Page 32 of Locked & Loaded

Copenhagen is gray and cold when we arrive, and aside from a couple of rushed kisses on the train before we get off, Mads and I spend most of the day pretending we’re not both extremely aware of each other.

We check into the hotel and make it through breakfast with the team, sitting at different tables and acting like nothing happened.

It mostly works, except I keep catching Mads looking at me, and every time I do, something stupid happens to my face that I have to kill before anyone notices.

After breakfast, we go to practice, where Toledo apparently decides last night’s 4–1 loss can only be atoned for through attempted mass murder. He keeps us moving until every drill starts to feel like punishment and even the rookies stop trying to look enthusiastic.

Normally, I would not look forward to that. But today, even Toledo’s attempt to skate us into an early grave feels weirdly tolerable, because it gives me a completely reasonable excuse to talk to Mads without looking suspicious.

And Mads is…different.

He isn’t glaring at me, ignoring me, or snapping at me like he has been for the past three months. Instead, he talks to me. Watches me. Jokes with me. And a couple of times, when nobody is close enough to hear, I’m almost sure he flirts with me.

Which makes it really fucking difficult not to grin at him like an idiot.

I manage, mostly because Roman keeps watching me every few minutes, and Sam is even worse. He keeps skating a little too close whenever Mads and I talk, like he’s not being incredibly obvious. The man has the subtlety of a burglar in a ski mask at noon.

By the time we hit the showers, my skin is humming.

I keep my eyes on the tile wall in front of me, because the alternative is looking three stalls down at Mads Holm with water running over his naked body and losing whatever small amount of composure I have left.

He doesn’t make it easy. He’s laughing with Roman, his voice carrying through the steam, and every time I hear it, my chest goes warm in this stupid, embarrassing way that makes me want to put my head through the tile.

The hotel bar that night is busy. The whole team is there, scattered across couches and high tables, watching the Redside Wraiths—my old team—play the Stockholm Boars on the giant flat-screen mounted above the bar. I find a spot near the back with a beer in my hand and pretend to care about the game.

I don’t care about the game.

I care about Mads Holm, who’s sitting across the room with Roman, one elbow on the bar, his profile sharp under the low light. He’s wearing a dark henley that stretches across his shoulders and clings to his chest, because apparently the universe has decided I don’t deserve peace. He’s talking, gesturing with his free hand, and Roman is listening with a familiar half-smile, like Mads is being especially stubborn about something.

I try not to look at him.

It goes badly.

He’s like a fucking magnet for my eyes, and for the tenth time in five minutes, I look across the room and find him already looking back.

Mads holds my gaze, and something passes between us that has no business being that obvious in a crowded bar.

I take a long drink of my beer without breaking eye contact.

Maybe it’s the lighting or just wishful thinking, but I swear his eyes go darker.

Two tables over, Sam catches our little exchange.

Shit.

His gaze snaps from Mads to me, then back to Mads, then to me again. His expression cycles through confusion, dawning horror, and finally lands on scandalized delight, which he makes absolutely no attempt to hide.

Then he winks at me, looks across the room at Mads again, and mouths, What the fuck? with his eyebrows doing half the work.

I ignore him.

Sam Winnick getting his nose into my personal life is not a problem I’m equipped to solve tonight.

The game ends. The Wraiths win, which means Toledo’s mood tomorrow will somehow be even worse, because another two points for them puts more pressure on us in the standings, and Coach takes that kind of thing personally.

The bar starts to thin out after that. Guys head upstairs in twos and threes, and Mads walks off with Sam and Roman.

I don’t know what I expected, but I feel a stupid little pang of disappointment anyway. I finish my beer and go upstairs alone.