4. Roman
The charter smelled like recycled air and sanitizer.
The seats were wide enough that no one brushed elbows. No announcements. We moved when we were ready.
I sat three rows from the back, window seat, watching Denver approach through clouds. The Rockies appeared first, jagged peaks cutting north to south like a spine. Then the city sprawled beneath us, brown and tan against snow.
The plane banked, and my ears popped.
Grady sat four rows ahead on the opposite side. Tablet out. Shoulders relaxed. Captain mode. He hadn't looked back once since we boarded.
He hadn't looked at me once in three weeks.
Denver in early February was cold and bright. Sharp sunlight. Thin air that scraped my throat when I inhaled.
A bus waited outside the terminal, engine running. I climbed on and took a seat near the middle. Seb was two rows up, scrolling his phone. Luke sat across from me with his eyes closed.
Grady boarded last with Rourke and sat at the front.
I breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth. My lungs were already working harder. The altitude was real here.
As the bus pulled away from the curb, mountains loomed beyond everything, massive and indifferent.
Grady's voice carried from the front, asking Rourke something about their defensive pairings, calmly doing his job.
I leaned my head against the window.
Seb glanced back at me. "You good?"
"Yeah."
He studied me for a second and then turned around.
The hotel was downtown. Glass tower and marble lobby. Efficient check-in. No paperwork or small talk. Rourke handed out keys with instructions: drop bags, conference room in thirty.
I took the elevator to the ninth floor and found my room. Standard setup: two beds, a desk, and a bathroom. I dropped my bag and breathed in the thinner air.
My phone buzzed with a text from Seb:
Dinner after the meeting. Steakhouse down the block. You in?
I typed back:
Yeah.
Thirty minutes later, Rourke was walking us through Denver's systems in the conference room. Top line tendencies. Power play setup. I sat in the second row and listened.
Grady was in front, asking questions and taking notes. I stared at his perfect posture, spine straight and shoulders square.
When Rourke dismissed us, I waited until the room cleared. Grady left without acknowledgment.
Back in my room, I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. My chest felt tight.
Tomorrow we'd play. On the ice, Grady couldn't avoid me. Off it, he'd pretend I didn't exist.
I closed my eyes. For now, I could live with that.
***
I stood at the blue line during warmups, watching their goalie track shots. Big guy. Good positioning. He'd shut out Vancouver three nights ago.
Skating a lap, I pushed into corners. Grady skated past without looking at me.
The puck dropped at 7:00. It was a fast game from the start. Both teams skating hard and clean, play flowing end to end.
My lungs screamed on the first shift. I came off gasping, bent over on the bench. Altitude.
Second shift was better. My body adjusted. Normal burn now.
Five minutes into the first, Rourke sent me out with Grady. We cycled in their zone.
Grady held the blue line and kept the puck in twice. I drove the net. He fired a shot that hit my shin pad and deflected wide.
Whistle. Icing on them.
Lined up for the faceoff in their zone, Grady glanced at me. I tapped my stick on the ice.
He won the draw cleanly. The puck moved to the half-wall and back to the point. Grady wound up and shot through traffic.
I was already moving toward the net. Not thinking. Knowing. The puck came through the screen, and I got my stick on it.
The redirect changed everything. Their goalie moved left. The puck went right.
Goal.
This was what trust looked like—him shooting blind, me finding the lane without asking. The muscle memory went deeper than hockey.
Red light. Horn. I raised my stick.
Grady skated toward me. We collided at the hash marks, helmets tapping. Quick. Professional.
His hand hit my cage. "Good tip."
Hayes joined us, and more helmets knocked together. We skated to the bench. Grady's jaw was tight when he sat. A muscle near his ear flexed once, then smoothed.
I drank water and controlled my breathing. Adrenaline sang through my veins.
Down the bench, Grady was already speaking with Rourke. He was calm again, like nothing had happened.
Third period, we were up 3-2. Eight minutes left. Quick transition out of our zone.
Grady carried the puck through center ice. I was on his right wing, hitting the seam at full speed.
The pass came my way. Perfect weight. Perfect timing. It hit my tape in stride, and I crossed their blue line. Cut toward the slot. Pulled the puck to my forehand.
Shot.
Top shelf. Blocker side.
Goal.
I turned. Grady skated toward me. We collided hard, chest to chest, helmets knocking. He hit the back of my helmet with his glove.
We skated to the bench. Seb slapped gloves, and Hayes yelled something I didn't hear.
I sat and stared at the ice. Down the bench, Grady spoke with Rourke.
His face was neutral, but his hand pressed flat against his thigh. Fingers spread wide, pinning him in place.
I looked away.
We won the game 5-2. Clean and decisive.
In the locker room, I unlaced my skates at my stall.
Seb passed behind me. “Hell of a game, Ro.”
“Team effort.”
“That second goal was fucking pretty, though.”
I pulled off my shoulder pads and leaned back. Let my body relax into a good tired, muscles loose.
I thought about Grady's pass arriving without him looking. Pure trust. We moved together as if we'd been doing it for years.
***
The steakhouse was two blocks from the hotel. Wood paneling, dim lighting, and rich aromas of charred meat and red wine.
We took over a long table near the back. Fourteen of us squeezed in, water glasses and bread baskets already waiting.
I ended up near one end. Seb across from me, Luke to my right.
Grady sat at the far end with the veterans. Rourke was at the head.
Wine arrived in bottles, which the server opened at the table. He filled glasses while conversations continued: overlapping stories, chirping, and laughter coming in waves.
This was the part of the job the league never showed: expense accounts and low light, camaraderie paid for by winning.
Seb shared with Luke a story from the morning skate. Luke half-listened, scrolling his phone under the table. Across from them, Tanner, our goalie, praised the hotel gym.
Down the table, Grady talked to one of the older defensemen. His voice carried, but the words got lost in the noise.
He had one arm draped over the back of his chair. His shoulders were loose.
I watched Grady's mouth curve when he laughed at something. The guard came down, and his face looked younger.
Then I looked away.
Our food came. Steaks and sides.
Hayes told a story about getting lost in an airport his rookie year. Seb grinned, already knowing the punchline.
Someone made a joke I didn't catch. Grady's head tilted back slightly when he laughed, and I saw his Adam's apple rise and fall above his collar.
He knew how to belong in rooms like this. His presence was steady. People gravitated toward him without thinking. He was good at his job.
Grady knew how to belong everywhere except where it cost him.
The check came, and Rourke handled it. We headed toward the exit, pulling on jackets.
Outside, the air was cold and sharp. We walked back to the hotel in a loose group. Seb and Luke leading. Carter and Grady a few steps behind.
In the hotel lobby, half the team headed for the bar, while the others peeled off for the elevators. I stepped up and pressed the button.
The elevator arrived, and I stepped inside. Pressed nine. Grady was still in the lobby with Rourke.
I couldn't sleep. The room was too warm, and I lay there staring at the ceiling for forty minutes before I gave up.
The clock read 11:52.
I pulled on sweatpants and a t-shirt while grabbing my key card. I told myself I needed the vending machines—something sweet or salty.
The hallway was empty. Carpeted silence. Recessed lighting casting everything in warm amber. I walked barefoot toward the elevator alcove.
Halfway down the hall, I heard the ding. The doors opened, and Grady stepped out.
We both stopped.
He was in joggers and a Breakers hoodie. He held his phone in one hand and his key card in the other. Ten feet of carpeted hallway stretched between us.
"Good game," I said.
"Yeah."
Grady's hand curled around his phone. His thumb rubbed the case, a small motion, barely visible.
The building was quiet around us. Somewhere distant, a door closed. The elevator hummed and went silent.
"You played well," he said finally.
"You fed me the puck."
"You were open."
"You didn't look."
He reached up, touching the side of his head. Grady's eyes dropped to my mouth. Quick. Then back up.
My stomach tightened.
He took half a step forward and stopped. The hand swept through his hair.
"Roman—"
He stopped, and I waited, watching him fight something inside.
"You should go back to your room," he said.
"Should I?"
"Yeah."
"Why are you still standing here?"
Grady's chest rose and fell. I didn't move closer or push.
His eyes dropped to my mouth again. Stayed there longer this time. When he looked back up, I saw fractures in his calm expression. Control slipping.
Grady moved. Three steps, fast and decisive.
He gripped the front of my hoodie, fingers twisting in the soft fabric. He backed me into the wall, and my shoulders hit with a soft thud.
His mouth was on mine before I could breathe. Hard and desperate. No hesitation.
I remained still. Hands at my sides. Letting him take what he needed.
Everything he’d been holding snapped at once. The kiss was urgent, unrestrained.
I didn't kiss him back yet. Let him show me the truth.
He pressed his body against mine, chest to chest. He inhaled sharply through his nose.
I parted my lips, and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss. His tongue swept into my mouth, and my breath broke audibly between us.
I reached out, gripping his hip and sliding my other hand into his hair.
He groaned against my mouth, low and raw. His grip tightened on my hoodie, while his hips pushed forward, pinning me harder against the wall.
I tasted salt and something dark and bitter—wine, perhaps.
His mouth moved to my jaw and then to my throat. Teeth grazing skin. I tilted my head back, and his breath was hot against my neck.
"Grady—"
He pulled back abruptly. Reset the space between us in one sharp step.
We stood there. Three feet apart. Breathing hard.
His eyes were bright and unfocused. Hair out of place where my fingers had been.
He raised a hand to his mouth. Touched his lips.
"Fuck," he breathed.
I watched him unravel.
Grady's chest heaved. "This was a mistake," he said.
His voice was wrecked.
I pushed off the wall and took half a step forward.
“Grady—”
He shook his head. “Please.”
I lifted my hand and touched my lips.
He turned and walked away. Fast. Down the hallway, without looking back.
The wall behind me was warm where my shoulders had pressed. I smiled.
It wasn't smug or triumphant.
Confident.
I stood in the hallway for another minute. Then I turned and walked back to my room.
Back in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed.
Grady would be in his room now. Wherever that was. Spiraling. Listing all the reasons why what we'd done was a mistake.
I could text him and push.
I shook my head.
Two years ago I'd left a note and run. Woke up terrified he'd regret being with me, so I left first. This time I'd stay and wait.
I understood Grady better now than I had three weeks ago when I walked into that locker room. He thought discipline kept him safe. Thought it could shield him from the want that could cost him everything.
I'd just shattered that illusion.
Not by pushing. By existing in a hallway at midnight and waiting.
He'd come to me. For ten seconds, he'd stopped lying to himself.
That was enough.