3. Grady #2
"Roman, hat trick in your first home game. How does it feel?"
"Good. Team played well. Got some bounces."
"Three came off passes from Grady. What's clicking between you two?"
Roman turned his head and looked right at me.
"He makes everyone better," Roman said.
The reporter followed up. "You two seemed to know where each other would be before the play developed. Is that just good hockey IQ, or is there something more?"
"It's trust." Roman didn't look away. "When you trust your linemate, you stop thinking. You just play."
Cameras flashed, catching the moment.
"Grady," another reporter cut in. "Three assists tonight. What's working for you and Roman on the ice?"
I turned to face her. Grateful for the redirect.
"Roman reads the game well. He finds space. I try to get him the puck when he's open."
"Seems like you're doing more than trying."
"Team effort."
The young reporter jumped back in. "Roman, earlier you said you wanted to play for a contender. After tonight, does playing with Grady feel like what you hoped for?"
"Yeah," he said quietly. "It's exactly what I hoped for."
Kavanaugh stood near the back. He was writing.
The questions continued for another three minutes. Systems. Forecheck adjustments. Playoff implications. I answered everything cleanly, saying nothing that could be clipped or misquoted.
Roman was less careful.
When asked about his goals, he talked about the assists instead. When asked about his performance, he redirected to the team. And when asked again about the connection—
"Some guys just fit." His voice was softer, more certain.
My thumb touched the scar on my left knuckle, pressing.
"Alright," our PR rep cut in from the side. "That's time. Thanks, everyone."
We walked out of the media room side by side. The hallway was quieter, with fewer people. Concrete and fluorescent lights, with the faint sound of showers running somewhere nearby.
"You did good," Roman said.
I didn't slow my pace. "You talked too much."
"I answered their questions."
"You gave them a narrative."
He caught up, matching my stride. "What narrative?"
I stopped and turned. We were alone in the corridor. No cameras or reporters.
"The one where we're more than linemates," I said.
Roman's eyes narrowed. "We are more than linemates."
"Not to them."
"Then what are we?"
I didn't answer.
Roman stepped closer, almost touching.
"You can't pretend it didn't happen, Grady."
My hands curled into fists at my sides. "I'm not pretending anything."
"Bullshit." His voice remained low, but there was heat underneath. "You've been pretending since the second I walked into that locker room. You won't look at me. Won't talk to me. You act like two years ago was—"
"Two years ago was a mistake."
Roman went still. "A mistake," he repeated.
"Yes."
He laughed. Sharp. Humorless. "You don't believe that."
"It doesn't matter what I believe."
"It's the only thing that matters."
I turned to walk away, and Roman caught my wrist.
I froze, looking down at his fingers wrapped around my arm.
"Don't," I said, barely above a whisper.
I pulled my arm free and stepped back, putting distance between us before I did something I couldn't take back. I turned and made it three steps before his voice stopped me.
"I came to Chicago for you."
I froze.
"I was twenty-four," Roman said behind me. "stupid and scared shitless, and I didn't know how to ask for more than one night. So I left like it didn't matter. Like you were just—"
"A training exercise?" The words tasted bitter. "Yeah. I got that."
I forced myself to turn. He was standing in the middle of the hallway, hands loose at his sides, looking at me like I'd just gutted him.
"That's not what it meant," he continued. "I wrote that note because I was terrified you'd wake up and realize you made a mistake, that I was just some rookie you'd fucked because you were bored."
My chest tightened.
"There's nothing to talk about," I said.
"Then tell me there's nothing here." Roman's voice was steady. "Tell me what happened on the ice tonight was only good hockey. Tell me when I touched you after that goal, you didn't—"
"Stop."
He pushed. "Tell me, and I'll drop it. I'll be your linemate. Nothing more."
I opened my mouth, and nothing came out.
I couldn't lie to him—not when he was looking at me like that.
"This can't happen," I said.
"It already did."
"It can't happen again."
Roman's expression didn't change. But something in his eyes went dark. "Okay," he breathed.
Then he walked past me, down the corridor and around the corner. Gone.
I headed for the parking garage. Walked to my car and slid into the driver's seat.
At the gate, I swiped my parking pass. The arm lifted, and I pulled out onto the street.
Chicago at night was bright and cold. Traffic lights reflected off the wet pavement. A few pedestrians moved along the sidewalk, shoulders hunched against the wind coming off the lake.
I turned left and headed toward my condo.
My discipline had protected me for years. Kept me safe, made me captain, and stopped me from wanting too much.
But Roman's voice wouldn't leave.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter. I wanted him.
And I had no idea what to do with that.