Page 1 of Locked & Loaded

Chapter 1. Mads

The night air in Oslo bites at my face as we head for the train, equipment bags dragging behind us. Another loss. Not just any loss—the kind that exposes every crack, makes coaches clench their jaws, and has teammates avoiding eye contact.

Worse, it came against the Folgefonna Jagerfly, a Norwegian team that sounds like a budget airline and usually plays like one.

My shoulder aches from a third-period collision, but it’s nothing compared to the migraine building behind my eyes. Ahead of me, Roman is doing what captains do, patting guys on the back and saying things that won’t fix anything but at least acknowledge the mess. I keep my gaze locked on the back of his jacket, ignoring the guy smoking at the edge of my vision—the asshole I’m blaming for this entire shitshow.

I don’t let myself look at him properly, because one wrong glance and I’ll walk over there and punch him straight in the face, which would be a great way to get myself benched before Copenhagen. Coach already has enough to be pissed about, and I’m not giving him one more reason. It’s my hometown. I need to be on the ice for that game, especially after tonight.

I feel like shit. Makes sense, since I played like shit.

The guys are hunched into their coats, earbuds in, shutting themselves into their own private misery. I can’t blame them. The wind cuts down the platform hard enough that snow feels like only a matter of time, and I turn my collar up against it. Two months ago, I was looking forward to this European swing. Now I just want it over.

“Hey.” Roman appears beside me, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “You good?”

I give him the nod he’s looking for. Neutral. Controlled. Nothing that says I’m about to spend the whole night replaying every bad read, every screen I lost track of, every shot I should’ve had.

“Fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I look Danish.”

It’s an old joke between us. My standard answer whenever he tells me I look too serious.

Roman doesn’t laugh this time. His eyes are tired in that captain way, like he’s been taking in everyone else’s frustration all night and pretending it isn’t getting to him. “Toledo’s pissed about you and Chris tonight. Just a heads-up.”

I snort. “When is he not pissed about something?”

“Fair.” He squeezes my shoulder once, then moves on to the next guy down the line.

Sam appears a moment later, dropping his duffel at my feet with a theatrical groan. “If I have to hear one more Norwegian tell me how we should’ve run that power play, I’m throwing myself on the tracks.”

“You said that in Helsinki, too.”

“This time I might.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in every direction. “I really might, Maddy.”

“You’d make a mess.” My mouth twitches despite everything. Sam could get a laugh out of you at your own funeral.

“A beautiful mess,” he says with a sigh. “They’d write songs about it.” Something to my left catches his eye, and his expression shifts. “Heads up. Smokey the Bear, weak side.”

I don’t turn. I smell Rodriguez before I see him, Marlboro smoke cutting through the cold night air. My jaw tightens automatically.

Sam, as always, fills the silence. “Hey, Rodriguez. Didn’t you quit after the last game?”

Rodriguez gives him a deadpan look, like the question isn’t worth answering. He doesn’t even glance at me, which somehow pisses me off more than if he did.

Typical.

Christopher Rodriguez is a problem I wasn’t expecting to have this season. When management signed him from the Redside Wraiths, I didn’t need a scouting report to know who he was. The Wraiths have been our biggest rivals for years, and last season they beat us in the final, took the Cup, and left us standing there like idiots while they celebrated.

Rodriguez had been one of their alternate captains, which made the whole thing even weirder. Guys don’t usually walk away from a team right after winning a championship unless there’s a reason, but apparently I was the only person in the locker room rude enough to wonder what his was.

I didn’t deal with Rodriguez much on the ice when he was still with the Wraiths. I’m the goalie. He’s a defenseman. Most of what I knew came from watching him kill plays before our forwards even had time to get excited. He’d get a stick in the lane, seal a guy off along the boards, make one short pass under pressure, and suddenly our whole rush was dead.

He had been good for them. Annoyingly good. Which only made his sudden transfer feel more suspicious.

The coaches, of course, act like he fixed our entire blue line by walking through the door. They give him the kind of respect I had to bleed for, which would be annoying enough if the rest of the team hadn’t immediately bought in. They trust him. They play well with him.