Page 39 of Offside Angle

I take it automatically.

My dad, never one to let a silence linger for long, claps his hands together and gestures at all the food spread across the table.

“Eat, everyone! Especially you, mijo,” he says, pointing at me with a proud grin. “Tomorrow you have another game against those Bastards. You need your strength. No one plays better on a full stomach.”

I manage a small smile and start putting food on my plate, even though my appetite has suddenly taken a vacation. The table is loaded with way too much — Lena clearly ordered half the menu like my dad asked. There’s pasta, grilled meats, sides, salads, and enough bread to feed the entire team. It smells amazing, but my stomach is in knots.

My dad keeps going, already planning ahead. He always does.

“Mijo, when playoffs are over we should have a barbecue!” he declares, his eyes lighting up at the idea. “The whole family. Maybe invite some of the team. It will be perfect.”

Lena nods enthusiastically from beside me, squeezing my thigh under the table. “Oh yes, Mats is very good at those,” she says, smiling at me.

“Always was,” Santi adds from across the table, his voice casual but carrying that familiar edge. “Takes that from his father.”

I glare at him, but he meets my eyes with that small, knowing smirk, practically daring me to say something. Around us, the conversation carries on without missing a beat—my dad laughing and telling stories, my mom watching everything with quiet amusement, Lena chiming in and teasing me about my grilling skills. Santi’s presence is a live wire running through all of it.

I keep eating mechanically, nodding when I’m supposed to, while my mind races around the fact that Santi is sitting at my table. In my house. Talking about barbecues and the past with the easy familiarity of someone who belongs here.

Like nothing ever changed.

I take another bite and try to focus on Lena’s hand on my thigh instead of the way Santi keeps looking at me every time I speak.

It’s not working very well.

“You know,” Santi says, taking a sip of wine, “you still have that same focused look on the ice you had when we used to play street hockey in Miami. Remember how you used to get so serious about it? Like the fate of the neighborhood depended on you winning.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Yeah, well, some of us actually cared about winning,” I fire back. “Not everyone could just smile and take pictures while the rest of us did the real work.”

Santi’s smirk grows. “Oh, I did plenty of real work,” he replies smoothly. “Someone had to document your dramatic victories. You were very photogenic even then, Matteo. Still are.”

I feel my jaw tighten. “Don’t call me that,” I mutter.

He just tilts his head, completely unbothered. “Would you prefer cariño in front of everyone?”

I glare harder. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still easy to rile up,” he says, that teasing edge clear in his voice. “Some things really don’t change.”

Lena is watching us now, her head tilted slightly as her eyes move between me and Santi, clearly trying to work out whatever the hell this dynamic is. She doesn’t say anything, but her curiosity grows with every exchange.

I keep bickering, unable to help myself. “You always did this. Turned everything into a joke while I was trying to take things seriously.”

Santi just smiles wider, leaning back in his chair. “And you always took everything so seriously. It was cute.”

I open my mouth to respond again, then catch myself. He’s encouraging this. He isn’t even really fighting back—he’s poking at me, smiling, waiting for me to keep going, and I’m giving him exactly what he wants.

Before I can steer the conversation somewhere safer, my dad jumps in with that big, warm laugh of his.

“Ah, those were the days!” he says, already settling deeper into his chair with the unmistakable air of a man about to tell the story of the century. “You two were inseparable. Remember that summer you spent every single day at the beach, Matteo? Santi would bring that old camera of his and follow you around while you tried to teach the neighborhood kids how to play hockey on the sand.”

I feel my shoulders tense.

My dad keeps going, completely oblivious to the way I’m dying inside.

“And that one time you two got into that ridiculous fight over who got to be captain during that pickup game,” he continues, grinning. “You were what — fifteen? Santi just stood there smiling while you yelled at him, and then he took a picture of you mid-rant. I still have that photo somewhere.”

Lena is listening with interest, smiling as she looks between me and Santi. My mom is sipping her wine with that knowing expression on her face. And Santi? He’s sitting there relaxed, one arm draped over the back of his chair, watching me with the quiet amusement of someone thoroughly entertained by my discomfort.