Page 10 of Locked & Loaded

Matching mugs. For me and Mads fucking Holm. A man who currently looks like he’d rather gnaw through the compartment wall than spend another minute breathing the same air as me.

And yes, I’m aware of the many, many problems here.

He’s straight.

He hates me.

We play professional hockey, where a guy can bleed on the ice, but God forbid he’s attracted to men.

And based on everything I’ve seen from Mads, he probably thinks emotional intimacy is a scam invented to make people expose their weak spots.

None of that has stopped my brain. Which is rude, honestly.

I could’ve picked someone else for this humiliating little brain malfunction. Someone nice. Roman Blake, for instance—our captain, who’s actually gay and nice to me. Respectful, kind, easy to talk to.

But no. My type is apparently a giant Dane with a resting murder face and enough suppressed aggression to power a small city. Which probably says more about me than anything else, but I’m choosing not to examine that right now.

It would be embarrassing if anyone knew, but thankfully, nobody does. I’ve gotten good at hiding every stupid reaction behind the same controlled expression I’ve been perfecting for the past three months. I’ve also made a point of avoiding Mads off the ice so I don’t feed the crush any more than I already have. For a while, I even managed to convince myself that meant I had it under control. That this stupid, annoying, inconvenient thing was manageable.

Tonight proved that was bullshit.

Avoiding Mads might keep me from doing anything embarrassing off the ice, but it’s been terrible for our game. We’ve been getting worse together every time we play, and tonight was the ugliest version of it: him glaring at me from the crease like I should know exactly what he wanted, me overthinking every read until I made the wrong one, and neither of us doing anything useful about the problem because that would require actually talking about it.

So we didn’t. He yelled. I took it. The calls got worse, the timing fell apart, and sixty minutes of bad hockey turned into a 4–1 loss.

Now the universe has apparently decided the reasonable next step is locking us in a compartment the size of a matchbox and waking up my long-forgotten claustrophobia for the next stage of whatever character development arc this is.

Great.

I’m wallowing in exactly how idiotic this whole situation is when Mads reaches for the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it over his head in one quick motion.

My eyes go to his bare chest before I can stop them. It’s reflexive, the way your eyes find the thing you’re trying not to look at. I’ve seen Mads shirtless before, obviously. We share a locker room. But there’s a difference between noticing a teammate in the background while you’re changing after practice and having him three feet away in a locked compartment, sweat gleaming across his skin under the overhead light. My gaze goes rogue, following the broad planes of his chest, the hard lines of his stomach, the blond trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. I stare like an idiot, my brain suddenly fascinated by details it has always had access to and never once allowed itself to study.

Mads catches me, because of course he does. His eyes narrow, and that half-scowl deepens.

“What?” he says, like he’s already expecting some kind of accusation. “It’s fucking hot in here, and I don’t want to die of heatstroke.”

For one awful second, I have to put all my energy into keeping my face blank. My pulse has kicked up, my skin feels too hot, and my body is starting to react in a way I absolutely cannot afford while Mads is sitting three feet away from me. Apparently, getting turned on and quietly losing my mind from claustrophobia are not mutually exclusive, which seems like a serious design flaw.

I stand up, because sitting there staring at his chest is not an option, and cross to the window. The glass is fogged with condensation but cool under my palms. I find the little metal handle at the bottom of the upper pane and push it upward, then pull it down, testing both directions.

The frame doesn’t budge.

“It’s stuck,” Mads says from behind me. “I already tried.”

I ignore him and push harder. My shoulders strain, the muscles in my arms pulling tight, but the window stays sealed. I try again, bracing my weight against the frame, and feel the metal groan without giving.

“Come on,” I mutter, pushing harder. “Open.”

“It won’t,” Mads says behind me. “I told you.”

I give the handle one last shove, hard enough that the metal bites into my palm, then let go. The pane stays shut.

For a second, I just stand there, staring at the fogged glass. The compartment feels hotter now that I know the window isn’t an option, and behind me, Mads swears under his breath, caught in the same useless need to do something.

A moment later, he crosses back to the door and starts hammering on it again.

Three bangs, a pause, then three more.