Chapter 1 - Grady
Ishowed up an hour early. Always did. The building was quieter before everyone else arrived. It was only me, equipment staff, and the Zamboni drivers.
The glass doors required my access card. The hallways smelled like industrial cleaner and the rubber matting that ran from the parking garage to the locker rooms. My skate bag hit my shoulder at the same angle it had for twelve seasons. Muscle memory turned routine into armor.
I taped my stick in the equipment room. Three strips on the blade, overlap precise. Heel to toe, pressure even. The roll made a specific sound when I tore it, sharp and clean. I'd heard it ten thousand times.
My skates went on next. I pulled the laces tight through each eyelet, working from toe to ankle, tension calibrated to allow flexion without slop. The final knot landed exactly where my shin guards met the tongue.
These weren't superstitions. They were proof I still had control.
The ice was fresh when I stepped onto it. Zamboni tracks remained visible in parallel lines. The first skate always felt best, with no one else's edges carved into the ice yet.
I executed my usual first lap. Long, smooth strides. My shoulders relaxed half an inch.
This moment was mine.
The rest of the team trickled in over the next twenty minutes. Conversations bounced off the boards, full of chirping and laughter. Ordinary sounds rolling out in a steady rhythm.
Coach Rourke stood behind the bench, arms crossed, watching us warm up. Something was different. He didn't move.
Rourke always paced during warmups. Checking his board and talking to assistants. Motion meant thought. Stillness meant a decision not yet unveiled.
I watched the assistant coaches next. They huddled near the tunnel entrance, voices low. One of them glanced at his phone, then at Rourke, and then back to the phone.
My stomach clenched. The unknown was always an enemy until proven otherwise.
The practice plan on the whiteboard was shorter than usual. It named the usual drills but half the usual duration. Practice ran for ninety minutes. This looked like sixty, maybe less.
I skated past Seb during a passing drill. "You see the board?"
"Yeah." He didn't look at me. "Weird."
Coach's whistle sounded around the rink halfway through our third rotation. Too early.
We coasted to a stop, breath steaming. A few guys bent at the waist, hands on knees. Someone muttered something I didn't catch.
Rourke stepped onto the ice.
"Bring it in."
We gathered near the bench. Seventeen men in practice jerseys, skates scraping to a halt as we formed a loose semicircle.
Rourke didn't waste time.
"There's been a trade. Details in fifteen minutes. Meeting room, immediately after you're off the ice."
No names. He turned and walked off before anyone could ask.
A stunned silence lasted three seconds. Then noisy voices.
"Who?"
"Incoming or outgoing?"
"Has to be big if they're calling a meeting."
I kept my mouth shut. Captains didn't speculate in front of the team.
Trades happened. Hockey was a business. Management decided based on salary caps and windows of opportunity. I'd seen it happen many times before.
But why this time did my hands feel cold inside my gloves?
We skated off, and the tunnel swallowed us while we shed helmets and gloves.
The locker room filled fast. I sat in my stall and unlaced my skates slowly. Left skate first, working from the top down, each eyelet loosened in sequence.
"Holy shit."
Carter Hayes, veteran defenseman two stalls down, stared at his screen. He raised an eyebrow.
"What?" Seb called from across the room.
Hayes scrolled, reading. Then he laughed in sharp disbelief. "They actually pulled the trigger."
"On what?"
"Wilder."
The name landed in my chest like a crosscheck I didn't see coming. My jaw tensed. I rubbed my left knuckle with my right thumb and kept my head down.
Around me, reactions multiplied.
"Roman Wilder?"
"No fucking way."
"He's coming here?"
"Blockbuster trade, boys. We just got the league's golden child."
Someone whistled. Someone else swore under their breath.
I didn't need to look at my phone for confirmation. The news was clear now.
The memory flashed back before I could stop it. Hotel sheets cool against my overheated skin. The weight of his body. His lips.
That note left on the nightstand in handwriting I'd long since memorized.
I'm learning from the best.
I locked the memory behind a neutral expression. The trade wasn’t personal. I focused on the logistics. Roster math. Line combinations.
Seb caught my eye from across the room. He didn't say anything, but I saw a question written on his face.
I nodded. I'm fine.
Except I wasn't.
Roman Wilder was coming to Chicago. To my team. To the locker room where I'd spent a decade building.
I needed to breathe. In through my nose. Out through my mouth.
***
The meeting room was windowless but functional. Whiteboard on one wall, projection screen on another, and chairs arranged in rows facing the front. It smelled like stale coffee.
We filed in and found seats. No assigned spots, but the hierarchy held anyway. Veterans toward the front, while younger guys filled in behind.
I sat in the second row. Center position. Close enough to show engagement, but far enough back to avoid looking like a king.
Coach Rourke stood at the front with the GM, David Clancy. Both men wore the same expression: calm and calculated to reveal nothing.
Clancy spoke first.
"Morning. I'll keep this brief. As of twenty minutes ago, we've completed a trade with Boston."
He paused and let the first part of his news settle.
"We've acquired Roman Wilder in exchange for draft picks and future considerations."
A few guys shifted in their seats. Someone exhaled noisily.
I remained perfectly still. Spine straight, shoulders square, and hands resting on my thighs. Face forward.
Clancy continued. "Wilder's a top-line forward. Twenty-six years old. Elite speed and high hockey IQ. He's a proven playoff performer."
Next, he rolled out stats like resume bullets.
Someone behind me muttered, "Damn."
Clancy clicked a remote, and the projection screen lit up behind him. Roman's press photo filled the space, larger than life.
Boston jersey. Number twenty-three. Arms crossed, head tilted slightly, smiling like he'd been told a joke only he understood.
That was the smile I spotted in the bar two years ago.
That mouth had gasped my name against my throat and bitten my shoulder hard enough to leave marks I had to hide for a week.
Clancy kept talking. "Wilder brings speed and the offensive production we've been missing. He's hungry, and he's going to make us better."
He didn't say Roman was the future of the Chicago Breakers, but I heard it anyway.
Coach Rourke took over. "Wilder arrives tomorrow. He'll skate with us Wednesday. I expect everyone to welcome him and get him up to speed fast. This is a competitive addition, not a replacement."
He looked directly at me.
"Grady's done an outstanding job as captain. That doesn't change. We're fortunate to have experienced leadership that can mentor talent like this and integrate it into our system."
A few veterans glanced at me. Quick looks. Checking my reaction.
I gave them nothing.
Seb watched me from three rows back. His gaze steady, concerned. Luke sat beside him, arms crossed and expression blank.
Rourke wrapped up. "Questions?"
Silence.
"Good. Get cleaned up. Back on the ice tomorrow morning, usual time."
The room emptied. Chairs scraped. Conversations started low and built toward normal volume as guys filtered into the hallway.
I stood slowly, performing control so well I almost believed it myself.
Clancy caught my arm on the way out. "Grady. A word?"
I stopped. The room cleared out, leaving only the three of us: Clancy, Rourke, and me.
Clancy's expression softened slightly. Not by much. "This isn't about you."
"I know."
"Wilder's good. He'll make the team better. That's a benefit for everyone, including you."
"Understood."
Rourke stepped closer. "You okay with this?"
I looked into his eyes. "It's a business decision. I'm fine."
He studied me for a beat longer. He didn't believe me, but he nodded anyway.
"Good. We're going to need you to set the tone. Help him settle in. Engineer a seamless integration."
Seamless. Another word for make this easy for us.
"I will," I said. It was a captain's job.
I left the meeting room and walked down the tunnel toward the parking garage. Reaching my car, I unlocked it and sat behind the wheel.
Roman Wilder was coming to Chicago.
His stall would be three down from mine. I knew the locker room layout by heart. I'd already done the math and understood exactly how close he would be.
Close enough to hear his voice every day and see him strip off his gear after practice. Close enough for constant reminders of everything I'd spent two years trying to forget.
I convinced myself it was enough distance. It had to be.
I'd moved on from a night that no longer meant anything.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was a group text from the team. Someone had already started a thread welcoming Roman, jokes and chirping. I scrolled past it and exchanged my phone for my wallet.
The note was still there. Folded small and tucked behind my driver's license. I pulled it out and unfolded it.
Five words.
I'm learning from the best.
I'd read it a hundred times. Each time, I told myself it didn't matter. It was just a rookie's cocky exit line.
As I stared at the paper, I thought about my grandparents.
They'd immigrated to the US in the sixties.
Volkov was the name that came with them, but by the time I was born, they'd learned how to soften it.
They pronounced it the American way, flattening the syllables and making it easier for teachers and hiring managers.
My grandfather worked construction, and my grandmother cleaned houses. They didn't talk about what they'd left behind. They discarded the old language and holiday traditions.
In their place, they taught me other lessons.
Be excellent. Be reliable. Don't give people reasons to look too closely.
It was a life strategy. Earning your place by being indispensable and keeping your head down.
My father internalized it and became an accountant. He married an American woman with an easy last name.
I learned early that wanting too much was dangerous. Standing out for the wrong reasons could cost you everything.
Hockey rewarded discipline and restraint. Reliability helped you earn ice time. Coaches loved players who didn't need managing—the guys who showed up early and stayed late.
I'd built my entire career on that approach. I was the captain who made Rourke's job easier. I controlled every variable I could reach.
It worked, but Roman… he didn't fit that framework.
He was loud and charismatic. Attention was his oxygen. He thrived on it.
I stared at the note in my hands.
One night, two years ago, I'd chosen to show a break in my armor. Roman entered through the gap and then walked away.
I'd told myself it was better that way. Cleaner.
I rebuilt the walls and convinced myself I was fine.
Now he was coming back. I'd see him every day.
***
The drive home took twenty minutes. Chicago in January, with wind cutting across Lake Michigan, sharp enough to sting even through glass and steel.
My apartment was quiet when I walked in. Twenty-third floor, a corner condo that looked out over the city. Lights spread in endless grids toward the northern horizon. To the east, Lake Michigan was black in the dark, an empty space where all lights stopped.
I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door. Hung my jacket. Lined my shoes against the wall.
The kitchen was spotless. Counters wiped down and everything put away.
I opened the fridge and stared at the contents. Dinner would be leftover chicken and rice from two nights ago.
When the microwave beeped, I took the container to the couch and ate without tasting it. Fork to mouth, chewing and swallowing. Fuel, not food.
My phone sat facedown on the coffee table. I didn't check the team chat or scroll through the media coverage that was probably already flooding every hockey outlet. I didn't need to see Roman's name in headlines or watch analysts break down what this trade meant for our playoff chances.
I was ready for the day to end. I passed the hours watching mindless comedies on TV.
My routine was my sedative.
At ten, my phone buzzed. It was a quick vibration against the glass table.
Unknown number.
I picked it up and unlocked the screen.
One line of text.
See you soon, Captain.
No signature. It didn't need it. I knew the voice behind those four words. It was already rattling around in my head.
Roman.
I thought about responding with something professional and distant—Looking forward to having you on the team—to reestablish the boundary he'd crossed.
Instead, I typed:
Welcome to Chicago.
I stared at the words for ten seconds before deleting them without sending.
I set the phone down and watched the screen go dark.
Twenty minutes passed. I rose to brush my teeth before bed.
He hadn't officially arrived yet, and Roman was already inside my walls. He was there in a text message I couldn't figure out how to answer.
I picked up the phone again.
Read the message once more.
See you soon, Captain.
My chest tightened. Not panic. Something slower and heavier.
I set the phone down as if it might burn me if I held it too long.
Roman Wilder was coming to Chicago.