Page 12 of Locked & Loaded

Fantastic. Excellent work, brain.

I drag my eyes back to his face and shrug. “I don’t know.”

The lie comes out thin, and the effort of saying it makes the room tilt harder.

Oh my God. I need to get these clothes off right now.

Before Mads can say anything else, I shove my damp T-shirt over my head, then push my pants down and kick them aside, desperate for even the smallest bit of relief. The sticky air hits my skin, and now I’m sitting here in nothing but my boxer shorts, sweating, shaking, and pretending this is a normal thing to do in the middle of an argument with the man I’m secretly obsessed with.

Mads’s gaze stays on my face for one more second. Then it drops to my chest and snaps back up.

It happens fast enough that I could almost pretend I imagined it, except I didn’t.

Under different circumstances, I might enjoy that. I might spend hours dissecting that tiny look and convincing myself it meant something. Under the current circumstances, I’m too busy trying not to black out in front of him like a Victorian orphan.

“Toledo wanted to teach us a lesson,” I say, my voice rough. “There was nothing I could say that would make him budge, and you know that. He’s a stubborn old bastard.”

Mads holds my gaze for a long moment. His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts behind his eyes, like he’s trying to decide whether I’m telling the truth.

The compartment tilts slightly, and I brace one hand against the bunk.

“All right,” he says after a moment. “If that’s true, can we talk about something else?”

I can barely string a thought together right now, but I nod all the same, hoping that if he keeps talking, I won’t black out.

Mads sits up fully now, his eyes locked on mine across the narrow gap between our bunks, and I know what’s coming before he opens his mouth.

“Let’s talk about the game.”

The room wobbles, and I grip the edge of the bunk with both hands. Mads’s face swims in and out of focus, the overhead light catching on his bare shoulders, and the compartment suddenly feels small enough that I could touch both walls if I reached out.

“I can’t,” I say, the words scraping out of my throat. “Not now.”

“Why not?” His voice is flat. “We’ve got hours in this hellhole. Unless talking about it is too much for you?”

The panic tightens its grip. My lungs feel like they’ve been wrapped in plastic with no holes for the air to get through. Sweat trickles down between my shoulder blades.

“Okay, the first goal was on me,” Mads says. “Fine. But the second? Puck goes behind the net. I call reverse, but you still try to move it up the wall with Goode already closing. It dies on the boards, they keep it in before we’re reset, and now I’m trying to find the puck through three pairs of skates. It hits Baadsvik, changes direction, and goes in.”

My vision blurs. The compartment walls press closer.

“The third,” he continues, his voice rising now, taking on that edge it gets when he’s pissed. “Larsen comes down your side. You’ve got him angled, but you don’t take him, and you don’t take the pass away either. You just sit in the middle and give me nothing. I’m waiting for one fucking sign—shot or pass—and by the time I commit, he’s already released it. Low blocker. Goal.”

I press the heel of my palm against my sternum, as if I can physically shove the panic down through my ribs. The pressure only makes it worse.

“And the fourth?” Mads says. “Same problem behind the net. I call reverse, you look over your shoulder, so I know you hear me. Then you freeze with the puck on your stick long enough for Fisker to get on top of you. The puck kicks out front, and I’m not set when the shot comes. Rebound, back door. Open net.”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh.

“So no, I’m not saying every goal was your fault,” he says, the words tight with anger. “I’m saying you keep making me look away from the fucking puck because I’m trying to figure out what the hell you’re doing. That’s insane, Chris. I’m the goalie. I don’t get to waste time reading my own defenseman, and tonight I did it over and over until we both looked like shit.”

My lungs are burning, and the dizzy, buzzing lightness behind my eyes has spread through my skull. I’m going to pass out. I’m actually going to pass out in this stupid fucking train compartment, in front of Mads Holm, and he’s going to think I’m faking it to avoid his questions.

“Are you even listening to me?” he asks, his voice cutting through the buzzing.

I try to say something—but all that comes out is a thin, ragged breath. I let go of the bunk, turn on my side, and slump against the wall. It’s cool against my skin, the only cold thing in this entire room, and I press my forehead to it, gasping.

My fingers scrape against the metal, searching for something to hold onto as the bunk tilts beneath me.