Page 160 of Offside Angle

My knees hit the rubber flooring between his skates, and I start on the rest of his gear before either of us decides we need words for this. There’s still one elbow pad hanging half undone, so I take that off first, then move down to the shin guards and work the straps loose carefully.

His body tells the story of the game better than any photograph I took tonight.

Every now and then his fingers brush my wrist when I move too close to something tender, not pushing me away so much as reminding me where it hurts.

By the time the last piece of equipment comes off, he’s left in damp compression gear, skin marked everywhere the padding didn’t quite manage to protect him. He looks exhausted enough that I want to get him home, feed him something, put ice on half his body and make sure nobody asks anything from him for at least twelve hours.

Instead, I stay where I am and rest my hands lightly on his thighs.

Matteo looks down at me for another moment before leaning forward until his forehead settles against mine.

I close my eyes and breathe with him while the rest of the locker room carries on around us, the silence from a few minutes ago steadily being replaced by arguments about guest lists, colors and whether Cole can be trusted anywhere near a seating chart. It’s absurd how quickly the room has changed. The season ended in the most brutal way possible less than half an hour ago, and somehow these idiots are already debating centerpieces.

Then Cole’s voice cuts cleanly through all of it.

“Hey, lovebirds. You two coming together to the wedding… orrrr together?”

I don’t have to look at him to know exactly what his face looks like.

Matteo lets out a tired little huff against my forehead, but apparently that isn’t enough attention for Cole, because he keeps going.

“Though Lena’s sure gonna have something to say about that.”

“Like congrats?”

The voice comes from the doorway.

Matteo startles hard enough to bump his forehead into mine, and I bite back a laugh as I turn toward the door.

Lena is standing there in the coat she wore in the stands, cheeks flushed and her hair a little messy after several hours of screaming herself hoarse. If walking into a locker room full of half-naked, emotionally devastated hockey players bothers her, there is absolutely no sign of it.

She heads straight for us.

For one moment she looks down at me between Matteo’s legs and raises an eyebrow in mild amusement. I return the look because, frankly, I refuse to be embarrassed about this arrangement.

Then she looks at Matteo, and whatever joke had been sitting on her face disappears into something much softer.

She leans down and kisses his forehead, almost exactly where mine had been a moment ago.

Matteo goes very quiet.

When Lena straightens, she turns toward her brother.

“Problem, Vance?”

Cole’s grin appears immediately despite the redness still around his eyes.

“Nope, Vance.”

She holds his gaze for another second, then reaches over and flicks him squarely in the forehead.

“Good.”

Cole rubs the spot and looks deeply offended while Lena turns toward the rest of the room as if she hasn’t just walked into an extremely strange emotional situation and established dominance in under thirty seconds.

I glance back at Matteo.

He’s watching her with an expression I don’t try to simplify. There’s gratitude in it, certainly, but there’s still some sadness too, along with the remnants of all the tension that has surrounded the three of us for weeks. Lena doesn’t seem interested in asking him to resolve any of it tonight, though, and I like her even more for that.