Page 8 of Offside Angle

“Of course we are,” she replies smoothly. “When did we ever miss playoffs?”

Fair point.

My dad treats it as a sacred mission, while my mom pretends she’s only there to support me even though she gets way too invested in every shift.

I smile. “Good. I like having you guys there.”

My dad lights up immediately, pure delight written all over his face, while my mom’s expression gentles in that familiar way of hers. “We wouldn’t miss it, mijo,” she says.

We talk for a few more minutes before I finally say goodbye and end the call. The house feels quieter once their faces disappear from the screen, but the warmth they left behind lingers.

I stay on the couch for a moment, then open my messages and type out a text to Lena.

Mats: hey pretty girl just got home from practice i am going to temporarily die on this couch until tomorrow morning i am cooked. completely done. send help (or snacks)

I hit send and let my head fall back against the cushions, already feeling my eyes getting heavy again.

My phone buzzes a minute later with her reply.

Lena: Lmao poor baby get some sleep i’ll check on you later ❤️

I smile at the screen, the tension in my shoulders easing a little. Then I set the phone down on my chest, close my eyes, and let myself drift.

Two days before playoffs and I’m finally home after another brutal practice.

I’ve barely had time to drop my bag by the door and grab a bottle of water when I hear the sound of a car pulling up outside. I already know who it is. Lena texted me earlier saying she was on her way.

I step outside just as she parks her tiny car in front of my house.

And then I stare.

She pops the trunk and reveals what can only be described as a full-scale wardrobe explosion. Suitcases, bags, a garment bag hanging off the back seat, and at least three pairs of shoes visible through the rear window. For two games. Maybe three days max.

Lena climbs out of the driver’s seat, stretches with suspicious ease after however many hours on the road, and turns to me.

I raise an eyebrow.

She blinks up at me, all wide eyes and fake sweetness. “What?”

I gesture toward the trunk. “Lena. You’re staying for two games. Maybe three days. Did you pack for a month-long European tour?”

She checks the car with exaggerated innocence, as though the mountain of luggage has nothing to do with her, then turns back to me. “I like options,” she says simply, shrugging one shoulder.

I let out a low laugh and shake my head, walking over to help her with the bags. “Options for what? A fashion show in my living room?”

“Maybe,” she teases, stepping aside so I can grab the biggest suitcase. “Or maybe I just wanted to make sure I had something nice to wear when I come watch you play.”

I hoist one of the bags out of the trunk and give her a look over my shoulder. “You could’ve worn a paper bag and I still would’ve been happy to see you in the stands.”

Lena’s grin softens as she grabs a smaller bag and follows me toward the house. “You’re such a sap when you’re tired,” she says, bumping her shoulder lightly against mine.

I don’t even deny it.

We carry the first load inside, and I can already tell my house is about to look a lot more lived-in for the next few days. Her stuff is everywhere within minutes — a jacket thrown over the back of the couch, a pair of heels kicked off by the door, her perfume already lingering in the air.

Lena doesn’t even bother with the rest of her bags.

The second we get everything inside, she starts wandering through the house with exaggerated curiosity, which is ridiculous because she’s been here before. She trails her fingers along the back of the couch, peeks into the kitchen, then makes a very deliberate beeline toward one of the empty guestrooms down the hall.