Page 45 of Locked & Loaded

Chris lets out a breath, and his shoulders ease a fraction before he looks back at the room.

“Uh,” he says, and this time he gets the words out. “I’m gay.”

The words hang over the locker room for a second, loud in the sudden quiet.

Chris stays frozen beside me, face pale, like if he doesn’t move, maybe everyone else will forget what he just said. For a second, it almost feels like they might. No one gasps or flinches. The whole room just looks at him, taking it in. But as the silence stretches and starts turning awkward, I can feel him tense, waiting for someone to make it weird.

Right before it tips from awkward into unbearable, though, Johan leans back against his stall and says, “Good for you, Rodriguez,” with a small smile, like it really is that simple.

And somehow, after that, it is. The room loosens a little. A couple of guys smile and nod. Alex taps his knuckles against the bench, and Rami says, “Proud of you, man.”

One of the rookies—Jared, a kid from Minnesota who spends most practices getting chirped for his accent—says, “Cool, dude,” with the grave seriousness of someone who’s just received important information and is determined not to fuck it up.

Somewhere in the middle of all that awkward, well-meaning support, Chris finally lets himself breathe. He looks at me, relief flickering across his face, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough for me to catch it.

I smile back, because I know what’s coming next—and if they thought that was a lot, they’re not ready for the rest.

Chris turns back to the room.

“And,” he says, glancing back at me for half a second, “Mads and I are together.”

This silence is different.

Every head turns to me, and for one stupid second, my brain supplies absolutely nothing useful.

“Yup,” I say, nodding.

Alex is the first to recover. “Is this a joke?” His eyebrows go up, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t mean it badly, even though it comes out that way. “You hate Rodriguez.” He glances at Chris. “No offense, man.”

“None taken,” Chris says, smirking now.

“I don’t hate him,” I say, trying not to sound offended. “I actually like him a lot, which is sort of the point here. Oh, and I’m bisexual.”

The last part comes out like an afterthought, which is insane, because I always thought coming out would be a bigger deal for me, given that it took me thirty years, a defenseman I thought I hated, and one overheated train compartment to realize I was not, in fact, as straight as previously advertised.

I’ve just spent so much time worrying about Chris having to say his part that I somehow forgot I was standing right next to him with my own part to get through.

A few guys blink at me, incredulous.

Fair. I’ve only ever talked about women, and I’ve given them exactly zero reasons to think I’m anything but straight. Still, I know this won’t be a problem. My teammates are assholes about plenty of things—volume, hygiene, group-chat etiquette—but they’re not homophobic. That, at least, I know for a fact.

“And,” I add, because there’s no graceful way to make this less shocking now, “we’ve been together for eight months.”

There’s another beat of silence while everyone seems to process the words eight months. I can practically see them going back through the season in their heads—Chris and me showing up to breakfast at the same time, him accidentally wearing my hoodie on the bus, me suddenly knowing how he takes his coffee, both of us disappearing after team dinners with the subtlety of two criminals in a children’s cartoon.

That’s when Sam finally loses the fight with his own face. He straightens like someone just plugged him into the wall and shouts, “Holy shit! I fucking knew it!”

Chris looks at him, genuinely surprised, and Sam beams at both of us in turn, the joy of finally being proven right practically leaking out of him. I can see him fighting the urge to give the whole team a full-blown presentation on how he figured us out months ago, complete with every piece of evidence he collected.

For once in his life, though, he manages to keep most of it inside his body.

Which, for Sam, is basically an act of heroism.

After that, the rest of the room catches up fast. There’s surprised laughter, guys talking over each other, congratulations coming from every direction, questions I’m not sure either of us is ready to answer.

Johan says, “You know what? You two actually make a lot of sense,” with so much easy certainty I feel my cheeks heat.

But the reaction that gets to me the most is Roman’s.