Page 35 of Offside Angle

Lena lets out a soft, breathless laugh and runs her fingers through my hair. “You’re not so bad yourself, Rivera,” she teases. “Though you were a little extra intense tonight. Not that I’m complaining.”

I smirk against her neck and nip at her skin lightly. “Couldn’t help it. You feel too good.” I pull back just enough to look at her properly, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “You always feel too good.”

She grins, still catching her breath, and traces her fingers along my jaw. “Flatterer,” she says. “But I’ll allow it. Especially when you fuck me like that on the kitchen counter.”

I laugh quietly and rest my forehead against hers. “Next time I’ll at least try to make it to the bedroom.”

Lena raises an eyebrow. “Next time? Bold of you to assume I’m letting you off that easy tonight.”

I groan playfully and kiss her again, slower this time.

God, I love her.

The call from Zara came at the perfect time.

I was deep in the middle of refurbishing my studio, surrounded by half-stripped walls, paint samples, and a mountain of equipment I still needed to organize. I almost said no. Almost. But then I did what any self-respecting photographer would do—I googled the roster. And there it was. Matteo Rivera. My little carino, all grown up and still playing with the same stubborn intensity I remembered.

I couldn’t refuse.

Now I’m behind the glass at the Ravensburg arena with a camera in my hands, watching the Reapers battle the Bastards in the semifinals.

The building is vibrating. Every hit gets a roar, every rush pulls the crowd to its feet, and the boys are playing with that particular kind of playoff desperation that photographs beautifully. Elias and Cole are especially ridiculous together, tearing through the offensive zone with the kind of chemistry that makes separate brains seem optional. I barely have to think. Point, focus, shoot. They keep giving me moments worth keeping.

The Bastards break through on an odd-man rush, and for half a second the whole play threatens to go bad. Mats is the only one back with enough position to do anything about it, skating hard while the puck carrier tries to send a pass across to the open man.

Mats reads it before he does. He drops, throws himself across the lane, and gets his stick flat against the ice just in time to knock the pass away. The puck skips harmlessly toward the boards while Mats slides another few feet on one knee, then gets straight back up as the entire arena loses its mind around him.

Lena screams somewhere in the stands.

I’m already taking the picture.

The timing is perfect—Mats stretched across the ice, jaw set, every line of his body committed to the play. It’s exactly the kind of shot I’m supposed to be looking for.

The fact that he looks indecently good doing it is professionally irrelevant.

Probably.

I lower the camera for a second, then bring it back up and turn toward the stands.

Lena is easy to find between Mats’s parents, wearing his jersey and cheering like she personally intends to drag the Reapers into the final. She’s beautiful when she’s excited, all bright eyes and sharp edges, leaning into his mom while his dad shouts something at the ice beside her.

I like her.

It would probably be easier if I didn’t.

She’s funny, smart, and clearly crazy about Matteo. She fits beside his family so easily that, through the lens, the three of them could have been arranged there on purpose.

It’s sweet.

I take the picture.

Because none of that changes the problem.

Lena hasn’t done anything wrong. She isn’t competition I need to hate, and I have no interest in turning her into one just because she happens to be standing where I want to stand.

She’s simply in the way.

And obstacles are much easier to deal with when you actually like them.