Page 7 of Offside Angle

They start with their usual scoring drills, then immediately turn it into a competition to see who can invent the stupidest move that still ends with the puck in the net. Elias is trying some ridiculous between-the-legs thing while Cole yells suggestions and works on a spin-o-rama variation that absolutely should not work.

“Again!” Elias shouts, laughing as he resets.

“Make it nastier this time!” Cole calls back.

Viktor, Jace, and I are rotating through the thankless job of shutting them down.

Jace is doing his best, eyes wide and focused, but he’s still learning how these two operate when they’re feeding off each other. Viktor is a wall — calm, massive, and annoyingly good at reading their patterns. I’m moving between them, trying to cut passing lanes and force them into bad angles.

Cole tries to dangle me with one of his new inventions. I read it early, step up, and poke the puck away cleanly. Elias immediately tries to recover it with some ridiculous spin, but Viktor is already there, sealing the lane like he knew exactly where it was going.

“Too slow, curls,” I call out as I skate backward, grinning despite the burn in my legs.

Elias just laughs, curls flying as he resets again. “We’re still workshopping it!”

Cole points his stick at me, eyes bright. “Don’t get cocky, Rivera. We’re gonna cook you next shift.”

Jace glances between all of us, looking both terrified and excited. “How are they getting worse?”

“Playoffs,” Viktor rumbles. “Brings out the stupidity.”

By the time practice ends, I’m running on fumes again.

I shower, change, and drive home in a haze. The second I walk through my front door I drop my bag by the entryway, kick off my shoes, and collapse onto the couch like a dead man.

I grab my phone and hit the video call button before I can talk myself out of it.

It only rings twice before my dad’s face fills the screen, bright and loud as always. He’s outside, sunlight hitting him directly, wearing one of his ridiculous aprons that says “Kiss the Cook” . Behind him I can see the grill smoking and my mom sitting at the patio table with a glass of wine, looking effortlessly elegant even in casual clothes.

“Mijo!” my dad beams the second he sees me. “Look who decided to call his old man! How’s my favorite defenseman?”

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. It’s automatic whenever I talk to them.

“Hey, Dad. Mom,” I greet. “You guys having a barbecue without me?”

My mom raises her glass slightly toward the camera, one perfectly arched eyebrow lifted in that dry, amused way of hers. “Your father insisted. He said the weather was too nice to waste. I told him he just wanted an excuse to play with fire.”

My dad gasps dramatically, hand flying to his chest like she’s wounded him. “Vivienne, my love, how could you say such things? I am a man of refined culinary tastes.”

“You burned the burgers last weekend,” she replies calmly, taking another sip of her wine.

Their back-and-forth fills my quiet house, and I sink a little deeper into the couch. They’ve always been like this —completely gone for each other. My dad worships the ground she walks on and makes sure everyone knows it. My mom pretends to be exasperated but never actually stops him. It’s ridiculous. It’s over the top.

I love it.

My dad turns the camera slightly so I can see more of the setup. “We saved you a plate in spirit, Matteo. Next time you come home we’ll do a proper feast. Your mother has been threatening to make her famous paella if you don’t visit soon.”

“I have not been threatening,” my mom corrects, though there’s a small smile playing on her lips. “I’ve been politely suggesting.”

I grin wider, running a hand through my still-damp hair. “I’ll try to come down soon. Playoffs are about to start, though.”

My dad’s expression softens a little, pride clear in his eyes. “We know. We’ve already cleared the calendar for every game. Your mother has been yelling at the TV like she’s on the ice herself.”

“I have not been yelling,” she says again, but she’s smiling now too.

“So, you’re coming to the playoffs?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

My mom gives me that look — the one that says I’ve asked a ridiculous question.