Page 22 of Locked & Loaded

I don’t think I want him to be over it.

Over me.

But if he is, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with that.

“How do you lose a crush?”

The question comes out before I can stop it—barely above a whisper, but the compartment is so small it doesn’t need to be loud.

Rodriguez is still. The moonlight catches the side of his face—the profile of his nose, the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips. He looks like a fucking painting, and I hate how much I love looking at him now that I’ve allowed myself to.

He doesn’t answer.

My heart is hammering against my ribs like I’ve just gone from a full sprint to a dead stop.

Shit. What the hell am I doing? He already shut this down. He already told me he was over it—and put as much space between us as he possibly could in this tiny room, because my response to his confession was so fucking inadequate.

And now he’s not even answering.

Silence.

Maybe I’m sitting here talking to myself while Christopher Rodriguez snoozes peacefully three feet away, having successfully unloaded his emotional baggage and moved the fuck on.

If he’s asleep, I can take it back. Pretend I never asked. Go back to trying to sort out my own shit without dragging him through it again.

The thought is almost comforting.

And then he answers.

“I don’t know.” His voice is quiet, flat. “Having the guy glare at you like he hates your guts probably helps.”

Okay. He’s not sleeping.

I see him blink in the faint light, and my pulse jumps. Then I huff out a laugh.

“Right,” I say. “Fair enough.”

We go quiet again, and my brain scrambles for something to say, some way to catch the tail of this conversation before it disappears.

“I’d be much nicer to you,” I say, the words coming out before I can think better of them, “if I’d known you had a crush on me.”

There it is. The stupidest thing I’ve said tonight, and now I definitely can’t take it back.

Rodriguez doesn’t answer right away. I can hear him breathing across the gap, and I fight the urge to sit up so I can see him better.

“Why?” he says after a moment. “Because it tickles your ego or something?”

I full-on laugh at that. The sound comes out rough, suddenly too loud in the small space, surprising both of us.

“Well, yes,” I say. “Hard to argue with that.”

I pause, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t. The dark feels different now, like the air has changed around us, a little easier to breathe through. So I continue, because apparently my mouth has decided tonight is the night to burn every bridge I’ve ever built.

“It’s nice to know the hot new defenseman on your team didn’t think you were bad at the game and actually just wanted to climb you like a tree.”

I brace for silence again, but Rodriguez snorts. Thank god.

I can’t see his face clearly, but I hear it—short, surprised, caught off guard. Then his head shifts against the pillow, a small, incredulous shake, like I’ve just said the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. Part of me wants to crawl under my bunk and hide, but a bigger part is already grinning in the dark.