Page 49 of Offside Angle

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “Why is that?”

I hold his gaze, even though the air in the room has shifted into something heavier. I can feel the weight of the question sitting between us.

Damian Kade doesn’t strike me as the type of man who asks questions he doesn’t already have half the answer to.

“Well,” I say, “I’ve been told I have one of those faces. People tend to talk around me. Maybe your boys just needed a new target for their gossip this week.”

Damian’s jaw tightens. I can see it — the way his patience is already wearing thin.

He leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he studies me.

“Don’t play cute with me, Vega,” he says. “I’ve had enough of my players turning into lovesick idiots this season. I don’t need another one. Especially not when it starts affecting whether or not they show up to games.”

I keep my expression neutral, but I don’t drop the slight curve at the edge of my mouth. I’m not going to give him anything real. Not yet. Not when I don’t even know exactly what Mats told him—or how much he’s already figured out on his own.

“I’m just here to take pictures, Coach,” I say lightly, shrugging one shoulder. “Whatever’s going on with your players… that’s between them and you. I’m not in the habit of getting involved in team drama.”

Damian stares at me for a long second, clearly not buying a single word of it. His fingers tap once against the surface of his desk. “Funny,” he mutters. “Because the drama keeps finding you anyway.”

“If you’re so sure I’m the problem,” I say, almost amused, “then why not let your team handle their own shit? You’ve got enough going on without dragging the new photographer into it.”

Damian’s expression darkens. “You kissed my straight D-man and it’s fucking with my roster,” he says flatly.

I don’t even blink. “He’s not straight.”

The second the words leave my mouth, Damian’s hand slams down on the desk with a loud crack. He stands up so fast his chair scrapes back against the floor. “I don’t give a flying fuck if he’s straight or gay or a fucking unicorn, Vega!” he barks. “I had to send him home because of you! In the fucking semifinals!”

“It’s not my fault he can’t handle his big boy feelings,” I shrug.

Damian’s eye twitches.

For a second, the only sound in the office is his heavy breathing. He looks like he’s two seconds away from either throwing something or throwing me out. His knuckles are white where they’re braced against the desk, and I can practically see the vein pulsing in his temple.

Damian takes a slow breath through his nose, clearly trying to pull himself back from the edge. When he speaks again, his voice is much calmer… on the outside. “I should fire you…”

“…and then Zara for bringing such fucking bullshit on my ice.”

I bite down on my lower lip, hard, trying not to grin. It doesn’t work very well. The corner of my mouth still twitches.

“Coach…” I say, voice light and far too casual for the situation, “you’re blowing this out of proportion.”

Damian takes a deep breath through his nose, visibly trying to pull himself back under control. He reaches down and squeezes his bad leg once, like the tension is making it ache. “Elias is going to kill me if he finds out I’ve worked myself up for this…” he mutters under his breath.

I lower my head slightly, biting the inside of my cheek to hide the small smile that threatens to break through. That comment clearly wasn’t meant for me.

“Look,” I say, “I’m not here to cause trouble. But I will not back off from this. You can fire me. I don’t care.” I pause, meeting his eyes. “I know… I know he’s mine.”

Something shifts in Damian’s face.

He straightens up and slowly walks around the desk, each step deliberate. Damian is a big man — broad, solid, and radiating that quiet, dangerous kind of authority that makes most people shrink. He doesn’t stop until there’s barely any space left between us. Then he lifts one thick finger and presses it firmly against the center of my chest, pinning me back against the door.

“You come here,” he growls, low and furious, “with your pretty fucking face and your big strong arms, and your nail polish and your fucking eyeliner… and suddenly my D-man is fucked up.”

His finger presses harder against my chest.

“This is the second time I have to say this this season, Vega,” he says. “Fix. It.”

My smile fades. “Is he okay?” I ask quietly.