Page 139 of Blindside Me
Because this isn’t a grand gesture made for applause.
This is Drew Klaas, the boy who is terrified of becoming a man like his father, standing under a spotlight and telling the truth anyway.
And this time, I didn’t have to beg to be seen.
I was already chosen.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Drew
The buzzer blares, but I’m already gone. We win, three-one, but the tunnel is the only replay in my head. Her hands in mine. Her voice saying we’re good. For real.
I strip gear like I’m shedding skin that doesn’t fit. No stat or scout matters more than getting to Jade.
“Klaas!” Ryan slaps my shoulder pads as we file in. “Way to keep it low-key. Nothing says ‘I’m focused on hockey’ like second intermission declarations.”
Easton snorts. “The girl I love,” he mimics, voice all high and ridiculous. “Bro, I thought I was witnessing some sappy-ass Hallmark shit.”
I don’t answer. Can’t. My body moves on autopilot. Jersey over the head. Shoulder pads off. Skates untied. The routine now feels like wading through quicksand.
“Leave him alone,” Blake says, grinning anyway. “At least someone’s got balls bigger than pucks.”
Coach Howell steps in with the clipboard in hand. His gaze locks on me. Not pissed exactly. Something messier.
“Good win,” he begins, voice echoing. “Albany kept us honest, but we controlled the tempo. Positioning in the third. Second power play still clunky.”
I nod like I’m listening. Really, I’m counting how fast I can shower and get out.
Coach continues with his usual post-game analysis. I catch maybe every third word. Something about forechecking. Something about the penalty kill. Then:
“Klaas.”
My head snaps up.
“Next time you want to turn my hockey arena into your personal dating show, give me a heads-up.” The edge in his tone softens a hair. Not approval exactly. But not a full-on smackdown either.
“Yes, sir.”
He moves on with the debrief, but his stare lingers even when he looks away.
I shower in record time. Cold water. Quicker rinse. Jeans. T-shirt. Hoodie. I’m halfway to the door when Coach calls my name again.
“Post-game stats review in fifteen.”
“I’ll be there,” I lie, not breaking stride.
“No, you won’t.” He sighs. “Go. And remember what I said.”
I pause, hand on the door. “About hockey?”
“About her.”
What he said back in his office resurfaces:You don’t get to run when it gets hard. You don’t get to decide what’s best for her without asking.
“I remember.”
I push through the corridor to a blur of congratulations, reporters, and a wall of sound. None of this matters.
