Page 84 of Offside Angle

I look at him. “What?”

“She’s coming.” He pauses, mouth twisting. “But apparently she’s wearing Cole’s jersey.”

That pulls a laugh out of me before I can stop it.

Matteo shoots me an offended look. “You’re enjoying this?”

“A little.”

“Traitor.”

He starts typing again, muttering under his breath while he does it. “Fine. Wear Hollywood’s stupid number. See if I care.”

A second later he snorts.

“What?”

Instead of answering, Matteo turns the phone toward me.

Lena’s reply is short enough that I catch it immediately.

You absolutely care.

I grin. “She knows you well.”

“Unfortunately.”

He turns the screen back toward himself and answers her, and after that the conversation seems to get easier. Every so often he reads something out loud or tilts the phone toward me without thinking, enough that I know she’s really okay, or at least okay enough to tease him. She tells him she’ll be there for Game 7. He tells her he’d better not catch her cheering when Cole scores. She tells him Cole actually knows where the net is.

Matteo mutters, “Unbelievable,” and shows me that one too.

I laugh. “She has a point.”

“Both of you can go to hell.”

By the time he’s halfway through another reply, the tension has mostly left his shoulders. He’s still texting, but somewhere along the way he starts leaning into me without seeming to notice. First his shoulder presses against mine, then more of his weight follows until his head finally drops onto my shoulder.

I glance down. “Matteo?”

Nothing.

He’s asleep.

I smile to myself and carefully ease the phone from his loose fingers before it slips onto the floor. The screen is open to Lena’s conversation, but I don’t read the rest. I lock it and set it on my thigh instead, then shift my arm so Matteo can settle more comfortably against me.

He sighs once, soft and exhausted, and sinks a little heavier into my side.

I look down at him for a moment, unable to stop the small smile pulling at my mouth.

Then I rest my head lightly against his and close my eyes too.

Just for a little while.

Back at the hotel the restaurant is loud as hell.

We fly home tomorrow morning, but tonight no one seems ready to come down from the high. Elias is half-sitting in Damian’s lap at the head of the table, waving his hands around as he tells wild stories about the game—complete with dramatic embellishments, despite the fact that the rest of us were actually there. Damian lets him, one arm loosely around Elias’s waist, looking more relaxed than he has in days.

I stare at my plate for a second, then decide on something stupid.