Page 66 of Blindside Me
I try again. And again. Each shot worse than the last. My breathing gets heavier as anxiety cools my thoughts. This isn’t me.
I don’t miss.
And I don’t fail.
The sound of a door opening breaks my concentration. Coach Howell steps onto the ice, clipboard in hand.Please don’t call me over. Not today.
Our eyes meet across the ice, and his stern expression makes my stomach drop. Fuck. Does he know? Can he tell I was with his niece last night? That I had her pressed against her dorm room wall, her legs wrapped around my waist as she whispered my name?
He doesn’t say anything, just watches as I keep running my drill. Every movement feels stiff, mechanical. Like I’m a rookie again, overthinking every step.
I try a more complex shot, aiming to roof the puck into the top corner. It misses by a foot, clattering against the boards.
Coach’s whistle pierces the space, sharp and accusing. “Klaas! What the hell was that?”
I skate over, keeping my head down. “Sorry, Coach.”
“You’re telegraphing every move. A blind goalie could read those shots.” He narrows his eyes, studying my face. “You sick?”
“No, sir. Just tired.”
“Tired?” He repeats the word like it’s in a foreign language. “You think scouts care if you’re tired? You think they’re gonna make excuses for you next week?”
“No, sir.” The words come automatically.
“Then fix it. Rerun the shooting drill. And this time, actually hit the damn net.”
I nod, skating back to center ice. My cheeks burn with shame. I never get called out. I’m Drew fucking Klaas. I don’t make mistakes.
Except I did last night. With Jade. His niece.
I set up again, trying to clear my mind. But every time I line up a shot, I see Jade’s face. Hear her laugh. Feel her hands on my skin.
She isn’t the mistake. The mistake is me caving to my desires and taking what I wanted. What we both wanted.
But how the hell do we navigate this?
The assistant coaches arrive, huddled with Coach Howell at the bench. They glance my way and bend their heads together, talking in low voices. Are they discussing me? Do they know I let a woman get under my skin? That I am more like my brother than I want to admit.
Sweat beads on my forehead despite the chill. I wipe it away with the back of my hand, riding a surge I can’t skate off.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
The locker room door bangs open, and teammates start filtering onto the ice. Ryan arrives first, always early. His eyes find me immediately, brows furrowing as he watches me miss another shot.
“The hell, Klaas?” he calls, skating over. “You practicing how to miss now?”
I force a smile I don’t feel. “Just warming up.”
He isn’t buying it. Ryan’s known me for too long. “Yeah, sure. And I’m just here for the ice bath.”
More players join us, spreading out across the ice for warm-ups. Easton nods in my direction, then does a double take, no doubt noticing how off I look.
Coach blows his whistle, gathering us for drills. “Partner up. Passing exercises.”
Ryan slides next to me, bumping my shoulder. “Dibs on the zombie.”
I roll my eyes, trying to act normal. “Shut up.”
