Page 38 of Offside Angle

Then I walk into the room.

“Mats!” Lena lights up the second she sees me and launches herself out of her chair before I’ve even put my bag down. I catch her on instinct, laughing as her legs wrap around my waist, and she kisses me like I’ve been gone for a month instead of a few hours.

I kiss her back, one arm around her and the other buried in her hair, and for a few seconds I forget about hockey, playoffs, cameras, and every other complication currently occupying space in my life.

Then I glance over her shoulder.

And nearly drop my girlfriend.

Santi is sitting at my dining table.

In my house.

With my parents.

There’s a glass of wine in his hand, my mother is apparently in the middle of telling him something, and my father looks entirely too comfortable with this situation. Santi himself looks like he’s been coming to family dinners here every Sunday for the last ten years instead of appearing in my life again approximately five minutes ago.

What the fuck?

My grip tightens around Lena before gravity becomes another problem I have to explain tonight.

Why is he here?

More importantly, how is he here?

I definitely didn’t invite him, Lena sure as hell didn’t invite him, and unless Santiago Vega has recently developed a habit of breaking into houses and pouring himself wine, somebody at this table knows something I don’t.

Santi catches me staring and lifts his glass slightly in greeting, far too comfortable for a man currently sitting in the middle of what feels like a home invasion specifically designed to raise my blood pressure.

Excellent.

Fantastic.

Apparently there is nowhere left on earth where I am safe from this man.

I set Lena down slowly, my hands lingering on her waist a second longer than necessary, but my attention stays fixed on Santi. He’s sitting at my dining table as though he belongs there, relaxed and completely at ease, wearing that calm, slightly amused expression that used to drive me up the wall.

Lena doesn’t seem to notice the sudden tension. She grabs my hand and starts pulling me toward the table. “Come on,” she says, smiling up at me. “Your father made me order the entire menu. I think he’s trying to feed the whole neighborhood.”

I let her tug me along, but my brain is still stuck on the fact that Santi is here. In my house. At my dinner table. With my girlfriend and my parents.

“Welcome home, Matteo,” Santi says, the words carrying the easy confidence of someone who’s been saving them all night.

I don’t answer.

My dad claps his hands together, absolutely delighted. “Isn’t this nice?” he says cheerfully. “Just like when you were kids!”

Right… just like then.

I glance at my mom. She’s sitting there looking perfectly innocent, sipping her wine with the smallest, most knowing little smile on her face. The kind of smile that says she knows exactly what she’s done and she’s not even a little sorry about it.

She orchestrated this.

Of course she did.

I sit down heavily in the chair next to Lena, still trying to process the fact that my past and my present are now sitting at the same table.

Lena leans into my side and starts passing me a plate.