Page 54 of Offside Angle

“Oh, shit.” I loosen my arms immediately, realizing I’d been holding her way too tight. “Sorry.”

She pulls back just enough to look up at me, her hands resting on my chest. She studies my face before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. “You good?”

I nod. Then shake my head. Then do something in between that probably makes no sense at all.

Lena raises an eyebrow at me, clearly not convinced, but before she can push further, Santi speaks up from the edge of the bed.

“Food?” he asks, holding out two containers and a pair of forks like he’s trying to diffuse the tension in the room.

He passes one to Lena and one to me, his fingers brushing against mine for half a second longer than necessary when he hands me the fork. I don’t look at him. I can’t. Not right now. Not with Lena half in my lap and the taste of him lingering on my tongue.

Lena takes her container and settles more comfortably against my side.

We’re in Brooklyn for Games 3 and 4 against the Bastards. The team has been moving with that focused, slightly tense energy that always comes when you’re deep into the playoffs. Mats is back on the ice. I saw him at practice yesterday — careful not to look in my direction for too long. Damian hasn’t said another word to me since our conversation in his office, which I’m choosing to take as a win.

This morning, I’m sitting on the edge of the hotel bed in nothing but a pair of black sweatpants, my phone propped up against a water bottle on the nightstand. My mom’s face fills the screen, her dark hair pulled back into a loose bun and her reading glasses perched on her nose. She’s in the kitchen, as usual, and I can hear the familiar sounds of her moving around while we talk.

We’ve been speaking in Spanish since the call started, the way we always do when it’s just the two of us. She’s been telling me about a new piece she’s working on and how my father keeps trying to “help” by offering suggestions that are apparently terrible. I’ve been smiling and nodding along, letting her voice wash over me while my mind keeps drifting back to everything that’s happened in the last few days.

Eventually, I decide I can’t keep putting it off.

“Mom,” I say, shifting slightly on the bed. “There’s something I should probably tell you.”

She pauses what she’s doing and looks at the screen, one eyebrow raised in that way she does when she already knows I’m about to say something important.

“Go on,” she says.

I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling like I’m seventeen again.

“You know how I told you I was working with a hockey team for the playoffs?” I start. “Well… one of the players on the team is Matteo.”

There’s a short silence on her end. Then her eyes widen behind her glasses.

“Matteo?” she repeats. “Rafa and Viv’s boy? Our Matteo?”

I nod. “Yeah. That Matteo.”

She stares at me, processing the information. Then she sets down whatever she was holding and leans closer to the camera.

“Santiago,” she says slowly, “you’ve been working with Matteo Rivera for how long now and you’re only telling me this today?”

I let out a small, slightly guilty laugh. “I wasn’t sure how to bring it up,” I admit. “It’s… complicated.”

My mom tilts her head, studying me through the screen. “Complicated how?” she asks.

I glance away for a moment, staring at the hotel wall instead of her face. I can already feel the weight of everything I’m not saying pressing down on my chest. The kiss. The way he ran. The way he looked at me in his bedroom two days ago like he was terrified of what he was feeling.

I sigh and look back at the screen.

“It’s a long story, Mom,” I say. “But yeah… it’s complicated.”

My mom chuckles softly on the other end of the call, the sound warm and familiar.

“I’ve always known you two would eventually end up back in the same space,” she says.

I stare at her through the screen, one eyebrow raised. “Oh? Are you clairvoyant now, Mom?” I tease.

She shakes her head. “No, baby,” she says. “But the way you two looked at each other back then… that tends to not be forgotten.”