Page 29 of Blindside Me
Sunday at seven. Not a date. Not a distraction. Just a grade.
But when he looked at me like that … I wasn’t sure who I was lying to anymore.
CHAPTER TEN
Drew
I sit alone in the locker room corner, lacing my lucky skates with the same pattern I’ve used since I was ten: left skate first, three loops through each eyelet, double knot with precisely one inch of lace remaining. My shoulder twinges from that fall a while back, but I grit my teeth, focusing on the tape’s edges. The upcoming game looms, but that’s not what’s getting to me. Nope. It’s Dad’s last call, his voice sharp: “Don’t choke like Jake.” I check my skates, laces taut, then my pads, adjusting them twice, like one wrong knot could unravel everything.
Blake slaps his locker shut, his captain’s stare landing on me. “You good, Klaas?” His voice is low, cutting through the chatter of teammates lacing up.
I nod, jaw tight, but my fingers fumble the tape, a rare slip. “Fine.”
He leans against the locker, arms crossed. “You’re checking your gear like it’s gonna betray you. Relax. You’ve got this.”
“Easy for you to say.” I rip the tape, the sound sharp. “Scouts are out there. One bad play, and I’m done.”
Blake’s eyes narrow, not unkindly. “You’re not your brother. Stop skating like you’re proving it.”
My chest tightens, and I slam my stick against the bench, the crack echoing. “I’m not Jake,” I snap, louder than I mean to. Heads turn, but I don’t care. The pressure’s a vice—Dad’s expectations, Coach’s warnings, Jade’s face in the stands, her trust I can’t afford to lose.
“Then don’t act like him,” Blake says, voice steady but firm. He claps my shoulder, the sore one, and I wince, masking it with a grunt. “Get out there and play your game, not his.”
I nod, swallowing hard, and grab my helmet, the weight grounding me. The crowd’s roar filters through the walls, a reminder of what’s waiting. I’m not just fighting for the win tonight. I’m fighting the shadow of a name I can’t escape, and the fear that one wrong move could cost me everything. My shot, my future, and her.
“Yo, Klaas! Catch!”
“Twenty minutes, gentlemen!” Coach Howell’s voice cuts through everything. Standing in the doorway, he scans the room until he finds me. His face gives nothing away, but I know what he’s thinking. We share the same thought: Don’t be Jake.
He’s not just my coach. He’s the one who stepped in when everything fell apart after Jake’s failure. The one who believed in me when no one else did. The one pushing me to succeed, knowing how much it means to my family and our future.
No pressure.
“Circle up,” Coach Howell says, his voice steady, controlled.
Twenty-four sweaty bodies form a rough circle. I stand slightly apart, not touching anyone, focused on Coach’s face.
“Elmwood is undefeated this year.” Coach looks at each of us. “Tonight, that changes. They’re bigger, but we’re faster. They hit harder, but we’re smarter.” His eyes stop when they reach me. “This is your shot. Make it count.”
The words land like a physical weight on my shoulders. Not “our” shot. “Your” shot. Does everyone know he’s talking to me?
Someone slaps my back. I flinch.
“Hands in,” Blake says.
Twenty-four hands pile in the center. Mine is cold despite the locker room heat.
“Wildcats on three. One, two, three?—”
“WILDCATS!”
The sound explodes around me as I mouth the word silently.
The ice gleams under arena lights as I skate out for warm-ups. Each push and glide is measured and precise. I’m not wasting energy on flashy moves or speed drills. I need to save everything for the game.
The stands are filling up. Section 103 is halfway full. Row G is almost complete. Seat 8 is still empty.
Focus. Breathe.
