Page 4 of Locked & Loaded

I smirk at my own thoughts as I pull the clean T-shirt on. So much for a guy’s sexual fantasies. Apparently mine involve getting my emotionally unavailable teammate to admit we have a problem.

I trade my jeans for shorts and hang my clothes on the hook by the sink. Then I flop onto my bunk, turn toward the wall, and curl into my usual sleeping position: knees bent, one arm folded under the pillow. I press my forehead against the coolest part of the wall I can find, which takes the edge off my migraine. The train has settled into motion now, a rhythmic clack-clack that under different circumstances might actually be soothing.

I don’t pull the sheet over myself. The compartment already feels like a greenhouse with two bodies in it, and the thought of fabric against my skin right now makes me want to scream.

I should be out the second I lie down, if exhaustion worked the way it’s supposed to. My legs ache from sixty minutes of dropping, pushing, and scrambling across the crease, and my neck is stiff from wearing a goalie mask all night and craning around screens to find the puck. It’s the kind of exhaustion that should drop me straight into a coma.

But my head won’t shut up.

It keeps replaying every mistake I made, every shot that got past me, every save I know I should’ve had. And the feeling that my luck turned on me didn’t start tonight. It started back in September, when my current nightmare of a bunkmate showed up at camp.

That sounds dramatic, probably, but every ugly moment I’ve had on the ice this season seems to come with Rodriguez somewhere in the frame.

Tonight just gave me plenty more to lie here and pick apart.

The first goal was on me—I know that. Clean shot, clear lane, and I’m not looking for an excuse for that one. Right before it happened, Rodriguez moved somewhere at the edge of my vision, barely enough to notice, except apparently my brain had decided noticing him was more important than tracking the puck. The shot came through, and I reacted late. On paper, that’s on me. In my head, it still has his stupid fingerprints all over it.

The second was where we started losing each other properly. The puck went behind the net, I called for one thing, Rodriguez did another, and for a second neither of us looked wrong so much as completely disconnected. Their forward jumped on the loose puck, threw it into traffic, and it bounced off a skate before I could seal the post. Ugly goal. Bad bounce. Also exactly the kind of mess that happens when your defenseman hears your voice and decides it’s optional.

So fine. The first two had explanations. Bad ones, but explanations. The third is where I start getting pissed off all over again.

It came off a rush we should’ve handled. Their winger drove down the boards, Rodriguez had him angled, and all I needed was one call, one look, one fucking sign that he had the pass covered and I could stay on the shot. Instead, I got nothing. I waited half a beat for the read that never came, and by the time I committed, the puck was already off the guy’s stick. It squeezed under my blocker before I could close the gap.

The fourth was worse because I was already pissed by then. I called reverse behind the net, and Rodriguez hesitated just long enough to make me think he was ignoring me again. So instead of staying with the puck, I watched him. Watched his hands, his stick, the tiny pause before he moved it. By the time I picked up the pressure, their forechecker had turned it into a scramble, the puck kicked out front, and I was late to everything. First shot, rebound, back door. Open net. Thank you, good night.

Four goals. One cleanly mine, one just plain stupid, and two born from Rodriguez’s commitment to communicating like a malfunctioning appliance. So when I close my eyes, all I see is his stupid screensaver face, and I want to punch it hard enough to make him finally produce an emotion.

I press my forehead harder against the wall, trying to shove the ghost of his fucking face out through the metal.

For a few seconds, I just lie there with my eyes closed, listening to the train and trying very hard not to think about Rodriguez. Which would be easier if the compartment weren’t so small I could hear his breathing.

It’s probably not even that loud. But the guy breathes the way he does everything—controlled enough to be irritating—and in this tiny fucking closet, it’s too much for my riled-up brain. In, out. In, out. Like a fucking metronome, which feels especially offensive when I’d at least like him to be slightly upset about the loss tonight.

I keep my eyes closed and my back to him. The last thing I need right now is to snap at a guy because his breathing has started to feel personal.

Then I hear him move.

There’s a rustle of clothes from his side, and I realize he’s probably changing too. I stay where I am, listening despite myself, and when he finishes, I hear his footsteps again.

What is he doing? Pacing?

He stops and exhales hard. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but it sounds frustrated.

The rustling continues. He zips something—his duffel, probably—then unzips it a few seconds later. Another sigh, shorter this time. More rustling.

I reach for my headphones in my jacket pocket, pull them out, and jam them into my ears. I open Spotify, but the loading wheel just spins. No service. I should have expected that—train Wi-Fi is a myth told to children—but being proved right still pisses me off. I yank the headphones out and shove them back into their case with more force than necessary.

Rodriguez is still at it. Zipping, unzipping. Then there’s a soft rustle, like he’s searching one of the pockets. Another sigh.

Jesus Christ.

I let out a loud sigh of my own—the kind that says I’m not sleeping and it’s your fault—and roll over to face him.

He’s sitting on his bunk with the duffel on his knees, one hand digging through the main compartment, his expression tense in a way I haven’t seen before. Usually, Rodriguez looks like nothing short of a natural disaster could put a dent in him, but right now there’s a furrow between his brows and his jaw is working slightly, like he’s grinding his teeth.

He’s wearing the sweatpants and T-shirt he changed into earlier, which look way too warm for this sauna of a compartment. A thin sheen of sweat covers his forehead and neck. He wipes at it with one hand, still searching with the other, and the frustration in the gesture is so obvious it’s almost funny.

I prop myself up on one elbow and watch him.