Page 143 of Offside Angle

He gently steers me into the living room like he’s afraid I might bolt if he lets go. Honestly, he might not be wrong.

We settle around the long table my dad has already covered with enough food to feed the entire Reapers roster, and the conversation picks up almost before everyone is seated. Lucía and Alejandro immediately start talking about Game 5—the noise in the building, Viktor flattening somebody along the boards, the third goal that apparently made the woman behind them nearly spill an entire beer down Alejandro’s back—and my dad jumps in with his own version of something that happened in the second period, which is somehow already exaggerated despite the game ending less than two hours ago.

Within minutes, the four of them are talking over each other with the easy rhythm of people who could have been doing this every Sunday for the last ten years, and I’m sitting beside Santi with the stupid flower still tucked behind my ear because apparently nobody plans to let me forget that happened.

Everything feels easy. Almost suspiciously easy.

That feeling gets worse once I start noticing the mothers. My mom glances toward us while Lucía is talking and smiles into her wine. A few minutes later, Lucía does almost the exact same thing, her eyes moving from Santi to me with that sharp, observant expression she’s always had before the corner of her mouth curves.

Nobody asks why Santi and I are sitting close enough that our knees keep touching beneath the table. Nobody comments on the flower or the fact that Santi has spent half the meal casually stealing food off my plate, exactly the same habit he had when we were seventeen. For a while, I could almost be back at one of those long, loud barbecues in Miami, where somebody was always grilling too much food and our parents would eventually realize Santi and I had disappeared somewhere together.

Apparently the only person finding any of this remotely strange is me.

I move some food around my plate while another laugh travels around the table, and when Lucía catches my eye again, there’s enough amusement there to bring back the thought I’ve been avoiding.

Did they know?

Not about this exact version of us, obviously. Even I didn’t know about this exact version of me until approximately five minutes ago. But maybe they saw something I didn’t, which is becoming an annoyingly common theme in my life.

I glance toward Santi and find him listening to his father argue with mine about some ancient hockey game, completely relaxed, one arm hooked over the back of his chair while his knee stays pressed against mine beneath the table. He looks like he belongs here because, really, he always has, and that does absolutely nothing to make me feel less suspicious.

Maybe they really did know before we did.

“So, Matteo.”

My fork stops halfway to my mouth. I know that tone.

I look up slowly and find Alejandro watching me from across the table. There’s nothing particularly threatening about his expression, which somehow makes me trust it even less. “Yeah?”

He folds his hands in front of him and gives me a look of exaggerated seriousness. “What are your intentions with my son?”

I choke hard enough to inhale wrong, cough into my fist, and immediately reach for my water while everyone at the table discovers something fascinating about my suffering. My mother presses her lips together so hard they nearly disappear, while Lucía doesn’t bother pretending at all and looks openly delighted.

Beside me, Santi leans closer until his mouth is near my ear. “I thought I taught you not to choke on carrots.”

My head snaps toward him so fast I nearly pull something.

Oh, you absolute motherfucker.

First of all, he did not just say that with both sets of our parents sitting three feet away. Second, that means he heard Cole’s stupid carrot comment after the game, which explains far too much about the look on his face right now.

Santi takes one perfectly innocent sip of wine while I stare at him long enough to communicate several future threats, then I force myself to turn back toward Alejandro even though my face is trying to reach the temperature of the sun.

“I…” I clear my throat. “Álex.”

His mouth twitches, and that’s when I know I’m fucked. Alejandro lasts maybe another two seconds before he snorts and drops the act. “Relax, Matteo. I’m teasing you.”

Of course he is.

This is the same man who spent half my teenage years encouraging Santi and me to do increasingly stupid things because he thought my dad’s reactions were funny, so I have no idea why I expected maturity to suddenly appear now.

I glance sideways at Santi and find him still wearing that infuriatingly pleased little smile. Then I look back at his father, who is wearing almost the exact same one, and the realization lands with perfect clarity.

There it is. Mystery solved. That particular brand of asshole is apparently hereditary.

Lucía doesn’t miss a beat. “They were always loudest when they were trying to pretend they weren’t staring at each other,” she says, so casually she might as well be commenting on the weather.

My mother nods immediately, looking far too pleased with herself. “Oh, absolutely.”