Page 15 of Offside Angle

That wasn’t him.

It couldn’t have been.

Santi isn’t here. He isn’t working with the team. He isn’t going to spend every day taking pictures and calling me cariño as though the last ten years never happened.

My grip tightens around the wheel.

No.

That wasn’t Santi.

It was some random guy with his face, his voice, his smile, and the same fucking pet name that used to make my stomach flip when we were seventeen.

I let out a shaky breath and lean back against the seat, closing my eyes for a second.

This is fine.

I’m fine.

I have playoffs to worry about. I have my parents coming. I have Lena waiting at home. I don’t have time to spiral over some guy from my past suddenly showing up out of nowhere and calling me cariño like we’re picking up right where we left off.

I open my eyes again and stare at the steering wheel.

I can deal with this later. Right now I have to pick up my parents.

I sit there for another minute, breathing slowly through my nose like that’s going to magically fix the chaos currently happening inside my chest.

It doesn’t.

But eventually I force myself to start the car and pull out of the parking lot. The drive to the airport isn’t long, and I keep telling myself that if I just focus on the road, on picking up my parents, on getting through the next few days, then I can deal with everything else later.

I can ignore this.

I will ignore this.

I’m doing okay for most of the drive. Music low, hands steady on the wheel. Then I hit a red light and my brain betrays me.

Without warning, I’m suddenly back on that beach. Warm sand under my feet, the sun setting, music coming from somewhere down the shore. Santi’s sitting next to me on the hood of his car, laughing at something I said. His hair is messy from the wind, his smile is wide and bright, and he’s looking at me like I’m the funniest person he’s ever met.

I can almost feel the heat of the metal hood beneath us. I can almost hear his laugh over the sound of the waves.

The light turns green but I don’t move.

Someone behind me lays on their horn. Then another. The loud, aggressive sound rips me out of the memory so fast it almost gives me whiplash.

“Shit,” I mutter, hitting the gas and pulling forward.

I grip the steering wheel tighter and try to shove the image back down where it came from. I don’t have time for this. Not right now. Not when I’m supposed to be focused on playoffs and my parents and Lena and everything else that actually matters.

By the time I pull up to the arrivals area, I’ve mostly managed to shove it down. My face feels normal again. My breathing has evened out. I can do this.

I park and get out of the car, scanning the crowd for my parents.

I just need to get through picking them up, get them home, and then I can figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do about Santiago Vega suddenly being back in my life.

A few minutes later, I spot them.

My dad sees me first. His face lights up, and before I can even say anything, he’s barreling toward me with his arms already open. “Matteo!” he booms, loud enough that a few people nearby turn to look. He pulls me into a hug so tight it actually knocks the air out of my lungs. I can smell his usual cologne mixed with whatever he cooked earlier, and for a brief moment, everything else fades.