Page 24 of Blindside Me
Out on the ice, I start my warm-up laps. The cold burns my lungs in a way that feels right. I push harder into the turns, everything sharp and controlled.
Coach blows his whistle and outlines practice, which includes passing drills, defensive scenarios, and conditioning. Standard stuff. But today, nothing feels standard.
I partner with Ryan. The first pass is off target. I adjust. The second is better, but not perfect. We keep going, but my frustration builds.
Then he sends one wide. I reach, miss, and snap. “Get your head in the game! That’s JV-level passing, Sorenson.”
The rink goes still. Ryan looks stunned. Blake pauses.
“Klaas!” Coach barks. “A word.”
I skate over.
“What was that?”
“The pass was sloppy,” I say defensively. “We can’t afford sloppy.”
Coach studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You know what scouts look for, Klaas? Beyond skill.Leadership. How you handle pressure.” He leans in. “Right now, you’re showing them you crack.”
The words knock the air out of me.
“You’ve got talent,” he continues. “But talent means nothing if you can’t be part of a team. Fix it. Now.”
Shame twists low in my gut. He’s right, and that makes it worse.
I nod and skate back.
“Sorry,” I mutter to Ryan. “Let’s rerun it.”
He nods, but something’s changed.
The rest of the practice is a blur of drills and corrections. I push myself to be the teammate I’m supposed to be.
But then I catch the sight of a blonde-haired and blue-eyed woman sitting in the bleachers with a notebook nestled on her lap.
Jade Howell.
Practice is closed. Always have been. Players, coaches, and trainers are all that’s allowed. Until now, apparently.
I push harder and try to block her out. Stick handling. Edge work. These basics have been drilled into me since I was six years old. I refuse to look at the bleachers again. She doesn’t matter. She’s not important. Whatever she’s writing, whoever she’s watching, it shouldn’t affect me.
But it does.
One glance.
She’s not writing, just watching.
“Ready, Klaas?” Coach calls.
I snap back to attention, nodding sharply. The whistle blows. We launch into the drill. I collect a pass from our goalie and scan for an outlet. Ryan’s cut through the neutral zone is perfect. I send the puck his way, or try to.
The pass slides between my skates, skittering uselessly across the ice. It’s a rookie mistake. The kind that makes coachesquestion your consistency. The kind that makes scouts look elsewhere.
“Focus, Klaas!”
Heat crawls up my neck. I force a reset. Nail the next pass. And the next.
Still, I look.
