Page 46 of Offside Angle

“Oh my god! He kissed me!”

Damian just stares at me, one eyebrow raised. “Who?”

“AND I LOVE HER!!” I shout, the words tumbling over each other so fast they barely make sense.

Damian blinks, clearly trying to piece together what the fuck I’m even saying. “What…?”

“And I kissed him back!” I yell again, louder this time, apparently convinced volume might somehow make the whole thing less real. “He kissed me and I kissed him back and I love her and I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore because I liked it and I’m not supposed to fucking like it, Coach!!”

“Are we… talking about a man right now, Rivera?”

“YES!” I whine, the word cracking at the edges.

He keeps staring at me with the baffled disbelief I apparently deserve. “You’re having a panic attack because of a man?” he deadpans.

“YES!” I whine again, louder, more desperate.

Damian exhales through his nose, long and slow, visibly digging for patience. “Are you serious right now?”

I don’t answer. I stand there gripping the water bottle with both hands, breathing hard, my eyes burning again as the full weight of what I just admitted out loud crashes into me. My secret is out. To my coach. To Damian fucking Kade of all people. And now there’s no taking it back.

“Alright. Sit down,” Damian says.

I move on autopilot, dropping onto the bench in front of my stall without even thinking about it. My legs feel weak anyway. I keep the water bottle clutched between both hands, holding onto it because right now I need something solid.

Damian stays standing in front of me, leaning on his cane as he studies my face. “Are you telling me…” he starts slowly, “a man kissed you. You enjoyed it. And now you’re panicking because you think you shouldn’t have?”

“What the hell do you mean I think I shouldn’t have?” I snap, louder than I mean to. “I know I shouldn’t!”

Damian frowns, genuinely confused. “Mats… why not?”

“Because!” I blurt out.

He raises an eyebrow at me, unimpressed. “Because…? Is there more to that, or just because? ‘Because’ sounds a little insulting right now, Rivera.”

“No! No, that’s not it!” I rush out, already feeling myself spiraling again. “You see… it’s not that. I know you think—oh god, Rivera is a homophobe—but no. No no. It’s just that… I’m a ladies’ man, Coach. Tell me one party, one game, one trip where I didn’t go off with a girl. Hm? You can’t. I can’t. I’m not supposed to enjoy kissing a man. And I definitely shouldn’t want to kiss that man.”

Damian tilts his head slightly. “Which one?”

I open my mouth, but the name gets stuck in my throat. I can’t say it. Not out loud. Not yet. So instead I make a stupid hand gesture, pretending to hold a camera up to my face and click an imaginary button.

Damian stares at me for a second, then his eyes narrow in understanding. “The photographer,” he says flatly.

I nod, miserable, and drop my hands back into my lap. My knee won’t stop bouncing, and nausea is already starting to creep back up my throat.

Damian lets out a long breath and rubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, Rivera.”

“Do you actually not want this…” he asks, “or are you just scared of what it means if you do?”

The question knocks every thought out of my head for a second.

That’s not what I expected him to say. I thought he’d tell me to get my shit together, or to pick a lane, or to stop being a fucking idiot. Not this. Not something that cuts straight through all the noise I’ve been throwing up between us.

I look down at the water bottle in my hands, thumbs pressing hard into the plastic. My knee is still bouncing. I can feel my pulse in my throat.

“I…” I start, then stop. Swallow. Try again. “I don’t know.” It comes out smaller than I want it to, stripped of every excuse I’ve been hiding behind.

The silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. I hate it. I hate how exposed I feel right now, sitting on this bench with puke in the trash can next to me while my coach watches me unravel in real time.