Page 140 of Offside Angle

Asshole.

I turn back to the reporter before anybody else can follow my line of sight and put on my most innocent smile. “I started eating vegetables.”

A loud snort comes from directly beside me. Cole has somehow appeared at my shoulder without warning, because apparently Satan heard I was having a private moment and sent reinforcements. “Yeah,” he says solemnly. “Carrots.”

I turn my head toward him.

Cole’s face is perfectly straight for maybe half a second before it starts breaking.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” I grab him by the shoulders and shove him ahead of me through the media scrum while he laughs hard enough to stumble, and a couple of the guys behind us immediately join in despite having absolutely no context.

Probably for the best.

When we finally make it past the last microphone, I glance back once more. Santi is still standing where I left him.

This time he isn’t even pretending not to smile.

Neither am I.

I’m pacing the living room like a caged animal.

My house has never felt smaller. Every time I turn, I’m almost walking into the coffee table or the back of the couch. My mom is sitting on said couch with a cup of tea, watching me with that calm, slightly amused expression she gets when I’m spiraling.

“Matteo, sit down before you wear a hole in the floor.”

“I can’t sit down,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair for the tenth time. “They’re going to be here in twenty minutes. His parents. The people who used to give me juice boxes after practice. The people who’ve known me since I was eleven and now their son is—”

I cut myself off and make a vague, panicked gesture with both hands.

My mom takes a slow sip of her tea. “And now their son is what?” she asks mildly.

“You know what,” I hiss, glancing toward the kitchen where my dad is pretending to be very interested in the newspaper. “I’ve been… with him. A lot. And they raised him. And they used to tell me I was a good kid. And now I’m—”

“Having sex with their son,” my mom finishes for me, completely unfazed.

I stop pacing just to stare at her. “Mom.”

“What? You’re an adult. He’s an adult. You’re both happy. Sit down.”

I don’t sit down. I start pacing again, my heart hammering harder than it does before a Game 7.

“This is worse than the Finals,” I tell her. “At least in the Finals I know what I’m doing. I know the plays. I know how to hit someone. I don’t know how to sit across a dinner table from the people who watched me grow up and act like I’m not getting railed by their kid on a regular basis.”

My dad makes a choked sound from the kitchen that might be a laugh.

My mom just sighs and sets her tea down. “Matteo. Look at me.”

I stop and look at her.

“They’re coming over because they like you,” she says simply. “They always have. That hasn’t changed just because your relationship with Santiago has. Breathe.”

I try. It doesn’t help much.

The doorbell rings and I freeze in the middle of my living room. My heart rate spikes so hard I can feel it in my throat. For a second I genuinely consider climbing out a window.

“Matteo,” my mom says from the couch. “Go open the door.”

I drag in a breath that does absolutely nothing and force my feet to move.