Page 5 of Offside Angle

“No panties?” I murmur, voice rough. My thumb strokes along the bare curve of her hip. “You really are trying to kill me tonight.”

Lena looks up at me through her lashes, lips kiss-swollen and cheeks flushed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says, voice light and breathy. “A girl can’t be comfortable in her own apartment?”

I press her harder against the door, grinning. “Comfortable, huh? That’s what we’re calling it?”

The act lasts right up until she rolls her hips against me. “Are you complaining?”

“Not even a little,” I answer, already leaning in to kiss her again, deeper this time. My hands slide under her thighs, holding her up as I grind against her. “But you’re not getting away with pretending you didn’t plan this, pretty girl.”

Lena’s answering laugh turns into a soft moan as my mouth moves down her neck, and the dress stays bunched between us like a challenge neither of us is ready to end yet.

The alarm goes off at seven like it’s personally offended by my existence.

I jolt so hard I almost roll straight off the edge of the bed, one arm flailing out to catch myself on the nightstand. My phone vibrates violently on the floor where it must’ve fallen during the night, the screen lighting up with that aggressive red alarm notification. I groan, deep and miserable, and slap around blindly until I find it and smash the stop button.

Silence.

“Shit,” I mutter into the pillow, voice rough with sleep. My head feels like it’s full of wet cement. I force one eye open and squint at the clock on the screen.

Four hours.

I got four hours of sleep.

I drag myself upright, rubbing both hands down my face. My body protests every movement—shoulders tight from yesterday’s practice, legs heavy from the six-hour round trip, and my brain still half-stuck in Lena’s apartment and that red dress and the way she looked at me when I finally left.

I stumble out of the bedroom and head straight for the kitchen like a man on a mission. The fridge light nearly blinds me when I yank the door open. I grab the biggest energy drink I own—the one that’s basically the size of my head—and crack it open before I’ve even closed the fridge. The first long swig burns going down in the best and worst way.

I zombie-walk through the house in just my boxers, sipping between every step.

Bathroom. Brush teeth with one hand while the other holds the can. Closet. Pull out practice gear. Another sip. Sit on the edge of the bed to put socks on and nearly faceplant into the wall when I lose my balance. Another sip. I almost chew on a piece of plaster that flakes off when I bump the corner.

By the time I’m dressed—hoodie, joggers, sneakers—I feel marginally more human. Marginally.

I grab my keys, head out the front door, and lock it behind me. The morning air is cool and sharp, and for one blissful second I think I might actually survive this.

Then I remember. “Fuck.”

I turn around, unlock the door again, and trudge back inside. My equipment bag is sitting out on the terrace where I left it last night to air out after practice. I grab it, sling it over my shoulder, and head back out to the car.

I throw my bag in the trunk, drop into the driver’s seat, and rest my forehead against the steering wheel for a second. The engine isn’t even on yet. My eyes are already trying to close again.

I am so fucked.

I make it to the rink on autopilot.

The drive is a blur of red lights and too-bright morning sun. Every blink lasts a fraction too long. By the time I park in my usual spot, grab my bag, and head inside, I’m operating on pure caffeine and stubbornness.

I nearly walk straight into Damian near the entrance to the locker room hallway. He’s leaning lightly on his cane with his arms crossed, and one glance at the dark circles under my eyes and the way I’m dragging myself forward is apparently enough. His expression settles into that flat, unimpressed stare that says really? without him needing to speak.

I flash him my best innocent grin, the one that usually works on everyone except him. “Morning, Coach,” I say cheerfully, conveniently ignoring the fact that I sat through half a green light because my brain forgot what green meant.

Damian’s eyes narrow a fraction. He says nothing, but I can practically see him calculating how many suicides he’ll make me run if I play like shit today, so I keep moving before he decides to share the number out loud.

The locker room is already loud when I push through the door.

Cole is in the middle of some dramatic story, gesturing wildly with one hand while trying to tape his stick with the other. Tyler is chirping Jace, who looks marginally more alive than I feel. Nico is complaining about something under his breath while Roman sits calmly in the corner. The usual morning madness.

And standing near the center of it all, looking completely unfazed by the noise, is Zara Reyes.