Page 45 of Offside Angle

I don’t even let myself finish the thought.

I barely have time to catch my breath before my stomach twists again. I lurch forward and puke for the second time, gripping the sides of the trash can because my legs have stopped feeling reliable. My whole body is shaking. I can’t stop it.

“Rivera!” Damian’s voice slices through the locker room.

I choke. The sound that comes out of me is ugly—half vomit, half cough—as I jerk in surprise and nearly inhale whatever’s left in my throat.

“Motherfucker,” Damian groans, already moving toward me.

I hear his cane striking the floor with every step. Then his hand is on my back, firm and steady, the other gripping my shoulder before my knees can give out.

“Breathe, Mats. Easy,” he says, his voice dropping into that calm tone he only uses when shit is actually serious. “You’re gonna choke for real if you keep gasping. Slow down.”

I try. I really fucking try. But my lungs won’t cooperate. Every breath comes out ragged and wet. Tears are streaming down my face—from the vomiting, from the choking, from the absolute fucking mess inside my head—and I can feel them dripping off my chin into the trash can. I watch them fall through blurred vision while both hands stay locked around the plastic rim, clinging to the only solid thing in reach.

“What the hell happened?” Damian asks.

I just shake my head, trying not to throw up again.

He doesn’t push. Instead, I hear him move toward the sink. The water runs for a second, then he’s back. A cool, damp towel presses against the back of my neck, then my forehead. He wipes my face with surprising gentleness, cleaning the mess off my mouth and chin.

“Alright,” he mutters. “Look at me.”

I force my eyes up. Damian’s gaze is steady, no bullshit, but not angry. Just… focused. The same way he gets when Elias starts spiraling on planes.

“In through your nose,” he says, demonstrating slowly. “Hold it. Out through your mouth. Again. Come on, Rivera. You’ve done harder shit than this.”

I follow his lead, shaky at first. My hands are locked around the trash can, but I try to match his breathing. In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. Out. It takes a minute, but eventually the panic dulls enough that death no longer feels imminent.

Damian keeps the towel against the back of my neck, his other hand braced on my shoulder, ready to catch me if I go down again.

I don’t know what the fuck to say to him.

I don’t know how to explain that I just had a full-blown panic attack because Santiago Vega kissed me and I kissed him back, and now my entire sense of self is cracking straight down the middle.

So I keep breathing.

“Alright, that’s it,” Damian says once my breathing finally starts to slow.

He moves away for a second and I hear the fridge in the corner open. When he comes back, he’s holding a cold bottle of water. He twists the cap off and hands it to me without a word.

“Small sips,” he orders.

I want to sass him. I really do. I’m not Elias, Coach. I don’t need you babysitting me because I’m about to have a meltdown on a plane. The words are right there on my tongue, sharp and defensive, my usual response whenever someone tries to handle me. But I don’t say them. I take the bottle with a shaky hand and do what he says, letting the cold water slide down my raw throat in small, careful swallows.

Damian watches me for a second, leaning on his cane, eyes sharp even in the low light of the locker room. Then he speaks again. “Now,” he starts, and I already know I’m not getting out of this easy. “I know this isn’t about playoffs.”

I keep my eyes on the water bottle.

“You’ve had plenty of those before,” he continues. “You’ve played through injuries, through bullshit media, through games that actually mattered. Even in your rookie year you never fell apart this badly. So don’t bullshit me, Rivera.” He shifts his weight, the cane tapping once against the floor. “What the fuck happened that’s got you in here puking your guts out and hyperventilating because you think the world’s ending?”

I don’t answer right away. I take another small sip of water just to buy myself a second. My hand is still trembling around the bottle. I can feel Damian’s eyes on me, patient but unyielding. He’s not going to let this go.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and finally glance up at him. “I don’t… I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Spit it out, Rivera. Now,” Damian growls.

The words land hard enough to knock the last bit of restraint out of me, and before I can stop myself, everything comes pouring out in one messy, panicked rush.