Page 7 of Blindside Me
I peel off my damp shirt, the motion tugging at the bruise, making me hiss under my breath. Of course, someone brings her up.
“Wait, that’s real?” Easton perks up, like a dog hearing a treat jar. “Heard she’s wild.”
“Think we’ll meet her?” another guy asks.
“Don’t evenlookin her direction unless you want to skate with no balls,” Blake says, voice firm. “Coach was dead serious.”
I focus on unlacing my worn-out skates, pretending I don’t care. I do. But I can’t show it. Ryan’s still watching like a mother hen.
“Wild or not,” someone mutters. “not worth dying over.”
“Or getting benched for,” Ryan, my other roommate, adds.
The room shifts, uneasy.
I snort. “It’s not about her. I got into a fight. Big deal.”
“With our rival, dumbass.” Blake really can be annoying at times.
“And you hooked up with his sister,” Easton chimes in.
“Not like Iknew,” I say, shrugging. “She came onto me.”
“You told him, what was it…” Blake taps his lips with his finger before dead-eyeing me. “She went hard on you?”
I shrug. “Just telling the truth.”
Blake snorts. “You’re a dumbass.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious.” I toss my skates aside like they personally offended me.
“Better watch it. Those things are barely held together.” Blake points at my tattered skates, wearing his signature smirk.
I grunt. But he isn’t wrong. Doesn’t change anything, though. These are my good luck charms. Way better than the new ones collecting dust at the back of my locker.
The room drifts back to low chatter, but I feel the glances. The judgment. The disappointment no one says out loud.
I lean forward, elbows to knees, sweat dripping from my hair onto the floor. My chest is still tight. Maybe it’s not just the practice.
It’s the weight.
The expectations.
The comparisons.
You’ll end up worse than your brother.
That one stings. Maybe Coach knew exactly where to aim. Jake Klaas, the family legend, the golden boy who burned out faster than a cheap lighter. The one everyone compares me to behind whispers of regret and loss potential. And I’m the unlucky bastard wearing his name on my back, like a ticking time bomb.
I’ve spent years proving I’m not him. Not another cautionary tale. Not another fuck-up with a temper and something to prove. But lately?
Lately, I’m not so sure.
I wipe the sweat off my face, breathing slow.
No more partying. No more girls.
Focus on the future.
