Page 46 of Locked & Loaded

He just smiles, but his eyes look suspiciously bright, and I know why. Until today, he was the first and only guy to come out on our team. He did it two years ago, back when nobody could tell him what it would do to his career, how the fans would react, or how ugly other teams might get once they had that to throw at him.

Roman did it anyway.

And because he did, Chris and I get to do this now with a lot less fear.

In the middle of all that chaos, with everyone talking over each other and Chris answering questions he absolutely did not prepare for, I remember the main reason I came here today.

My pulse kicks hard.

For a few seconds, I just stand there with my hand in my pocket, fingers closed around the velvet ring box, waiting for the right moment. Which is bullshit. There is no right moment. The room is only getting louder, Sam looks two seconds away from giving a TED Talk, and if I wait any longer, I’m going to lose my nerve.

So I pull it out.

Nobody notices at first. They’re all watching Chris, who is explaining—haltingly, awkwardly—that yes, we’re serious, no, it’s not a joke, and yes, he’s very happy, thank you for asking, even though nobody has actually asked that.

Then I turn toward him.

Chris catches the movement immediately. His eyes flick to my face first, confused, then dart to my hand. To the box.

That’s when I drop to one knee in front of him on the locker room floor.

It takes the room a second to catch up. Chris gets there first, obviously. Then Sam cuts himself off mid-sentence with an actual choking sound, and after that, the noise dies so fast it feels like someone pulled a plug.

I can feel every eye on me, on the box in my hand, on Chris’s face, which has gone from pink to dark red in the space of a heartbeat.

“Chris,” I say. My voice is steadier than I expected. My hands are not. “I know this wasn’t the plan. The plan was us coming out, surviving it, then maybe going back to my place, ordering Thai food, and talking about how it went. But I’ve had this ring for three weeks now, and every time I told myself I was waiting for the right moment, I was lying. I was scared shitless you’d say no.” I swallow. “I’m still scared shitless you’ll say no. But I can’t wait anymore.”

Chris stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. His mouth is open. His eyes are wide.

For one second, I think he might actually faint, which is not ideal during a proposal.

“I love you,” I continue. “I’ve loved you since that night on the train, and probably before that, and I want to spend my life with you. Waiting feels stupid, so I don’t want to do it.” I take a deep breath. “So. Christopher Rodriguez. Will you marry me? And also move in with me, because my apartment is bigger and has better water pressure?”

Laughter ripples around us, but it sounds far away. I’m only looking at Chris.

I open the box.

The ring is simple. Platinum, no stone, just a band with a thin line of black carbon fiber running through the center. I picked it because Chris doesn’t wear jewelry, because he’s practical, because anything flashy would sit in a drawer, and because I want this to be something he actually wears every day.

For a second, he only stares at the ring. Then he looks at me. Then back at the ring, like he needs to confirm this is really happening.

“Are you serious?” he says after a beat.

I smile. “Very.”

He laughs. It’s a choked, disbelieving sound, and somehow that makes me more nervous than the silence did.

Then he looks at me for one long second, and all the panic drains out of his face.

“I love you too,” he says. “And yes. Of course I’ll marry you.”

The room erupts.

Rami’s whistle cuts through the cheering, and someone—definitely Sam—shouts, “OH MY GOD,” loud enough to make half the room laugh. That sets everyone off properly, clapping and shouting over each other, the noise rising until one voice breaks out into a chant.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

A second later, it’s coming from every direction.