Page 44 of Offside Angle

That’s not real. It can’t be.

The kiss is everywhere—under my skin, caught in my head, impossible to shake—and I’m losing my goddamn mind over something that shouldn’t have happened.

Something I didn’t want.

Something I definitely didn’t kiss back.

Except I did.

For one second, I did, and now my brain won’t shut the fuck up about it.

Absolutely not.

This is not me. I’m the guy who flirts with girls and takes them home and makes them laugh and feels good about it. The guy who knows exactly who he is. Not someone who gets slammed against the boards by another man and gets hard from it. Not someone who lets another guy grab his hair, whisper in his ear, and fucking melts.

I’m not—

My stomach twists violently.

I barely make it to the first trash can before I’m bending over and throwing up. It comes rough and sudden, burning my throat. I grip the sides of the can with both hands, knees shaking as another wave hits. My eyes water. My nose burns. I spit and cough, dragging in air while my chest heaves.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I stay hunched over the trash can, one hand braced on the wall and the other gripping the plastic rim. My head is spinning. Bile and shame coat the back of my tongue, but none of it can erase the memory of Santi’s hands on me or the certainty in that kiss, all that pent-up want finally breaking loose.

And the worst part is I kissed him back.

Only for a second. I tore myself away the moment my brain caught up, but I did it.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my shaking hand and squeeze my eyes shut.

This isn’t happening. My life is not a lie. I am not into guys. I am not into Santi. I am not about to ruin everything I’ve built because of one stupid fucking kiss in an empty arena. I have Lena. I have my parents. I have the team. I know who I am.

So why the fuck am I still hard?

God, I would take the feeling of finals with no goalie over this any fucking day.

I wipe my mouth again with the back of my hand and straighten carefully, half convinced something in me will come apart if I move too fast. The second I close my eyes, it’s right there again.

That night. Seventeen years old. The hood of Santi’s beat-up car, parked by the beach after some stupid party. Music low in the background, the air thick and warm with salt and the lingering sting of cheap tequila. He looked at me differently that night. I knew it. I felt it. And when he leaned in, slow enough to give me every chance to pull away, I wanted to meet him halfway. I remember the exact second my stomach flipped and my chest tightened and I thought, just do it. I wanted to. I really fucking wanted to.

And then I laughed. I jerked back, brushed the whole thing off, and said, “You’re drunk, bro,” even though neither of us had touched a drop in over an hour. Something shifted in his face before he covered it with a smile, pretending it didn’t matter, and I buried that moment so deep I eventually convinced myself it had never happened.

“Fuck,” I curse out loud, the word ripping out of me.

Before I can think, I turn and slam my fist into the stall in front of me. The metal bends under the hit with a loud, ugly crunch. Pain shoots up my knuckles but I barely feel it. I hit it again. And again. Just to feel something that isn’t this sick, twisting panic in my chest.

It’s not that I’ve got anything against it. Fuck, look at this team. Look at Damian and Elias. Look at Cole and Viktor. I’ve never given a shit about who anyone sleeps with. That’s not the problem. The problem is that if I’m not straight… if I’ve been lying to myself this whole time… then everything I thought I knew about myself is bullshit. The way I flirt. The way I chase girls. The way I’ve always pictured my life. All of it. A fucking performance.

And I can’t have that.

I don’t know how to be anyone else. I don’t know how to want anyone else. I’ve spent my whole life knowing exactly who I am and what I like and now one kiss from Santi Vega has me standing in an empty locker room with puke in a trash can and a bent fucking stall because I can’t stop thinking about the way his mouth felt on mine.

I press both hands against my face again, breathing hard through my fingers.

This can’t be real. It can’t be me. This is just… stress. Playoffs. Old memories. Santi showing up and stirring shit on purpose. That’s all it is. That has to be all it is.

Because if it’s not…