Page 28 of Offside Angle

Then his voice follows me down the hallway.

“Maybe wait until you’re done thinking about me, though.”

My step falters just enough to make me furious with myself.

I don’t turn around. Absolutely fucking not. He already knows exactly where to stick the knife; the last thing he needs is confirmation that he hit something important.

So I keep walking toward my room like the comment bounced right off me, even while it repeats itself somewhere in the back of my head.

Wait until you’re done thinking about me.

Asshole.

The worst part is that I can’t even dismiss it as Santi being an arrogant prick, because I’ve spent the last two days doing exactly what he accused me of. Thinking about him. Avoiding him. Knowing where he is in every room without ever consciously looking for him and then getting pissed off at myself every time I realize I’ve done it again.

By the time I reach my door, I’m distracted enough to swipe the key card twice before the lock finally flashes green, which is just fantastic. Very normal. Very convincing behavior from a man who definitely isn’t thinking about Santiago Vega.

I get inside and shut the door behind me, grateful that Jace isn’t back yet because I really don’t need an audience while I stand there wondering when exactly my life decided to become this annoying.

I scrub a hand over my face and exhale.

This is getting out of hand.

I push off the door and head toward my bed, dropping my phone onto the nightstand. I tell myself I’m not going to think about it. I’m not going to replay the way he said it, or the way his voice dropped just enough to make it feel intentional.

But as I sit down on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall, I already know it’s not going to be that easy.

Halifax wins Game 3.

It’s a frustrating loss —the kind that leaves a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. By the time we line up for handshakes, both teams are drained. Gloves are slapped together with minimal energy. No one has much to say.

I’m probably the most drained out of everyone.

Not because I played badly. I didn’t. My game was solid. But my head has been a mess for days now, and tonight it finally caught up with me. I’ve been quieter than usual. Less present. And apparently, people have noticed.

We head back into the locker room, the mood heavy. Damian tries to lift everyone’s spirits, walking through the room and saying the right things. Most of the guys respond — nodding, throwing in a few tired jokes, trying to shake it off. I stay quiet, sitting on the bench and staring at the floor while I unlace my skates.

“Rivera.”

I don’t react right away.

“Rivera!”

I finally look up. Damian is standing in front of me, arms crossed, studying me with that sharp coach stare.

“What’s up with you?” he asks.

“Nothing, Coach,” I say automatically, already knowing it won’t work.

“Bullshit,” Shane cuts in from across the room, not even bothering to lower his voice. “He’s got the bad mojo.”

I snap my head toward him and glare.

Shane just shrugs, completely unbothered by the fact that he threw me under the bus in front of the entire team.

“Mmm,” Cole hums, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. “Shane’s right.”

Before I can even defend myself, a few more voices jump in.