Page 44 of Locked & Loaded

This is not how I pictured it.

I pictured candles. Maybe a nice dinner. Sex. Something that didn’t involve twenty-five hockey players in various states of undress, the stink of wet gear, and the kind of industrial cleaner every arena on earth seems to buy by the barrel.

But Chris has been talking about this for weeks—coming out to the team, finally—and the fact that he wants me there with him means something I’m not stupid enough to fuck up.

So here we are.

Post-practice, in the middle of the locker room, with me standing beside him while he gathers his courage like he’s about to jump off a cliff.

He looks at me, half terror, half determination, and I nod once.

Very Danish of me.

Very supportive.

The thing about Chris is that he is, by nature, a private person. Quiet. Composed. The kind of guy who keeps everything close to his chest until the pressure builds too high and he has to let something out or explode.

Eight months ago, in a hotel room in Copenhagen, he told me he transferred to the Saints because he wanted a fresh start. Somewhere he could eventually be himself. The Wraiths weren’t that place. The Wraiths were the kind of team where coming out would have felt like career suicide, and Chris isn’t a martyr. He’s practical.

He left.

He came here.

He fell in love with his goalie, which I’m guessing was not part of the plan.

Now he wants to tell everyone.

And I want to marry him.

So.

Roman moves into the open space between the benches and claps once. “All right, listen up. Chris has something he wants to say.”

The noise doesn’t die down exactly. Hockey players don’t do quiet. But the volume drops from full locker-room chaos to a dull murmur, which is about as close to attentive as we get.

Roman steps back, giving Chris the floor, and beside me, my boyfriend—my very handsome, very serious boyfriend—turns to face the room.

He looks sick—face pale, jaw tight, like he might faint if anyone looks at him too hard. His hair is damp from the shower, dark and curling at the temples, and he’s wearing that blue henley he hates and I love, because according to Chris, it makes his nipples show through the fabric.

“So,” he says, his fingers flexing like he’s trying to restore blood flow. “I, uh—”

Then nothing.

The room waits.

Sam, three benches over, is watching with the expression of a man who has placed a bet and is about to collect. He overheard just enough of me and Chris during practice to know something was coming, and considering he’s spent the past months bombarding us with questions about whether we’re secretly together, today is basically his birthday. I wanted to tell him a long time ago, if only to shut him up, but I wasn’t going to turn Chris’s life into locker-room gossip just because Sam had the persistence of a mosquito.

Roman’s face is carefully neutral, but his eyes keep moving between us. Even though Chris only asked him to get the room’s attention after practice, without explaining why, I’m pretty sure Roman figured us out a long time ago.

It’s hard not to recognize a secret relationship when you’re hiding one yourself.

As it turns out, Roman is secretly dating Sebastian Walsh—the captain of the Wraiths. I knew they’d hooked up once, back when Toledo and Harris sent all of us to work at those rescue stations, but I didn’t know it had turned into an actual relationship until recently. Because—how do I put this gently—Walsh is kind of a nightmare.

Anyway, apparently they’ve been together this whole time and hiding it from everyone. A couple of months ago, I accidentally caught them holding hands in an arena hallway after our game against the Wraiths, and since then, Roman and I have had a quiet understanding: I don’t ask questions about Walsh. He doesn’t ask questions about Chris.

After tonight, maybe we can finally talk about it like normal people, because I’ve been dying to know what the actual fuck.

“Well,” Chris says, then clears his throat. His gaze darts to me for half a second, and I nod because it’s the only useful thing I can do without grabbing his hand in front of everyone and hijacking his coming-out speech.