Rising Star (Chicago Breakers #1)

Prologue

ROMAN

The bar smelled of single malt and leather upholstery.

I stood near the windows, riding the adrenaline from the skills competition, thighs still burning from the fastest skater event. Third place. Not bad for a kid nobody expected to make the roster.

The room was thick with people who knew how to work a crowd: agents nursing bourbon, media types who could drink without getting sloppy, and players I'd jerked off to as a teenager.

I recognized most of them. A few had even nodded at me earlier, acknowledgment without commitment, the way you'd greet someone in an elevator.

I wasn't supposed to be here.

Not really.

All-Star Weekend was for the league's best, and I was the injury replacement. The token future bet. The "keep an eye on this one" guy. I knew exactly what I was: a placeholder wearing borrowed confidence.

I'd learned early that if you acted like you belonged, sooner or later, people stopped questioning it.

I ordered a second beer and scanned the room as if I were looking for someone. Old trick. Made you appear less alone.

That's when I spotted him.

Grady Volkov.

He stood near the far wall, shoulders resting against dark wood paneling, with a posture so controlled it looked like gravity worked differently for him.

A few people hovered nearby. He wasn't smiling.

It wasn't a frown either. Neutral. He was listening to something an older guy in a suit was saying, head tilted slightly, jaw set.

His shoulders were broad and solid. Dense. It was a career athlete's body, muscled but lean enough to allow rapid movement. He wore his hair in a fade, shorter on the sides, longer on top. Professional. Controlled.

Captain energy.

Authentic authority.

I'd watched him play for years. Knew his stats better than I knew most of my own. Steady hands. The guy coaches built systems around.

I wanted him to see me as more than the lucky rookie.

I almost laughed at myself. Fuck, Wilder. Aim lower.

Grady's eyes connected with mine. Across the room and through the crowd. Direct and unflinching.

I'd expected him to look away after two seconds. Captains didn't make eye contact with nobodies in crowds of All-Stars. They looked past you, conserving their energy for people who could help their careers.

Grady Volkov didn't look away. He stared.

Long enough that I struggled for a breath.

I could've played it cool, raised my beer and smiled.

Instead, I moved.

The walk across that bar stretched out before me. I kept my shoulders loose, my stride easy. I wanted it to look like I crossed rooms toward legendary captains every night. Wanted to hide my heart hammering against my ribs.

He watched me the entire way.

When I stopped in front of him, close enough to smell money, vetiver and something else expensive I couldn't name, underneath the salt-musk of his skin, I realized I hadn't planned what to say.

"Roman Wilder," I said. My name, spoken in a tone meant to announce I was worth knowing.

"I know who you are."

His voice was lower than I expected. Quieter. It didn't need volume to carry weight.

"Didn't think captains kept track of third-round draft picks."

"I don't." He shifted his weight slightly. "But you skate fast."

"Fastest on my team."

"Third fastest tonight."

I grinned. "You were watching."

"Everyone was watching. You made sure of it."

Goosebumps rose on my forearms. "That a problem?"

"No."

We talked hockey after that, safe conversation territory. It was a language we both spoke fluently. Line matchups. Forechecking systems. He asked questions that made me think, and I leaned into my answers.

He didn't smile much, but when he did, I wanted to celebrate the win.

At one point, his hand brushed mine on the bartop. Accidental or a test? I wasn't sure.

I didn't move away.

"You staying in the hotel?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Me too."

The atmosphere shifted. Was he making a move? I took the shot.

"Want to get out of here?"

Grady nodded once.

As we walked toward the elevators, I knew I was in over my head.

I also knew I didn't care.

***

GRADY

Roman looked at me. I didn't look away. That was the choice. The rest was gravity.

We walked toward the elevators side by side. Far enough apart that anyone watching would see two players heading to their rooms. Normal. Unremarkable.

Heat radiated from him, impossible to ignore. He moved through the hotel like he owned it.

This wasn't me. I didn't hook up with rookies. That blurred the lines. I couldn't let one night of bad judgment follow me into daylight.

I'd built my career on control. Showing up early, staying late, and never giving anyone a reason to question my focus. Captains didn't take risks, inviting chaos into the rink.

The elevator doors opened. We stepped inside.

Roman hit the button for seventeen. I hit nineteen.

The doors closed.

Silence.

I kept my eyes on the numbers climbing. He didn't try to hide his desire by playing it cool.

He wanted me. Clearly. Unapologetically.

And I was so fucking tired of being careful.

The elevator stopped on seventeen. The doors opened.

Roman didn't move. I looked at him.

"Changed my mind," he breathed. "Nineteen's fine."

The doors closed.

My hands were steady when I slid the keycard into the lock. I'd done it a thousand times entering hotel rooms in dozens of cities.

The door opened. We stepped inside.

I turned to say something, setting expectations and establishing boundaries.

Before I started, Roman kissed me.

His lips were on mine as he raised his hands to frame my face.

Instead of slowing down or pulling back, I returned the kiss.

Hard and hungry, I reached out to grip his shirt, pulling him closer. I swallowed the moan he made against my mouth.

Roman's hand wrapped around the back of my head. I backed him toward the bed. He followed willingly, pulling me with him, and then we fell together onto the hotel bed.

His weight was solid beneath me, mouth hot and urgent against my jaw and my throat.

"Grady—"

I pulled his shirt over his head. The sight of him stopped me for a moment.

He was leaner than me, built for speed. Long lines and defined muscle. His shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, more swimmer than standard-issue hockey player. Roman's abs flexed when he breathed.

Beautiful. Young, full of potential and reckless energy.

He pulled my shirt off. His hands were all over my chest, tracing the muscle and fingers finding a nipple.

"Damn," I breathed. "You're—"

I didn't finish as I kissed him hard again.

Skin on skin, he was warm everywhere we touched. Furnace-hot. His chest rose and fell, with his hands everywhere at once.

I kissed down his throat. His pulse hammered under my tongue.

"Fuck," he hissed.

I bit down gently where his neck met his shoulder. He arched into it, hips pressing up. He wanted it, wanted me.

I worked his belt open. He helped, fingers clumsy and eager, shoving his pants down his thighs. I did the same with mine.

When I wrapped my fingers around his cock, the sound he made went straight through me.

His cock was hard and hot in my palm, silky smooth at the head, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. I swiped my thumb through it, and he gasped.

I stroked him slowly, keeping my breathing even, grip controlled.

"Hey."

I looked up. Roman was watching me. Eyes dark but focused.

"You're doing it," he said.

"Doing what?"

"That thing. Where guys—" He reached up and touched my jaw. His fingers were warm against my skin. "Where you get so quiet., like you're trying to disappear."

I froze.

He saw right through me. No one did that in bed.

"I'm right here," I said.

"Are you?" He traced my jawline with a thumb. "It feels like you're somewhere else, thinking too much."

"I'm not—"

"Let me hear you." His voice was rough and direct. "I want to know what this feels like for you. Stop controlling it. Let it be real."

I kissed him to avoid having to say anything. He let me for a moment, then pulled back.

"Grady. Stop being so fucking careful with me."

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are." He sat up slightly. "You've been careful all night. In the bar and the elevator. Now." His fingers trailed down my chest and then gripped my cock. "I don't need careful."

My heart pounded. "What do you need?"

His smile was slow and devastating. "I need you to lose control."

He stroked me once, firm and deliberate.

"Like that, except more," he said. "Don't hold back."

A ragged sound tore from my throat. I couldn't stop it, raw and honest.

"Fuck, yes." His eyes lit up. "That."

He pushed me. Not rough, but insistent. I landed on my back, and he straddled my thighs, looking down at me like he'd won a hat trick.

"My turn," he said.

I didn't have time to respond. His weight settled over me, coiled energy and restless heat. I didn't want to resist.

He leaned forward and kissed me slow, like he had all night, sliding his tongue down my neck and collarbone. Every kiss placed exactly where he wanted it.

Roman bit down on my hipbone.

I made a sound I'd never heard, between a grunt and a gasp.

"There you are," he murmured against my skin. He took me into his mouth.

The wet heat of him was overwhelming, slick and so good my vision blurred at the edges. I stopped trying to be quiet.

My fingers slipped into his hair, softer than I'd expected and thick enough to grip. It was something to hold on to. He took me deeper, tongue along the underside, flooding my vision with white light.

"Roman—"

He pulled off just enough to speak. "Tell me what you want."

"I—" My brain short-circuited. "Don't stop."

"Not that." He pulled off and stroked me, his grip firm and slick with his spit. "What do you actually want? Right now."

I looked at him, sweat-slicked and waiting for my answer. His lips appeared swollen and shining. A pink flush spread down across his chest.

"You," I managed. "Inside. I want—"

I didn't finish. Couldn't.

His expression shifted. Understanding in his eyes.

"Yeah?"

I nodded. "Condoms and lube in the nightstand. Always prepared."