Offsides (Galatea)

Noah had faced down six-foot-four defensemen with less dread than seeing his stepsister again.

Fallon Vaughn.

The girl who used to steal his hoodies and beat him at Mario Kart. The girl who would fall asleep with her head on his shoulder during late-night movies, like it meant nothing.

That girl.

From thirty thousand feet above Lakefield, Minnesota, she felt like a memory he could keep contained. The town spread out beneath the plane in a frost-laced grid. It was small. Predictable. Manageable.

Seeing her again would be none of those things.

He pressed his forehead to the cool airplane window. This trip was supposed to be simple. Family dinner. A few quiet days. Smile for the photos. Congratulate her on the engagement.

Blake Alexander.

Even thinking the name made him feel sick to his stomach. He told himself it didn’t matter. That whatever he’d once almost said, almost done, almost let himself want, it had expired the second she’d said yes to someone else.

The wheels hit the tarmac with a jolt, and suddenly the distance between them wasn’t miles away anymore.

Within minutes, Noah found himself moving down the jet bridge, duffel slung over his shoulder, the cool Lakefield air already starting to seep in as the doors slid open. As he rounded the corner to baggage claim, he spotted her...a familiar figure standing just outside the crowd, waving him over with a little too much excitement.

His stepmom, Diane, always looked vaguely out of place in public: red coat buttoned up to her chin, hair pinned in a way that had survived every family photo since Noah was a teenager, and a smile she saved only for arrivals and holidays.

“Noah! There you are, honey.” Her voice was bright, and he felt himself bracing for the inevitable fussing. “I parked as close as I could, but you know how Saturday evenings are. Did you check a bag? Do you need a coffee? You look tired, sweetheart.”

He bit back a tired smile, shifting the strap on his shoulder. “Hey, Mom. I’m okay.”

She squeezed his arm. “Of course. You know we’re glad you’re here. Are you hungry? We can stop and get you a sandwich if you want.”

Noah shook his head, eyes moving to the doors and the parking lot beyond, the landscape of Lakefield waiting on the other side—he wasn’t sure if he was ready to step back into it, but Diane’s presence made it just a little easier.

Diane’s minivan still smelled faintly of mints and old upholstery; the hockey sticker on the window had faded nearly clear. Noah watched familiar scenery slip past: the used car lot with balloons tied to antennae, the strip mall, the high school looming, its stadium lights off for the weekend.

Diane kept her hands at ten and two, only glancing over at stoplights. She peppered him with questions, some practical, some pretending not to be worried.

“Did you remember your suit? The house might be a mess; we’ve got decorations in every room. Fallon’s nervous, but you know her.”

Noah answered when he had to, offering small details in trade for Diane’s constant, comforting commentary, the way she filled the silences without pressuring him to talk.

With every mile closer to the house, Noah could feel that old tightness in his chest.

Diane pulled into the driveway, tires crunching over loose gravel. The house glowed warm at the end of the walk, with a yellow porch light glinting against the windows. It was a scene so familiar that, for a moment, Noah thought he might be able to walk in and leave the rest of the last year behind.

Noah stepped inside, shrugging off his jacket, letting the house settle over his shoulders like an old practice jersey. For a moment, he just listened. A dog barked in the backyard, someone clattering silverware in the kitchen, and the TV blaring from the den.

This is where Noah would surely find his dad. It was Lakefield’s most decorated living room, the walls lined with team photos, championship pennants, and battered, framed sticks from a career that filled highlight reels for a decade. Patrick Vaughn, professional hockey legend.

“Flight alright?” his dad asked briefly, glancing up from his half-finished beer, as casual as if they were discussing the weather.

“Yeah,” Noah said, dropping his bag at the foot of the recliner. “No delays, as you said.”

His dad nodded, then leaned back with a sigh. “Good. Did you catch that Titan’s game last night? Second line’s finally clicking.”

Noah cracked a small smile. “Yeah, caught the highlights at the airport.

His dad grinned, an expression filled with shared history. “I think they might have a shot at repeating this year—something that hasn’t been done since I was there.”

“You think they’re really going to do it again?” he asked, partly just to keep his dad talking, partly because he wanted to hear that hopeful certainty again.

His dad’s answer came fast, sure as ever. “Oh, definitely. If Blake keeps setting up plays like that, and the young center stays healthy, they’ll be a problem. It’s just about staying out of the box and finishing checks.”

Noah tried to ride that easy back and forth with his dad. The shorthand of systems and stats, the safe comfort of picking apart a game they both knew by heart. For a moment, with nothing expected of him but these small agreements and echoes, he almost felt himself relax.

“Coach still got you on the third line?” his dad asked.

“Yeah,” Noah replied. “You know how it is. Trying to get my timing back.”

His dad nodded, almost approving. “You just got to trust your instincts.”

Eventually, his dad nodded toward the hallway. “Dinner’s still a ways off. Go get settled in. Your room’s just like you left it.”

Noah managed a half-smile and made his way out of the den. He moved down the narrow hall and up the stairs to the second floor and pushed open the door to his old room. It hadn’t changed. The faded posters still clung to the walls, and the cracked desk corner held remnants of unfinished projects and discarded socks.

He dumped his bag on the floor and wandered to the window, glancing out at the backyard. Memories flooded in. August nights, when he and Fallon would stay up too late watching horror movies on the floor. At some point, her head found his shoulder, her laugh soft against his neck, and he’d caught himself watching the way her hair curled at her jaw. He nearly reached for her hand, but common sense, or maybe fear, held him back. He never said anything. Step-sibling crushes were probably normal. Acting on them? Not so much.

Collapsing onto his childhood bed, the old mattress giving a little under his weight, familiar springs creaking in protest. For the first time in weeks, he let his guard down, face buried in rumpled cotton, drifting toward sleep.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out when a gentle knock rattled the door. A voice poked through the haze.

“Noah? Dinner’s ready. People are starting to show up.”

For a second, he couldn’t move. It was ridiculous. He’d flown across the country, walked through the front door, and made small talk with his dad. But the sound of Fallon’s voice on the other side of his bedroom door felt like the real arrival.

His pulse kicked hard against his ribs, equal parts anticipation and something dangerously close to regret. He blinked awake, heavy-limbed and disoriented for a beat before the voices and the clink of silverware from downstairs reeled him back to Lakefield.

He dragged a hand through his hair and crossed the room, pausing with his fingers wrapped around the doorknob. For half a second, he considered pretending he was still asleep. That was childish. Cowardly, but tempting.

He opened the door.

Fallon stood a few feet back in the hallway, like she’d given him space on purpose.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

She looked almost the same. Her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, a little longer than he remembered. There was a softness to her face that hadn’t been there before, or maybe he’d just never let himself study it this closely. Her hazel eyes caught his first, warm and uncertain all at once.

His chest tightened.

A year ago, he’d left Lakefield half-broken and stubborn about it. His pride hurt worse than the injury. He hadn’t wanted her to see him like that, hesitant, angry, unsure of who he was without the game coming easily.

And now here she was.

“Hey,” she said quietly, like she wasn’t sure what version of him she was going to get.

He swallowed. “Hey.”

It was such a small word for everything lodged behind it.

Relief flickered first, sharp and unexpected. She was here. Real. Not just a memory he could edit or soften. Then came the second wave: the reminder. The ring he knew was on her hand, even if he hadn’t looked for it yet. The future she’d agreed to didn’t include him.

He forced himself to breathe normally.

She shifted her weight, offering a tentative smile that pulled at the dimple in her cheek. “You made it.”

“Yeah,” he said, managing something close to steady. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Yeah?” Her brows lifted slightly. “Because you’ve pulled a pretty impressive disappearing act lately.” He stilled. “So… I-” She hesitated, correcting herself. “We weren’t sure.”

The word hung there.

We.

He wasn’t sure which part of that hit harder, and he couldn’t find the words to reply.

Her eyes swept over him, subtle but assessing. “So, how’s the leg?”

“Works,” he said. “Mostly.”

A flicker crossed her face. “I’ve been worried about you, you know?”

“I’ve been doing alright.”

Her gaze held his, quiet and unconvinced.

“I wouldn’t know. A year’s a long time to go MIA, Noah.”

He exhaled slowly. “Rehab—”

“You didn’t call,” she cut in, not sharp, just steady. “You didn’t answer my texts. Nothing.

That landed.

“I figured you were busy,” he said, hating how weak it sounded.

Her mouth pressed thin. “I would’ve shown up.”

He looked at her then. Really looked at her.

“I know,” he said.

Which was precisely the problem.

The lie settled between them, heavier now.

For a second, it felt like the hallway had narrowed, as if they were seventeen again, standing too close, daring something neither of them had ever said out loud. Only this time, there was a ring on her hand. Dinner was waiting downstairs. A fiancé somewhere in the house. And Noah had no idea which part of that he was least prepared to face.

The moment stretched, thick with everything unsaid. Then, with a soft exhale, she finally broke the silence.

“We should go down,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “People are waiting.”