Chapter 2 - Roman
Ipulled into the players' lot at six-thirty. Practice wasn't until nine.
The building sat along the lake, glass and steel rising without apology. Clean lines. No softness anywhere. The plaza was wide and bare, wind tearing across open concrete. Comfort wasn’t the point. Visibility was.
I grabbed my bag from the trunk and slung it over my shoulder. The weight of my equipment—skates, pads, and sticks—settled across my back.
Boston’s January cold sat heavy and predictable. Chicago’s cut sideways off Lake Michigan, sharp enough to demand attention.
I walked toward the entrance, boots echoing on the concrete.
Something sparked low and tight as I walked. It wasn’t about hockey. I knew my game, and the system would suit me.
It was something else.
I'd asked for the trade. Told my agent to make it happen. Boston was good to me, but Chicago had something Boston didn't.
Grady Volkov.
I’d spent years trying to forget how his control shattered in that hotel room. The sounds he made. His hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.
It didn't work.
My footsteps echoed down the corridor toward the locker room. The sound bounced off hard surfaces—concrete, tile, and steel. Nothing absorbed it.
I found the door marked PLAYERS ONLY and pushed through.
The locker room was immaculate. Professional. Everything in its place.
Stalls lined three walls in a horseshoe formation. Names on placards above each space. Equipment hung neat and organized. The floor gleamed under the overhead lights.
I found mine immediately. South wall, center position.
WILDER. 23.
My jersey hung there, name crisply stitched across the back.
Three stalls down.
VOLKOV. 11.
Three stalls down. I’d see him strip after every practice. There was no avoiding it.
I scanned the room. From my stall, I could see three down the line without turning my head.
I started unpacking. Skates on the shelf. Sticks against the wall. Pads in their designated spots. The stall was mine now.
The door opened behind me. Measured, even footsteps. I didn’t need to turn.
Grady.
He wore track pants and a Breakers pullover. Hair perfectly swept back. Posture rigid. He approached his stall without looking my way.
He set his bag down and began his routine. Every movement economical, wasting nothing.
Grady's jaw was tight and his shoulders were tense. I'd seen his body loose. I'd watched it surrender.
The memory hit hard. His legs pulled back under me on the hotel sheets, breathing ragged. My hands on his thighs, pulling him closer while he slowly came apart.
I pushed the image aside and focused on the present.
Grady pulled out his skates. Checked the blades with his thumb and set them down precisely.
The door opened again. My new teammates filled the room with voices and bodies as they arrived for morning skate.
Grady's shoulders loosened slightly. The additional players were a needed buffer.
I smiled to myself. Eighty-two games. He couldn't avoid me forever.
Coach Rourke appeared in the doorway at seven-fifteen. "Wilder. Let's do the rounds."
I joined him. He started with the first stall inside the entrance. "This is Carter Hayes. Defenseman, been with us eight years."
Hayes stood and extended a hand. Solid grip. Direct eye contact. "Welcome to Chicago."
"Thanks. Good to be here."
"Heard you're fast."
"Fast enough."
Hayes grinned. "We'll see."
We moved down the line. Names and positions. Quick handshakes. I read the room as I went.
The veterans weren’t hostile, only measuring. Fair enough. I was the new variable.
The younger guys watched with open interest. A few looked almost hopeful, like fresh talent raised everyone’s ceiling.
Rourke led me to the south wall.
"Sebastian Morel," he said. "We call him Seb."
Seb stood and offered an amiable smile. His French-Canadian accent softened his English. "Hey. Good to have you."
The guy beside him rose without being introduced. Taller, quieter. He nodded once.
"Luke Kincaid," Seb added. "Don't worry, he speaks eventually."
Luke's expression remained neutral.
"Good to meet you both," I said.
We kept moving.
Rourke stopped three stalls from mine. "And this is Grady Volkov. Captain."
Grady stood and extended his hand. The shake was textbook. Firm enough to convey respect and brief enough to remain professional.
"Welcome to the team," he said.
He spoke with his press conference voice. He didn't look at my eyes or my mouth, aiming his gaze somewhere around my collarbone. Safe territory.
"Thanks, Captain," I said. "Looking forward to playing with you."
"We're glad to have the depth."
Depth. Not me.
He released me and dropped his hand to his side. His fingers curled slightly.
Those same hands gripped the hotel sheets while I fucked him. His control dissolved when I pushed him onto his back and took my time.
After, he looked at me like he saw right through me. He saw what I had never shown anyone.
That terrified me. So I ran.
Left him a note—I'm learning from the best—like it had just been a lesson.
I blinked, and the present returned.
Grady was already turning away. Sitting down and reaching for his skates.
Rourke continued the introductions. I followed, shaking more hands and hearing more names.
I glanced back at Grady. His shoulders were tight again as he tied his skates with unnecessary precision.
He remembered. The way his hands moved told me that much.
Heat curled low in my gut, unwelcome and undeniable.
Rourke finished the circuit. "Get dressed. We're on the ice in twenty."
***
On the unmarked ice, I pushed through the first few strides, getting my rhythm back. My edges were sharp and responsive.
Coach Rourke blew his whistle. We circled up at center ice.
"Standard warm-up," he called. "Then we'll run system drills. Wilder, you're slot three on the first line. Pay attention to spacing and breakout timing."
I nodded.
We started with laps. Easy pace. I stayed mid-pack, watching how guys moved, who led, who followed.
Grady skated near the front. Smooth strides. He picked up speed without looking like he was trying.
After the third lap, Rourke split us into groups.
"Forecheck drill. One-two-two. First forward pressures, second supports, defensemen protect the line."
I knew the system. Had run it in Boston with variations. It rewarded speed and anticipation, suiting me perfectly.
We lined up, and I took first forward position.
Rourke dropped a puck in the corner. I drove hard, angling to cut off the passing lane. The defender tried to rim it around the boards. I read it early, adjusted, and picked it clean.
Quick shot. The goalie saved it, but the play was clean.
"Good read," Rourke called.
We rotated. I settled into the rhythm, feeling the system instead of thinking about it.
During a water break, I skated toward the bench.
Seb and Luke stood near the boards, talking. Seb leaned over to adjust his shin pad. Luke automatically held Seb's stick without being asked. When Seb straightened back up, he took the stick back, offering a small nod.
Rourke blew his whistle. "Two-on-one rushes. Let's see some finish work."
We lined up. I partnered with Carter Hayes for the first rep.
Hayes carried the puck through neutral ice. I drove wide, creating space. He slid it across. I one-timed it.
The goalie sprawled, and the puck went wide.
"Again," Rourke said.
I held it longer. Drew the defender and passed back to Hayes. He buried it short side.
"Better."
We kept rotating. Different pairings.
Rourke called out, "Wilder, Volkov. You're up."
My grip tightened on my stick.
I skated to the line. Grady was already there, stick on the ice, waiting.
Rourke dropped the puck.
Grady picked it up at the far blue line.
I accelerated hard, pushing wide left. The defender tracked me, turning to follow.
I felt the space open before I saw it. High slot. Clean angle.
The puck hit my tape perfectly. I hadn't called for the pass.
Grady knew.
I didn't break stride. One touch to settle, and a second to release.
Bar-down. Clean.
For half a beat, everyone was quiet.
Rourke's whistle cut through. "That's what I'm talking about. Next pair."
I circled back toward the line and glanced at Grady.
He was already skating away. Head down, tapping the ice once with his stick.
I skated after him. Caught up before I could think better of it.
"Nice pass, Cap."
Grady stopped. Turned.
His eyes met mine, cold and flat.
"Do your job. I'll do mine."
Not loud. Harsh. Dismissive.
Carter Hayes glanced over. So did Seb. They'd heard it.
Grady skated away without waiting for a response.
Carter skated past me. "Don't take it personally. Grady's been wound tight all week."
But it was personal.
I got back in line, but I couldn't shake the heat in my face. I ran through two more reps with different partners. The plays were functional.
The pass from Grady was different.
The drill wrapped. Rourke called us in for a system review. We gathered at the bench while he went through our coverage responsibilities.
I stood near the back. Grady positioned himself front and center.
He listened to Rourke. Took notes. Professional. Focused.
Practice ended at ten-thirty, and we filed off the ice.
I sat at my stall and started unlacing my skates. Grady was three stalls down, moving like he had somewhere to be.
Half the room headed for the showers. Seb walked past me, a towel tied around his waist. "That pass was sick."
"Thanks."
He studied my face. "First day's always weird. You'll settle in."
I sat there thinking about how Grady's pass had found me without effort. How he'd looked at me after. Cold.
He knew exactly what he was doing. He was drawing lines, setting boundaries. Making sure what happened in the past stayed buried.
I pulled off my shin pads and set them down carefully.
I didn't come to Chicago for the skyline or the playoff chances. I came here for him.
And he'd just shut me down in front of half the team.
Grady emerged from the showers, towel riding low on his hips.
I'd had my hands on those hips. Gripped them while I fucked him.
He bent to grab his jeans from his bag. The towel slipped, just enough.
I saw the curve of his ass.
Heat shot through me. I braced myself, gripping the edge of my stall.
Grady straightened and dressed quickly, jeans and a team hoodie. Thirty seconds later, he was gone.
My heart was still beating too fast.
Even after he’d shut me down on the ice. Even after making it clear he wanted nothing to do with me.
Fuck.
I stayed seated, staring at my bag, thinking about the trade request I’d put in six months ago. The clause I’d insisted on—Chicago preferred.
Boston had been good to me.
But Chicago had Grady Volkov.
I hadn’t come back to chase him, or to beg.
I’d come back to hold my ground. To be close enough that he couldn’t pretend I was only a memory.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
I hoped that was enough.