Cold Friction
The heavy, measured thud of his boots on the stairs was a metronome ticking down to my breaking point.
When we reached the second floor, I found room 214, swiped the card, and pushed the heavy door open.
I stopped dead in the doorway.
My grip on the door handle tightened until my knuckles turned bone-white. The room was small, dimly lit by a flickering lamp on a cheap nightstand. But that wasn't the problem. The problem was sitting dead center in the room.
One bed.
It was a queen-size mattress, completely unsuited for two heavily muscled, six-foot-two hockey players. Let alone two players engaged in a bitter, bloodthirsty war.
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