying my face. “Then why do you look like you’re waiting for a plane that isn’t coming?”
I sigh, finally looking away from the ice. “Because forgiving isn’t the same as trusting. And because...” I pause, searching for words that won’t make me sound pathetic. “Maybe I want to see if he’ll actually fight for me. Not just punch someone, but show up for real.”
Callie’s lips curl into a knowing smirk. “Damn. You want groveling.”
I can’t help but grin back. “Exactly.”
“And what does groveling look like to Jade Howell? Grand gesture? Public declaration? Diamond ring?”
“God, no.” I laugh, the sound surprising me with its lightness. “Just ... effort. Consistency. Showing up even when it’s hard.” I hesitate. “Especially when it’s hard.”
Callie nods, her usual sarcasm momentarily replaced with understanding. “For what it’s worth, he hasn’t taken his eyes off this section whenever he’s on the bench.”
I glance toward the Cessna bench. Drew sits on the end, water bottle in hand, gaze fixed determinedly ahead. But as I watch, his eyes flick briefly toward our section before returning to the ice. My heart stutters traitorously.
“See?” Callie says. “Boy’s got it bad.”
The buzzer signals the end of the second period with Cessna leading 2-0. Drew skates toward the bench, his movements smooth and confident. The crowd begins to disperse for intermission, the usual murmur of voices filling the arena.
But instead of the regular stats update, the announcer’s voice crackles over the speakers with an unusual pause. The arena quiets gradually as people notice the interruption in routine. The announcer clears his throat awkwardly, and I can hear the rustle of paper through the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, sounding slightly confused. “I’ve been asked to read something before intermission begins.”
My stomach drops inexplicably, a sudden premonition washing over me.No, no, no.He wouldn’t. Would he? No. Drew isn’t into public affirmation.
Next to me, Callie straightens, her expression shifting from boredom to interest.
“What’s happening?” I whisper.
She shakes her head, eyes narrowed on the announcer’s booth. “No idea. But everyone’s stopping.”
It’s true. The usual exodus to concession stands has halted, people turning back toward the ice with curious expressions. Halfway to their locker rooms, even the players have paused to listen.
The arena falls completely silent as the announcer begins to read.
The announcer’s voice echoes through the suddenly silent arena:I wanted to say I’m sorry, but that’s too easy.
Before he says the next line, I know who wrote these words, but I wait. Not wanting to believe. Not wanting to hope.
