Page 138 of Offside Angle

“Did I do okay, teach?” he asks, clearly fishing for praise.

I groan against his mouth and rest my forehead against his. “You’re a brat,” I mutter.

Matteo just shrugs one shoulder, completely unfazed. If anything, he looks even more smug. “You didn’t answer the question,” he points out, sliding his hands around my waist under my open shirt.

I kiss him again, slower this time. “You did more than okay,” I admit against his lips. “You’re a quick study.”

Matteo’s smile widens. He presses closer. “So…” he starts, that teasing edge back in his voice. “When’s the next lesson?”

I tighten my arms around him and nip at his bottom lip in warning. “Pack first,” I say. “Flight in a few hours. Then we’ll talk about more lessons.”

Matteo sighs dramatically, but he doesn’t pull away. “Fine,” he mutters. “But I’m holding you to that.”

Home ice hits differently in the Finals. The building is packed in a way Vancouver never quite managed, every section drowned in red and black and loud enough that I can feel the noise through my skates. We’re halfway through the second period of Game 5, and after everything that happened on the road, the Reapers have apparently decided violence is a perfectly acceptable homecoming gift.

The place is full tonight too, and I mean full. I spotted Santi’s parents during warmups. His mother has the same sharp, assessing look he gets when he’s quietly deciding whether someone is worth arguing with, while his father seems calmer beside her. Seeing them there did something strange to my stomach—not bad exactly, just heavier than I wanted to examine ten minutes before puck drop. Viktor’s mother is here too. My parents are in their usual seats. And Lena came.

I found her almost immediately, because apparently my eyes still know how to do that without asking permission. She’s sitting with a couple of friends, hair down over a simple black coat, looking beautiful because of course she does.

I let myself look for maybe a second. Then I force my attention back where it belongs.

There are enough things capable of ruining my concentration tonight without voluntarily adding my ex-girlfriend, Santi’s parents, my parents, and whatever deeply inconvenient implications come with all of them sitting in the same arena.

The bench feels completely different from Vancouver. Last game’s win followed us home and sharpened everybody up instead of relaxing us. Elias is locked in again, loud and aggressive on draws, throwing hits with enough force to make every Vanguard player think twice about getting comfortable. Cole is everywhere offensively, Viktor is making life miserable for anyone who gets near our end, and the rookies are skating with the frantic determination of men who think their contracts depend on every stride.

Every time my own number gets called, I feel that extra gear waiting.

Our building. Our crowd.

Ours.

One of Vanguard’s forwards tries to come through my side with speed, and I close the gap before he has anywhere useful to go. I drive him into the boards hard enough to rattle the glass, hear the crowd erupt behind me, then dig the puck loose and send it up to Elias.

He turns it into a scoring chance almost immediately.

It doesn’t go in, but nobody on our bench seems particularly bothered by that.

The point has already been made.

We are not the same team Vanguard walked through in Game 3.

On my way back toward the bench, Santi catches the edge of my vision. He’s behind the glass in his usual spot with the camera raised, completely focused on the play, and for one stupid second I wonder what his parents think when they watch him work like this.

Or whether they’ve noticed how often his camera somehow ends up pointed at me.

Probably not something I need to investigate while actively playing defense.

I drop onto the bench and drag in a breath, forcing my attention back to the ice while the crowd keeps pounding against the glass around us.

By the time the horn ends the second, we’re still ahead 3–2.

Damian is already waiting when we file into the locker room, and the moment the last guy makes it through, he closes the door behind us. The click of the latch cuts strangely clean through the usual intermission noise of gloves hitting the floor, bottles being opened, and twenty exhausted men trying to breathe normally again.

It doesn’t take long for the room to settle.

Damian stands in the middle with one hand resting on his cane and looks around at all of us before he says anything.

“You’re playing the right way,” he starts. “You’re physical without taking stupid penalties, you’re making them work for space, and you’re making them uncomfortable in our building. That’s exactly what I wanted from you tonight.”