Page 61 of Offside Angle

Third period and the Bastards are getting desperate, turning aggressive as the clock winds down. One of their bigger defensemen barrels toward Matteo along the boards, and before I can even brace myself, he slams him hard — face-first into the glass right in front of me.

The impact is so brutal the entire panel rattles.

I gasp and snap the shot.

Matteo’s face is smushed against the glass, cheekbone pressed flat, but he’s grinning with the unhinged delight of someone having the time of his life. His eyes lock on mine through the barrier, wild and bright and full of something that makes my stomach flip.

“Hello, cariño,” I say under my breath, even though I’m not sure he can hear me through the glass and the roar of the crowd.

He winks at me.

Then, with a roar that I feel in my chest, he explodes off the boards, shoving the other player back with raw power. The Bastard stumbles, and Matteo is already gone—skating hard, completely locked onto the puck.

I lower the camera for a second, unable to stop the small smile that pulls at my lips.

The game is pure chaos now, the kind of playoff hockey that makes your blood sing.

Matteo screams across the ice.“Hollywood!!”

Cole, already streaking down the wing, yells right back without missing a beat. “Fuck you!”

But even as he curses him, Cole’s stick is ready. Mats threads a perfect pass through traffic and Cole snatches it, wheels around a defender with a hip check that sends the Bastard spinning, and fires it cross-ice to Elias.

The arena erupts as Elias winds up and rips a one-timer top shelf with five minutes left on the clock.

The lamp lights. The Reapers are up by two.

I switch to video just in time to catch Elias’ celly — the way he throws his arms up, screaming as the bench explodes. The crowd is deafening. I’m glued to the glass, heart hammering, barely remembering to breathe.

On the ice, Mats and Cole haven’t let up on each other since warmups, apparently unaffected by the fact that this is a massive playoff moment.

“You throw that pass any softer and I’m benching your ass myself!” Cole yells, skating past Mats and shoving him.

“Eat my fucking ass, you dramatic prick!” Mats fires back, grinning wildly as he taps Cole’s shin pad with his stick.

I raise an eyebrow as Cole follows him all the way back to the bench, calling him every name under the sun before bumping gloves with him anyway.

These idiots.

The final horn sounds and the Reapers win Game 4.

Brooklyn fans are loud, but the visiting Reapers faithful who made the trip are roaring hard enough to make the arena feel almost neutral. I lift my camera and switch to video again, panning across the sea of red and black jerseys, the standing ovation, the pure chaos of a playoff crowd that knows their team just forced a Game 5.

I’m already moving before the players even start skating off the ice. I want to catch them as they come in—the raw, unfiltered celebration.

I reach the locker room entrance just as the team comes pouring in, carrying the energy of the arena with them. Music starts almost immediately, water goes flying across the room, and Cole and Matteo land right back in the middle of their running argument without missing a beat.

“You’re such a fucking show-off, Rivera!” Cole yells, shoving Mats hard in the chest.

“Eat shit, Hollywood! That pass was perfect and you know it!” Mats fires back, knocking his hand away.

“Yeah, well maybe if you weren’t so busy thinking about your new boyfriend instead of the game, we wouldn’t have needed that goal!”

My finger stops over the shutter.

Boyfriend?

Cole’s eyes flick past Matteo and land directly on me.