Page 66 of Offside Angle

I look back at Dad and let out a breath.

“Santi.”

The name sits between us for a second.

Mom’s smile widens immediately, warm and completely unsurprised, carrying the unmistakable satisfaction of someone who figured this out ages ago.

Dad, meanwhile, just blinks. “Santi?” he asks. “Which Santi?”

I stare at him. “How many Santis do you know?”

“Well…” He actually starts counting on his fingers. “Five.”

Of course he does.

“But three are my age,” he continues, somehow convinced this makes the situation more reasonable, “and I don’t think you ever met the other o—” His eyes widen. “Ohhh.” He points at me. “Santi. Our Santi. Little Santi?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Dad. Little? Seriously? He’s taller than me.”

“And older,” Mom adds helpfully, still looking far too pleased with herself.

“By one year.” Dad waves that away immediately. “Doesn’t count. He was little Santi when you were both running around Miami getting into shit, so he stays little Santi.”

Mom lifts her glass, smiling into it.

I narrow my eyes at her. I’ve just told my parents I might be bisexual and somehow my mother has the expression of someone who’s been waiting for me to catch up.

Dad leans forward, resting his arms on the table as he studies me. The amusement fades from his face, but not the warmth. “So if Santi makes you feel all of that…” He gestures vaguely toward me. “Why are you sitting here?”

I frown. “What?”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I live here?”

Mom snorts into her water.

Dad gives me the same look he used when I was twelve and pretending I had no idea how the broken kitchen window happened. “Mijo. What did I teach you to do when you want something?”

I stare at him for a second, because apparently my coming-out conversation has now become a motivational seminar. “Go get it?”

His hand slaps the table. “Exactly!”

“Rafa, don’t scare him.”

“I’m encouraging him!”

“You’re yelling.”

“I encourage loudly.”

Despite everything, I laugh.

Mom reaches across the table and takes my hand, her thumb brushing once over my knuckles. “Your father is being dramatic.”

“I am being supportive.”

She ignores him. “But he isn’t wrong.”