Page 43 of Offside Angle

I tilt my head slightly, letting my thumb drag along the edge of his waistband.

“You could easily flip us,” I say. “Get out of my hands. You’re stronger. Bigger. And yet…” I press in a little closer, our bodies nearly flush now. “Here you are.”

Mats’ eyes flick down to my mouth for a split second.

It’s quick. Barely there. But I catch it.

The corner of my mouth curves into a slow, satisfied smirk.

I hold his gaze for another beat, letting him feel the weight of what he just gave away, then I loosen my grip. My fingers slide out of his hair and I step back, removing my hand from under his shirt at the same time. The loss of contact is immediate, and I watch the way his body stays tense even without me holding him there.

“Next time you come at me looking for a fight, cariño,” I take another small step back, giving him space, “make sure you have one ready.”

Mats lifts both hands and presses his palms hard against his eyes, rubbing them the exact same way he used to when we were younger and too frustrated to speak. The familiarity of it catches me harder than I expect. When he finally drags his hands down, whatever anger was holding him together has started to crack.

“No te preocupes, Matteo…” I say quietly. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“What secret??” he explodes, his voice cracking as it rises. “There is no fucking secret, Santi!! There’s nothing here! Just two boys who should’ve stayed in the goddamn past!”

I step in fast, grab his face with both hands, and kiss him.

Ten fucking years since I almost did this in Miami. Ten years since he pulled away on the hood of my car and laughed the whole thing off, even though we were both stone-cold sober and shaking with it. I’ve remembered that night more times than I care to admit. Wanted another chance at it. Wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t pulled away.

And now I know.

Mats jolts against me, startled enough that I expect him to shove me off. Instead, for one short, perfect second, he kisses me back—desperate and unsteady, answering me before he has time to think better of it.

Then he rips away.

He shoves me back hard, flips our positions in one rough movement so my back hits the boards again, and bolts. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say another word. Just turns and storms toward the tunnel with the devil on his heels, disappearing through the doors without a single glance back.

I stay where I am, breathing hard, his taste lingering on my lips. My hands hang half-raised in front of me, my body a few seconds behind the reality that he’s already gone.

The arena is quiet again.

Too quiet.

My feet slap against the rubber as I shove through the doors and into the hallway, sucking in air too fast for any of it to reach my lungs. The kiss burns across my mouth. I can feel the pressure of Santi’s lips, his hands holding my face with infuriating certainty, and that split second when I kissed him back. My heart is hammering painfully against my ribs.

This is not happening.

I storm into the locker room because I don’t know where else to go. It’s empty this early, thank God, the lights dim and the air thick with old gear and cleaner. I pace straight past the stalls, dragging shaking hands through my hair.

That didn’t happen. It was nothing. Fucking nothing.

Every breath comes short and useless. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, desperate to scrub the last ten minutes out of my brain. My dick is half-hard in my jeans, which makes everything infinitely worse.

Adrenaline. That’s all it is. The fight. Being pissed off. It doesn’t mean anything.

I’m not—I’m not into that.

I like women. I love women. I have Lena. I have a whole fucking life that makes sense, and I am not about to blow it up because Santi fucking Vega decided to show up and—

What the fuck.

What the actual fuck.

I keep pacing, boots loud against the floor. My chest is too tight, my skin too hot, and his taste refuses to leave my mouth.