Page 57 of Offside Angle

I nod, leaning forward as I try to explain it the best way I can. “You see… you are clearly in love with Matteo. If you would break up, you’d suffer… for a little while. But then you’d get over it.”

I pause, letting my words settle between us before I continue.

“I, on the other hand, have had ten years to get over it. To replace him. To recalibrate. But… nobody can compare to him in my eyes. Not even close.”

“But don’t worry,” I say, trying to soften the blow. “He’s not ready to face that yet. You still have time.”

Lena snorts, the sound sharp and humorless as she looks down at her coffee cup. “No,” she says quietly. “I don’t.”

I don’t say anything right away. There’s nothing I can say that would make this easier for her. I’m not going to lie and tell her that nothing is going to happen between me and Matteo. I’m also not going to pretend that I’m sorry for how I feel. Because I’m not.

Lena finally looks up at me again, resigned. “I’ve known something was off for a while,” she says. “The way he looks at you… the way he gets when your name comes up. I just didn’t want to see it.”

She lets out a small, bitter laugh and shakes her head. “And now here we are.”

This was never going to be simple.

“I’m not going to fight you for him,” she says.

“Lena—” I start, not even sure what I was going to say.

“No,” she cuts in, shaking her head. “Don’t look relieved. I’m not handing him to you either.”

Lena takes a slow sip of her coffee. “I love him,” she says simply. “And I’m not going to make it easy for you to take him from me. But I’m also not going to turn myself into someone I’m not just to keep him.”

She sets her cup down and leans back in her chair. “So whatever happens next… that’s on him. Not on me. And not on you.”

I nod slowly, letting her words sink in. She’s drawing a line. Not out of spite, but out of self-respect. And I can’t fault her for that.

The final buzzer sounds and the arena erupts — not for us.

The Bastards win Game 3.

I rip my helmet off the second I step into the tunnel, the anger already boiling under my skin. By the time I reach my stall in the locker room, I’m vibrating with it. I throw the helmet inside so hard it bounces off the back wall with a loud metallic clang.

“Joder,” I curse, the word ripping out of me as I yank my gloves off and chuck them in after it. “Joder, joder, joder.”

“Dude! Relax,” Cole says from a few stalls down, already half out of his gear.

“Don’t tell me to fucking relax,” I snap, louder than I mean to. I throw another piece of equipment into the stall — my shoulder pads this time — and it hits with another loud crash.

I’m not even pissed just about the game. Yeah, losing sucks. Yeah, we were fucking terrible in the third. But it’s everything. The game. The fact that we’re down in the series. Lena screaming her lungs out in the stands all night, cheering for me as usual… only to bolt the second the final horn blared because she had a tattoo appointment back home she couldn’t miss.

And then there’s Santi.

I spent way too much of the game scanning the benches, the tunnel, the fucking crowd for him instead of focusing on the game or even on Lena. Every time I caught myself doing it, I got angrier. At him. At myself. At the fact that I couldn’t stop.

I slam the stall door shut harder than necessary.

“Rivera!” Damian’s voice cracks across the locker room.

I deflate instantly. All the fight drains out of me at once and I drop onto the bench in front of my stall, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. My chest is heaving, but the anger has nowhere to go now. It sits there, heavy and ugly.

The room goes quiet. I can feel everyone’s attention shifting toward me, but no one says anything. Not with Damian standing there, arms crossed and murder written all over his face.

I don’t even lift my head.

I already know I’m in for it.