Page 47 of Offside Angle

“I’ve never…” I mutter. “I’ve never even let myself think about it. Not really. Not like this. And now it’s just… it’s everywhere. And I kissed him back. I liked it. And I don’t know what the fuck that makes me.”

I drag a hand through my hair, frustrated.

“I have Lena,” I say, more to remind myself than him. “I love her. I do. She’s good for me. She fits. And now I’m sitting here living out some fucking cliché because one guy kissed me and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

I let out a shaky breath and finally look back up at Damian.

“I don’t know what I want,” I admit quietly. “And that’s the part that’s scaring the shit out of me.”

Damian watches me for another few seconds before asking, “Have you ever kissed another man before?”

I shake my head immediately. “No. Never. Not once.”

He nods, apparently finding something in that answer that confirms whatever theory he’s building, which already makes me nervous.

“Alright. Then tell me this. When you kiss Lena, does it feel the same as when Santi kissed you?”

My fingers tighten around the water bottle.

“Different,” I admit.

Damian raises an eyebrow. “Different how? Better? Worse?”

Great.

Excellent question.

I stare at the floor, trying to come up with an answer that doesn’t make me sound completely fucking deranged. Nothing useful appears, probably because whatever part of my brain handles coherent thought evacuated somewhere around the first time I threw up.

Eventually, I give up.

“Kissing Lena is like… going home and eating your comfort food.”

Damian stares at me.

“Excuse me?”

I close my eyes for half a second.

Too late now.

“It’s warm,” I say, because apparently I’ve committed to this metaphor and God himself couldn’t save me from it. “Familiar. You know exactly what you’re getting, and it’s always good. It makes you feel safe.” I swallow. “It feels like home.”

Damian doesn’t say anything. Which should probably be my first warning.

“But kissing Santi…” I stop again, because this part is somehow worse. “Kissing Santi is like Game Seven of the Finals with thirty seconds left and the score tied.” My grip tightens around the bottle until the plastic creaks. “You don’t know what’s going to happen. You don’t know if you’re about to win or completely fuck everything up, but your whole body is on fire and you’ve never felt more awake in your life.”

There.

Perfect.

I’ve compared kissing my girlfriend to comfort food and kissing Santiago Vega to the greatest adrenaline rush hockey can offer.

I should’ve just puked a third time.

I finally look at Damian. “So which one’s better, Coach? Home, or thirty seconds left in Game Seven when you feel like your entire body is alive?”

Damian goes very still. That is never a good sign. “Say that again, Rivera.”