Page 2 of Offside Angle

He groans but pushes himself back to his skates. The vets whoop. Tyler skates past and flicks a glove at his shoulder. “Told you the circle’s complete, kid. Welcome to the suffering.”

Nico, on the other hand, is fully crying now. Actual tears cut tracks through the sweat on his face as he doubles over, hands on his knees, trying and failing to hide it. Roman skates past him without missing a beat, completely unbothered. He’s not soft. Never has been. He mutters something under his breath and keeps moving, treating the drill as nothing more than a light Tuesday skate. Shane catches his eye from the net, and they exchange one of those goalie looks that makes the rest of us feel shut out of some secret language.

Damian’s whistle finally cuts through the chaos one last time. Cole’s been complaining for the last two minutes straight, voice getting louder and more offended with every lap.

“Coach, I’m dying. Actual death. I need food before I expire on this goddamn ice. My stomach is eating itself. Viktor, tell him. Tell him I’m withering away in real time.”

He skates straight into Viktor’s space like Viktor was put on this earth specifically for him to lean on, hooking himself onto Viktor’s arm and dumping half his weight against him. Viktor doesn’t even flinch. Just keeps skating, one massive arm steadying Cole without comment, the same way he’s been doing for years.

Damian watches them for a beat, then rolls his eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out of his head.

“Enough. Pack it in. Hit the showers. If any of you rookies puke in the locker room, you’re cleaning it yourselves.”

Practice ends in a wave of relieved groans and tired laughter. I skate toward the bench with the rest of them.

The locker room is thick with steam and the usual post-practice noise—shoes hitting the floor, towels snapping, someone’s playlist already blasting low from a speaker in the corner. I peel off my gear slowly, letting the sweat cool on my skin while my legs finally stop vibrating from the drill. Around me the vets are loud and easy, the rookies quieter, half-dead from Damian’s special brand of hell.

Cole’s already half-dressed, sitting on the bench across from me with a water bottle in his hand and that shit-eating grin he gets when he’s about to start trouble. He tips the bottle back, takes a long drink, then lowers it and looks straight at me. “You still seeing my sister or did she chew your head off already?”

I raise an eyebrow at him, towel slung around my neck, and don’t even bother hiding the smirk. Apparently the whole room gets to hear this, because Cole has never cared about volume. I lean back against my stall, arms loose at my sides. “I’m gonna marry that girl just to spite you.”

Cole chokes on his water, coughing hard enough that a few heads turn. He slams the bottle down, face going red, and hurls it at me with zero hesitation. “You motherfucker!” he hisses, half-laughing, half-genuinely offended. “You did not just say that shit out loud.”

I catch the bottle and toss it back to him. Around us a couple of the guys snicker—Tyler catches the tail end and whistles low.

Cole’s still glaring at me, but there’s no real heat behind it. He knows I’m fucking with him. I know he knows. That’s the whole point.

I grab my phone from the shelf above my stall, thumb already moving across the screen before the moment can settle. The text is quick, casual, the kind I’ve been sending her for months now without overthinking it.

Hey pretty girl, your brother wants to know if you’ll be ready at 7. I’ll pick you up.

My phone vibrates against the shelf before I’ve even finished pulling my hoodie on. I glance at the screen and the corner of my mouth lifts without me meaning to. Lena’s name lights up, and I swipe it open right there in the middle of the locker room chaos.

Tell Cole I’ll wear the pretty red dress.

I can already picture the little smirk she probably had on her face when she sent it. The red dress is her nuclear option. She doesn’t wear dresses often, not unless she’s got a point to make or someone to torture. And Cole knows it.

I turn the phone toward him and let him read it. Cole leans in, squints at the screen, and then lets out the most offended, high-pitched whine I’ve heard from him in months.

“No. No, no, no. She does not get to do that. She never wears the red dress unless she’s trying to ruin my life. That’s her ‘I’m about to make you suffer’ dress. She wore it to my birthday last year and spent the whole night telling every girl who talked to me that I still sleep with a nightlight. I was twenty-six, Mats. Twenty-six.”

He drags both hands down his face like the world is ending, voice climbing into full dramatic Cole territory. “She’s doing this on purpose. She knows I’m already stressed about playoffs and she’s choosing violence. Tell her she’s not allowed. Tell her the red dress is banned until after we win the Cup.”

I shake my head, and finally pull my phone out again to fire off a quick reply to Lena while Cole keeps complaining to no one in particular.

Red dress noted. Your brother is currently dying. I’ll pick you up at 7.

I hit send and slide the phone away before Cole can try to snatch it. He’s still mid-rant, voice echoing off the tiles, and I let him go for another minute just because it’s funny.

Cole finally stops long enough to glare at me again, eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Little bit,” I admit, shrugging one shoulder. “You make it easy.”

Three hours out of Ravensburg, one way, through stretches of highway that start to blur together after the second hour. My legs are heavy from Damian’s practice, my shoulders ache from the drills, and my eyes burn every time I blink. I should be crashed on my couch right now, maybe eating something that doesn’t come from a gas station. Instead I’m gripping the wheel, windows down, music low, pushing through the exhaustion because Lena is at the other end of this road, waiting above her tattoo shop in a city that’s too far away and somehow worth every mile.

I don’t even care that I’m tired. Not really. Not when it’s for her.

I pull up right at seven, parking in the small lot behind her building. I took the time to change into something nicer than my usual post-practice hoodie and sweats—dark button-down, good jeans, the kind of thing that won’t make her roll her eyes when she sees me next to that red dress she’s wearing. I run a hand through my hair, check my reflection once in the rearview, then climb out and head up the stairs to her door.