Page 42 of Offside Angle

The words hit harder than I expect them to.

My smirk drops completely.

For a second, I just look at him. Really look at him. The way he’s standing there trying to rebuild every wall he’s spent years perfecting. The way his chest is heaving. The way he can’t quite meet my eyes even though he’s the one who came storming in here looking for a fight.

Then I take one slow step closer, closing the space he just put between us. My hand lifts and I slide my fingers into his hair, gripping it gently at first, then tighter as I tilt his head back just enough to make him look at me. He shivers. I feel it run straight through him and into my palm.

“Then maybe you should go back to your girlfriend,” I whisper, “and let this… nobody do his job.”

I tighten my fingers in his hair enough to hold him exactly where I want him. My face is so close to his now that our noses almost brush. I can feel every shaky breath he pulls in. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white, like he’s using every ounce of willpower he has not to reach for me.

“Or,” I murmur, letting the word drag out, “let me prove you wrong.”

Mats’ jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. “There’s… nothing to prove.”

“No?”

Before he can say anything else, I twist us using his own momentum against him until his back hits the boards instead of mine. The sound is dull and solid. Now it’s me crowding into his space, one hand still buried in his hair, fingers tight at the roots, while my other hand slides down and grips his hip, thumb pressing into the bone through his jeans.

“Do you think I don’t know you, guapo?” I murmur close to his ear. My thumb strokes once, slow, over the jut of his hip. “Mm?”

For a second, the word lands hard enough to crack his expression. By the time he gets himself back under control, the anger has sharpened.

“You don’t know shit.”

I smile and tilt my head. “That so?”

He’s wound tight, every second of silence stretching him thinner.

“Then why are you here, Matteo?” I ask. “If there was nothing to prove, why are you here?”

He hesitates, caught between answering me and reaching for whatever angry deflection he probably rehearsed on the drive over.

“Go on…” I whisper, leaning in just a fraction closer. “Lie to yourself, cariño. Lie to your girlfriend for all I care. But you can’t lie to me.”

Matteo’s eyes flash and he shoves at my chest, not hard enough to actually move me, but enough to make his point. “You think you know everything, don’t you?” he snaps. “You show up after years and suddenly you’re the expert on my life? On what I want? You don’t know shit about me anymore, Santi. You knew some kid in Miami. That’s it.”

I don’t let go of his hair. If anything, my fingers tighten just slightly, keeping his head tilted back so he has to look at me.

“I knew the kid who used to look at me like he was scared of how much he wanted it,” I say. “And I know the man standing in front of me right now who drove across town at the ass crack of dawn just to slam me into the boards and yell in my face because he can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Fuck you,” Mats bites out, but there’s no real heat behind it anymore. It sounds tired. Desperate. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come back here and act like I’ve been waiting around for you or some shit. I have a life. I have Lena. I’m happy.”

“Are you?” I ask, tilting my head. My thumb strokes once over his hip, slow and deliberate. “Because you don’t look happy, Matteo. You look like you’re about two seconds away from either punching me or doing something you’re gonna pretend you regret later.”

He glares at me, his chest rising and falling hard between us. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

“Maybe,” I murmur, my eyes dropping to his mouth for a second before dragging back up. “But at least I’m not the one lying through my teeth at six in the morning in an empty arena.”

“I don’t know what you think I’m lying about,” Mats says. “I told you before. I am straight. I love women. I love Lena. And you… you…” He trails off, clearly grasping for something that won’t come. His face twists in frustration before he lets out a rough, annoyed groan. “Ughh!”

I raise an eyebrow, the corner of my mouth twitching. “That it?” I tease, almost amused.

I slide the hand that was resting on his hip upward, slipping it under the hem of his hoodie and the shirt beneath it. My palm finds warm skin, fingers spreading over the hard plane of his stomach. I feel the way his muscles jump under my touch.

“You know…” I murmur, keeping my eyes on his, “for a straight guy, you’re very comfortable letting me touch you right now.”

His glare sharpens, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t shove my hand away. Doesn’t twist out of my grip in his hair. He just stands there, breathing hard through his nose while my fingers trace slow, lazy circles against his skin under his clothes.