Page 164 of Offside Angle

“Then don’t be,” I tell him softly. “I’ll still be here when it catches up.”

Matteo stays quiet long enough that I feel the weight of him settle more fully against me, his head resting back near my shoulder. For a few seconds I think that might be the end of it.

Then he tilts his face up at me and bats his eyelashes with such exaggerated innocence that I almost laugh.

“No,” he says. “We’ll be on the beach.”

I look down at him. “You realize vacations require planning.”

“I already planned it.”

“You said beach and bed.”

“Those are the important logistical details.”

I let out a long, theatrical sigh and wrap both arms around him. “Fine. We’ll be on the beach.”

Matteo makes a small, satisfied sound and sinks more comfortably against me, apparently victorious.

I pick up the washcloth again and finish cleaning the last of the night from his skin, taking my time because there’s nowhere else either of us needs to be now. The water stays warm around us, the apartment impossibly quiet after hours of arena noise, and Matteo’s breathing gradually slows while the tension leaves his body in small pieces.

When I’m done, I set the cloth aside and keep him tucked against my chest, one arm around his waist while the other rests across him beneath the water.

He doesn’t make another joke for a while, and I don’t push him to.

I press another kiss to the side of his neck and hold him as the water slowly begins to cool.

The Cup is gone, and eventually that loss is going to find him properly.

But not yet.

For now, he has warm water, ridiculous beach plans, and me.

Chapter 40 -- Mats

By the second week, the bruises have started to fade. Not disappear, because apparently hockey believes in leaving souvenirs, but the worst of the purple has softened into yellow and green around the edges. My foot doesn’t hurt every time I put weight on it anymore, the cut beside my mouth has finally closed, and Santi has stopped inspecting my ribs every morning like he expects one of them to file a complaint overnight. Mostly.

We sleep too late, eat fruit over the sink because neither of us can be bothered with plates, argue about sunscreen, fuck with the doors open to the ocean breeze, and spend entire afternoons doing absolutely nothing like relaxation is a skill we both somehow forgot to learn. Turns out we’re getting very good at it.

“You look delicious,” I murmur.

Santi is stretched out on the towel beneath me, all warm skin and loose limbs, the late-afternoon sun catching along his shoulders while the water moves lazily a few yards away. We’ve been in Islamorada for two weeks now, close enough to Miami that everything still feels familiar but far enough away that nobody gives a shit who either of us is.

No practice schedule. No media. No Damian appearing with a clipboard and several creative threats against my career. No playoff series sitting in the back of my head waiting to ruin breakfast.

Just heat, salt air, and Santi in a swimsuit that has become increasingly offensive to me the longer I look at it.

I crawl over him on the towel and settle with my knees on either side of his hips, taking a moment to appreciate the view properly.

There’s already a smile pulling at his mouth. “That so?” he asks, one eyebrow lifting. His sunglasses have been pushed into his hair, leaving his eyes dark and amused when they meet mine.

“Mm.” I lean down and drag my mouth along his jaw, tasting sunscreen and warm skin. “Extremely. It’s becoming a problem.”

Santi’s hands slide onto my thighs. “What kind of problem?”

“The kind where I keep getting distracted.” I work my way down toward his neck, smiling when his fingers tighten slightly against my legs. “The kind where I forget we’re technically outside and start thinking about peeling this ridiculous swimsuit off you.”

A quiet laugh moves through him. “We’re on a private stretch of beach, cariño. Calling this public is generous.”