Page 60 of Offside Angle

He closes his eyes, completely wrecked. “I… yes,” he sighs.

I cup his cheek, my thumb brushing over his skin. He presses into my palm, desperate for whatever comfort I’m still willing to give him, and somehow that hurts even more.

“I told him I wouldn’t hand you to him,” I say softly.

He frowns, confused. He didn’t know I spoke to Santi.

“But…” I continue.

“Lena—” he starts, trying to interrupt.

“No,” I cut him off. “Listen to me. I will not stand here and watch you beat yourself up with guilt. I’m sure Cole will do enough of that for both of you. Go, stinky… explore. Do what makes you happy. I will still cheer for you.”

His face crumples, and for one horrible second I can see exactly how much this is costing him. “But… Lena…” he says. “You’re my home.”

I smile at him, even as my chest aches. “No, baby,” I say. “You just like the version of yourself hiding with me.”

Mats stares at me with wide, glassy eyes, like he’s never heard anything more true and more painful at the same time.

I reach up and brush a strand of hair off his forehead, letting my hand linger against his cheek for a moment.

“You’re safe with me,” I continue. “You know exactly who you are when you’re with me. You know the role. The charm. The golden boy with the perfect girlfriend. And I love that version of you — I really do. But that’s not all of you, is it?”

His throat works as he swallows, and I can see the fight leaving his eyes.

I take a small step back, giving him space even though every part of me wants to hold on.

“You need to figure out who you are when you’re not hiding,” I say. “And I can’t be the place you hide anymore. Not if it’s going to break you… or me.”

I mean every word. I love him enough to let him go find himself — even if that self leads him straight to Santi.

Mats looks completely lost. And for the first time, I think he finally understands that I’m not just letting him go.

I’m setting him free.

“I know you don’t deserve what I put you through… and I’m sorry,” he says.

The words hit me harder than I expect. I reach up and gently run my fingers through his hair one last time, letting them linger at the back of his neck. “I know,” I say softly.

The boarding announcement echoes through the terminal.

I take a small breath and look him in the eyes. “Now,” I continue, “be good, stinky. Turn around. Go find that insufferable Spanish man. Do what you gotta do… and win tomorrow. Show them hell, baby.”

Mats lets out a short, humorless scoff. “I love you,” he says.

I smile, even as my eyes sting. “I love you, too.”

I lean up, press one last kiss to his cheek, and then turn around before I can change my mind. I don’t look back as I hand over my boarding pass and walk down the jet bridge. Every step feels heavier than the last, but I keep going.

I find my seat by the window and buckle in. As the plane slowly pushes back from the gate and begins to taxi, I finally allow myself to look out toward the terminal one last time. I can’t see him anymore, but I know he’s still standing there.

The plane lifts off, and Brooklyn shrinks beneath us.

I lean my head against the window, watching the city disappear. “I hope Santi was right,” I mumble to myself. “Being in love is temporary.”

Game 4 against the Bastards, and the Reapers have come out swinging like men possessed. I almost forget I’m supposed to be taking pictures. My camera stays raised more out of habit than focus, because damn — they’re good. They’re on fire. I don’t know what the hell Matteo did between yesterday and today, but he is different.

I watch him from behind the glass near the boards, my lens trained almost exclusively on him. I should be capturing the whole team, the crowd, the action across the ice. Instead, my finger keeps pressing the shutter every time he touches the puck, every time he throws a body check, every time that familiar fire lights up in his eyes.