3. Grady
Istepped onto the ice for warmups. The cold bit through my jersey immediately. Sharp. Clean.
I took my first lap slow, letting my edges find their grip. The ice was fast tonight. Harder than practice ice. Less forgiving.
Roman was already out, skating figure-eights near the far blue line. Fluid motion with no wasted energy. A few fans near the glass called his name.
I kept my distance.
We ran through the warmup drills. Passing lines. Shooting sequences. I fired three pucks at the net—one high glove, two low blocker—and circled back.
Fans filled the stands. Music thumped through the speakers. Some pop song I didn't recognize.
Coach Rourke appeared at the bench, arms crossed. He didn't call anything out. He was observing.
The horn sounded. Warmups over. We filed off the ice and back down the tunnel.
Media availability happened in a concrete room off the main corridor. Fluorescent lights and a backdrop with sponsor logos. Three reporters and two cameras.
I sat in the chair placed for me and waited. The first question came from a guy I recognized, WGN Sports, a Chicago legacy station.
"Grady, how's the integration going with Roman Wilder? Any adjustments to the system?"
"Roman's a smart player," I said. "Picks up systems fast. No major adjustments needed."
"The connection looked good in practice. You two finding a rhythm already?"
I kept my face neutral. "We're working on it. Same as any new linemate."
Another reporter leaned forward, a woman from the Tribune.
"Roman, you requested a trade to Chicago specifically. What made you want to play here?"
His jaw tightened for half a beat. "I wanted to play for a contender. Chicago's that."
It wasn't a lie, but something about it wasn't the full truth either.
"Grady," the Tribune woman continued. "Simon Kavanaugh wrote this morning that you and Roman could be the most dangerous pairing in the Central Division. Thoughts?"
"We had a good road game. We'll see how it holds."
"You don't sound convinced."
"I'm never convinced until I see it on home ice."
A few reporters smiled. They knew me well enough to expect that answer.
I spotted Kavanaugh near the back wall. He wasn't holding a recorder or a camera. Only a notebook. Observing quietly, his pen occasionally moving across the page.
He glanced up from his notebook as we passed him while leaving the room. His pen didn't stop moving.
The music and voices from the locker room bled into the corridor, someone’s bass-heavy playlist and shouts about ice time, and who owed who a beer.
When I returned, Carter Hayes sat with his eyes closed and headphones on. Seb and Luke talked quietly near their stalls, voices low enough that I couldn't make out words.
Already dressed, Roman bent over, tightening his skate laces, fingers quick and sure. I sat at my stall and geared up.
I pulled my jersey over my head. The fabric settled into place with familiar weight, and the C pressed flat against my chest. Roman stood and walked past me toward the stick rack.
My hands froze. I forced them to keep moving.
When I looked up, Seb was staring at me from across the room. I looked away.
Coach Rourke walked in, and the music cut immediately. "Alright, listen up."
He didn't give speeches. He delivered information. "First line stays the same. Volkov, Wilder, Hayes. I want high pressure in their zone and quick transitions. Don't get fancy."
He glanced at me and then at Roman.
"Trust takes time. Don't force it."
We were silent.
"Let's go."
The team rose as one and stepped toward the tunnel. As we approached the ice, the crowd noise turned into a low roar.
Roman stood ahead of me in line. Shoulders loose. Head up. I watched the back of his neck.
Two years ago, I'd kissed that exact spot. I shook it off and stepped onto the ice for the anthem.
We lined the blue lines, helmets tucked under arms. The singer held the last note longer than necessary. When it cut off, the noise came back all at once.
I lined up for the opening face-off.
The Dallas center settled across from me. I gripped my stick and waited for the ref's hand to drop.
When the puck hit the ice, I won the draw back to Hayes and drove forward. Standard shift. We cycled in their zone for thirty seconds, couldn't get a clean look, and changed on the fly.
I came off the ice breathing hard. The bench smelled like sweat and stick tape. Rourke let the second line run two shifts. Then he tapped my shoulder.
"Volkov, Wilder, Hayes. Go."
No specific instructions. Just go.
I hopped the boards. Roman skated toward center ice, reading the transition. Hayes followed behind, positioning himself for breakout support.
The puck came to me in the defensive zone. I picked it up behind our net. Roman pushed wide left. Their defense collapsed toward him, two bodies converging, trying to cut off the lane before he hit top speed.
My body moved on autopilot. I trailed into the high slot, stick on the ice, finding the soft spot in their coverage. The defenseman committed to Roman, and the forward was too deep. I had space.
I didn't call for the puck.
Roman sent the pass anyway. He'd read my stride.
Clean. Tape-to-tape. Perfect weight.
I settled it with one touch and released on the second. Top corner. Glove side.
The horn erupted, and the red light flashed.
The crowd roared.
Hayes reached me first, glove smacking my helmet. "Fuck yeah, Cap!"
Roman skated in from the left. He didn't celebrate. No shouts. No raised arms.
He looked at me.
I saw it. Everything he wasn't saying in front of twenty thousand people and three broadcast cameras. The claim. Certainty. He’d carried it for two years.
The rest of the line caught up. Bodies pressed in and helmets clacked together. Roman's hand settled on my helmet. His palm pressed against the hard shell as if he were holding me in place.
I reached out for his shoulder. Steadying.
We stayed like that as the crowd noise rose and fell.
Hayes shouted something. Someone else laughed. Then I pulled away and skated toward the bench.
***
The second period started with us up 2-1. Rourke cycled the lines differently. Kept Roman and me together but mixed in different wingers.
Every shift, the synchronicity held. Roman found space, or I found him. By the middle of the period, the crowd began reacting differently.
Cheering the setups ahead of the goals.
A clean breakout drew applause. A zone entry that bypassed two defenders earned a low, appreciative rumble.
Chicago crowds knew hockey, and they were noticing something. So did the bench.
During a TV timeout, I grabbed water and stood at the boards. Roman was a few feet away, hands on his knees, catching his breath.
Seb leaned over from his seat. "You two practicing that in your spare time?"
"No," I said.
"Could've fooled me."
Hayes skated past Roman, tapping his shin pads with his stick. "Keep driving the net. Grady'll find you."
Roman straightened and nodded.
Third shift of the period. We drove into their zone with sustained pressure. Roman cycled low, drawing two defenders. I held the blue line, stick ready.
The puck came to me off the half-wall. I didn't hesitate. One-timer from the point.
Roman tipped it at the crease.
The deflection changed the angle just enough. Their goalie moved left, and the puck went right.
Goal.
We skated back to the bench.
I sat and breathed, hearing the replay announcer's voice over the arena speakers: "—Volkov and Wilder connect again, that's their third point together tonight—"
Carter Hayes sat beside me. "You're making this look easy."
"It's not," I said.
"Sure looks like it."
I took another drink and said nothing.
Across the bench, Luke leaned over to Seb and murmured something I couldn't hear. Seb's expression didn't change, but his eyes flicked toward me and then away.
Rourke walked past, tapping the boards with his knuckles. "Keep it simple. Don't overthink."
I nodded.
The third period was tighter. Dallas adjusted their coverage, collapsing more aggressively on Roman when he had the puck.
It didn't matter. The lanes kept opening.
With four minutes left, we cycled into their zone. Roman drove the net, and I held the slot. The puck came to me off the wall.
I shot. Roman screened the goalie, and the puck went in clean.
Hat trick.
The crowd lost it.
Hats rained onto the ice. Dozens of them. Maybe a hundred. Black and red Breakers caps. Winter beanies. Even someone's fedora.
The ref blew the whistle. Play stopped while the ice crew collected them.
Roman skated toward me, face flushed and grinning.
"Cap—"
I bumped his glove with mine. Quick and professional.
"Solid screen," I said.
We won 5-2.
As we left the ice, the crowd was still on its feet. Chanting and stomping echoed down the tunnel, the vibration carrying through the concrete.
I pulled off my helmet, and cool air hit my face, my hair damp with sweat. My sweat-soaked jersey clung to my shoulders and back.
Roman was ahead of me, helmet off, and head tilted back slightly, savoring the noise.
Someone whistled from the bench area behind us. Sharp and appreciative.
The locker room was already loud. Music cranked up. Guys shouting over each other. Hayes threw a wet towel at someone. Laughter ricocheted off the walls.
I sat at my stall and started unlacing my skates.
Seb walked past me toward the showers, towel over his shoulder.
He paused. "Hell of a game, Cap."
"Team win," I said.
"Sure, but you two—" He stopped and started again. "Good to see you playing like that again."
I tugged my jersey up and over my head, fabric peeling away from my back.
Rourke appeared in the doorway. "Media in ten. Volkov, Wilder—you're up first."
We pushed into a cramped media room. Six reporters, three cameras, and too many lights pointed at two chairs positioned in front of the Breakers backdrop. I sat in the left chair. Roman took the right.
A reporter I didn't recognize started. Young guy, probably early twenties.