Page 48 of Offside Angle

I frown. “What?”

“The first part.”

“Kissing Lena feels like home.”

“Aha.” He nods once. “And the other part?”

I already hate where this is going. “Kissing Santi feels like being alive.”

“Again.”

“Coach.”

“Again, Rivera.”

I let out a breath and look away, because apparently surviving a panic attack, vomiting twice, and confessing my sexuality crisis in a locker room isn’t humiliating enough for one afternoon.

“Kissing Lena feels like home,” I say through my teeth. “Kissing Santi feels like being alive.”

Damian nods slowly. “Again.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Listen to yourself.”

I want to argue. I want to tell him the metaphor doesn’t mean anything, that I’m exhausted and panicking and clearly not qualified to speak on behalf of my own brain right now.

Instead, I hear myself say it one more time. “Kissing Lena feels like home. Kissing Santi feels like being alive.”

And this time, the words land differently. Because now I’m not explaining them to Damian. I’m hearing them. And suddenly I understand exactly why he made me repeat them.

I shift on the bench, suddenly unable to stay still. My knee starts bouncing again. I drag a hand down my face and let out a rough, shaky breath.

“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath.

The Bastards won tonight. Not that it matters much to me right now. What matters is that Matteo Rivera was nowhere to be found. Not on the bench. Not in the stands. Not in the locker room after the final buzzer. I checked. Twice. His stall was empty, his gear untouched, and no one seemed particularly surprised when I casually asked where he was. Just vague shrugs and a few muttered comments about him not showing up.

Which means he didn’t come at all.

I have a pretty good idea why.

I’m standing in the hallway outside the coaching offices when my phone vibrates with a short message from Damian himself.

My office. Now.

I stare at the screen for a second, then slip my phone back into my pocket. I’ve never actually been inside Damian Kade’s office before. Never had a reason to. Until now, apparently.

I knock once and push the door open without waiting for an answer.

Damian is sitting behind his desk, in his coaching gear, looking like he’s had a long fucking night. He glances up when I walk in. “Vega. Sit.”

I slide my hands into the pockets of my trousers and stay standing near the door. “I’m fine standing.”

His eyes narrow at me, but he doesn’t push it. Interesting.

He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight as he studies me for a long moment.

“When Zara came to me with this idea to hire you for the playoffs,” he starts, “I thought it was a good one. Good for content. Good for the team. Good for exposure.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly. “And yet… one of my players is out. There’s drama in the locker room. My boys are talking nonsense. And it seems you’re the center of it all, Mr. Vega.”