Page 158 of Offside Angle

Where anyone could see.

There’s nothing careful about it, nothing hidden or hesitant. I kiss him with the desperate certainty that the series is over but this isn’t, that losing the Cup doesn’t mean I lost everything. Santi makes a small, surprised sound against my mouth before he kisses me back, one hand curling into the front of my jersey for something solid to hold onto.

When I finally pull back, it’s only far enough to breathe.

He stares at me, visibly shaken by whatever just passed between us, and maybe I’ve knocked his world sideways a little. My chest aches, my legs feel heavy, and that fucking scoreboard is waiting out there with the final score burned into it, but none of that changes the fact that he’s here.

That he’s mine.

That I’m his.

I turn the camera around, hold it out at arm’s length, and take the picture before either of us can overthink it — the two of us close together, foreheads nearly touching, both a little wrecked, both still standing.

The Cup is gone.

The season is over.

But as I look at him, I know one thing with absolute certainty.

I still won something.

No one is throwing equipment or swearing about the bounce that decided the series, and nobody is replaying missed chances out loud or arguing about what should have happened differently. Even Zara has gone silent, standing near the door with her tablet hanging forgotten at her side instead of chasing anyone for media availability or reminding them which camera they need to stand in front of.

The boys are scattered through their stalls in various stages of undress, moving slowly whenever they move at all. The adrenaline that dragged them through the last period has finally burned off, leaving exhaustion behind with all the bruises and aches they could ignore while there was still hockey left to play.

Damian hasn’t said a word since we came in. He’s leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, watching the room with an expression I can’t quite read. There’s nothing coach-like about it now. He’s studying every person in front of him, taking stock of the damage and trying to work out which parts he can actually fix.

Elias is wearing most of his gear and holding at least five teddy bears against his chest, sniffling into one every few seconds with apparently no awareness that the rest of us can see him.

I am choosing not to photograph that, mostly because I value my life.

My attention keeps drifting back to Matteo anyway.

He’s peeling his equipment off slowly, and every layer reveals another piece of what tonight cost him. Bruises are already darkening along his ribs and hips, another spreading over the sharp line of his collarbone, while the mark beneath one eye has deepened from angry red to purple. The cut near his mouth has opened again sometime since we left the ice.

I know his body well enough now that I can tell which bruises were there before tonight and which ones are new. I’ve kissed some of the older ones, and I may even be responsible for one or two myself, which feels very different from looking at the damage left behind by three periods of men trying to drive him through the boards.

The ones from tonight make me want to wrap him in something soft and ban professional hockey indefinitely.

Matteo catches me staring while he pulls one elbow pad free and raises an eyebrow.

I give him a look that should communicate very clearly that we will be discussing all of that later.

His mouth twitches.

Good. At least that still works.

Then Cole stands up so abruptly that half the room looks over. “Soooo…” He stretches the word until even Viktor finally raises his head. “Wedding time?”

For a second, nobody says anything.

Every person in the locker room just stares at him while Cole looks around like he has asked the most reasonable question anyone has managed all night.

Elias is the first one to break, letting out a wet, strangled laugh from somewhere behind the teddy bears before immediately pressing his face into one of them as if that might hide the fact that it happened.

Damian closes his eyes. “Hollywood.”

“What?” Cole says, spreading his hands. His eyes are red and far too bright, but he has clearly decided this is what he is doing now. “Season’s over.”