Page 6 of Blindside Me
Coach’s shoes squeak against the rubber as he turns to go. I’m not ready for him to leave or stand here alone with nothing but the sound of his words in my head.
He stops.
“Cut it out, Drew,” he says. “Or you’ll end up worse than your brother.”
I grimace. He isn’t fucking around, going right for the kill. My whole chest tightens, but my fists clench tighter.
I don’t even hear myself. “What the fuck do you know about my brother?”
He’s calm when he answers, and I hate him for it. “Enough.”
It takes all my energy not to snap again. I’m sick and dizzy with it. It’s as if I’m still on the rink, skating laps until I fall over.
But my mind won’t stop. I can’t stop. Not until everything stops spinning. Not until the rage stops eating through me. Not until I fix this.
I don’t say another word, only nod. It seems to be enough as he turns to leave.
“As for coming into practice late, congratulations. You just became the lucky one my niece gets to interview.”
I groan, half hoping he had forgotten my tardiness. “Sir.”
“Be here tomorrow morning. Seven sharp.”
Great. Just what I want. An interview with the coach’s niece. The one he specifically told us to keep our hands off. Not thatthat would be a problem. No fucking way would I risk my chances any more than I already have.
But an interview? Last year was a disaster with the Rumor Has It article. No one wanted to land on that section. I heard they killed it. Maybe it’s back, and I’m the first victim.
Shaking my head, I head for the locker room.
I shove open the door, Coach Howell’s words still stinging in my ears. They cling to me, all hot and suffocating like sweat that won’t dry.
The guys look up from their benches, mid-laugh, mid-text, or mid-whatever the hell. Conversations cut off like someone had hit mute.
It’s time to pay the piper.
That piper being my teammates.
CHAPTER THREE
Drew
“Did Coach rip you a new one?” Blake, our captain, frowns, eyes scanning the locker room as if he’s gauging team morale. “We can’t afford this kind of heat, Klaas.”
“Benched.” I drop my gear with more force, the bag hitting the floor with a heavy, echoing thud. I plop my ass on the wooden bench, wincing as the bruise from that club night pulses, a sharp reminder of my screw-up. My jaw clenches, trying to shove down the heat creeping up my neck.
“Fuck.” Easton’s voice cuts through, a grin in his tone.
“Man’s acting like we lost the Frozen Four,” someone mutters.
“It was justonegame.”
“Yeah, and we can’t afford to loseanyof them,” Blake says, voice steady and calm. He’s the team’s moral compass, annoyingly accurate. “Focus up, or Colorado’s gonna bury us again.”
I glance around. Eyes on me. Some are sympathetic, some pissed, and some blank. I get it. My cockiness blew the game against our biggest rival, the University of Colorado. The same assholes who knocked us out of the playoffs last year and went on to win the Frozen Four.
“This is on me,” I say, jaw tight, fingers digging into my palms. “Won’t happen again.”
“Better not,” Jonas, better known as Country, says with a low laugh. “Not with Howell already on edge about his niece moving in.”
