Page 50 of Offside Angle

Damian lets out a long sigh. The anger in his posture seems to deflate just a little as he answers.

“No,” he says. “That’s why you need to fix it.”

I study him for a moment, then a small, genuine smile tugs at my mouth again — softer this time. “You’re very protective of them, aren’t you?”

Damian pulls his finger back from my chest and takes half a step away, giving me some space. He leans against the edge of his desk, the fight seeming to drain out of him now that the shouting is over. “I raised most of these idiots, Vega,” he says. “I trained them for years. I spend eighty percent of my time with them. What do you think?”

He doesn’t look at me when he says it. Instead, he glances down at his bad leg, absently rubbing it again.

For the first time since I walked into this office, the terrifying Coach Kade who runs this team with an iron fist disappears for a moment. What’s left is a tired man carrying too many people on his back and finally starting to feel the weight.

I stay leaning against the door, watching him.

He cares about them. More than he probably wants to admit out loud. And right now, I’m the problem he thinks is hurting one of his own. “So you benched him?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I tilt my head slightly, watching him. “Why?”

Damian exhales through his nose and looks at me directly, his expression hard but not angry anymore. “Because he had a full blown panic attack and puked twice in my locker room, Vega,” he says. “Rivera doesn’t have panic attacks. You pressed a button deep enough to make him spiral.”

I stay quiet for a moment, letting that sink in. The image of Matteo having a panic attack bad enough to throw up… it doesn’t sit right with me. I knew he was shaken when he ran out of the arena earlier, but hearing it laid out like this makes it feel more real.

I shift my weight against the door, my hands still in my pockets. “Is he home now?”

Damian stares at me for another long second, clearly done with this conversation. He lets out a slow breath through his nose and finally nods once. “Go,” he says. “Before I fucking fire you.”

I give him a small, respectful nod and turn, opening the door behind me. I can feel his eyes on my back as I step out into the hallway, but he doesn’t say anything else. The door clicks shut behind me, and I stand there for a moment, letting the silence of the empty corridor settle around me.

My mind is racing.

Mats had a full-blown panic attack. He threw up. Damian benched him in the semifinals because of it. Because of me.

I run a hand through my hair and start walking, my steps echoing softly down the hall. Part of me wants to go straight to him. Another part of me knows that showing up at his door right now might make everything worse.

Still… I can’t just do nothing.

I’m lying in the middle of my bed, the massive mattress and dark sheets making me feel smaller than I already do. The room is quiet except for the soft sound of Lena’s fingers moving gently through my hair. She’s sitting beside me on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked underneath her, her other hand resting lightly on my chest as she plays with the strands at the nape of my neck. She’s been like this for the last hour — patient, soft, trying to take care of me without asking too many questions.

I told her I got sick during practice and that Damian sent me home early. It wasn’t a complete lie. I did get sick. Just not in the way she’s picturing. Physically, I feel fine now. My stomach has settled, my body doesn’t hurt, and I don’t feel feverish or weak. But my head is a disaster. My thoughts keep circling back to the same place no matter how hard I try to steer them somewhere else.

I should feel comforted. Instead, I feel like I’m lying to her with every breath I take.

The knock at the front door echoes through the house.

Lena pauses, her hand stilling in my hair before she leans down and presses a soft kiss to my temple. “I’ll get it,” she says quietly.

I nod without looking at her, staring up at the high ceiling instead. The house is big — too big for just one person — and sound carries easily through the long hallways and open spaces. I hear her footsteps fade as she leaves the bedroom and makes her way downstairs. For a few seconds, everything is quiet again.

Then I hear the front door open. And Lena’s voice carries clearly up the stairs. “Santi. Hi.”

My entire body locks up. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling as the name hits me. My hands, which had been resting loosely on top of the blanket, curl into tight fists.

Santi is here.

At my house.

Talking to Lena.