Page 161 of Offside Angle

Matteo must notice me watching because his hand comes around the back of my neck, his fingers squeezing gently once before staying there.

Then Damian finally pushes himself away from the wall. “Alright.” He doesn’t raise his voice much, but somehow it cuts through three simultaneous conversations about alcohol, flowers and whether Viktor is allowed to veto decorative candles. “If we’re actually doing this, we’re doing it with some structure.” He points his cane toward Cole. “You are not planning an entire wedding on adrenaline and spite.”

“That’s actually most of my personality.”

“I’m aware. Sit down.”

Cole opens his mouth, presumably to challenge the man who controls his ice time, but Viktor puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls him back onto the bench before he gets the chance.

Damian continues like this is now somehow his responsibility. “Someone get a phone out and start a note. Dates, guest list, budget. Figure out what you actually want before twenty people start suggesting venues, and for the love of God, nobody is getting married in this locker room.”

Cole mutters something under his breath.

“What was that, Hollywood?”

“Nothing, Coach.”

“Thought so.”

Within seconds, phones appear and the arguing resumes with slightly more organization, which I suppose means Damian has accomplished something.

I stop paying attention.

Matteo is sitting in front of me with one hand resting at the back of my neck, and up close the damage from tonight looks even worse. “Take me home,” he says quietly.

The request does something unpleasantly tender to me, so naturally I refuse to acknowledge that.

Instead, I raise an eyebrow. “You’re going to stink up my car.”

His mouth curves, small and tired but real. “Open the windows.”

“Or you could shower first.”

Matteo considers that while his thumb moves once against the back of my neck, and when his eyes meet mine again there’s something warmer beneath the exhaustion. “Or you could give me a bath when we get home.”

Well, that changes things.

I look at him for a moment, already picturing warm water, every bruise I’ll have to avoid, his ridiculous body stretched out in the bathtub while I get to take care of him without pretending that isn’t exactly what I want to do.

I reach up and brush my thumb carefully beneath the cut near Matteo’s mouth, avoiding the split skin.

“Alright,” I say, quieter now. “Let’s get you out of here.”

He changes into sweats with slow, deliberate movements, favoring his left side whenever he bends too far. By the time he’s dressed, the wedding planning behind us has somehow progressed to an argument about venues and whether Cole is allowed final say over the bar menu.

I take my camera back from Zara with a quiet thanks.

She looks from me to Matteo, then gives me the kind of knowing expression I have no intention of acknowledging.

“Go,” she says, waving us toward the door.

I don’t argue.

Matteo doesn’t either, which might be the clearest indication yet that he’s exhausted.

We make it to the parking garage without him trying to carry his own bag, complain about me hovering, or insist he is perfectly capable of opening doors by himself. When I open the passenger side for him, he simply lowers himself into the seat and lets me close it behind him.

I smile before I can stop myself.