5. Grady
The hotel restaurant smelled like coffee and lemon polish. Steel trays under heat lamps released steam that fogged the windows. Players scattered across tables in configurations we'd fallen into all season.
Veterans near the windows. Younger guys by the coffee station, louder, and still running on adrenaline from last night's win.
I sat with Carter Hayes and two defensemen I'd played with for years. Safe territory.
Hayes talked about hotel beds. Time zones. His lower back. The usual complaints that followed road trips.
I nodded at the right moments. Kept my hands visible on the table. Cut my eggs methodically. Protein. Fuel. Routine.
Across the room, Roman sat with Seb and Luke. I clocked his location the moment I walked in. Registered him without looking directly. The same way I tracked opposing forwards in my peripheral vision.
He laughed at something Seb said. Not loud. Genuine. His shoulders relaxed, and he leaned forward slightly.
Then he glanced up. Our eyes met.
Roman didn't smile or look away. We simply looked at each other for three seconds that felt like at least thirty.
I held my breath.
Then he stood. He grabbed his coffee cup and walked toward the exit.
His path took him close enough that Hayes paused mid-sentence.
“That kid’s always moving,” he said, glancing toward the aisle.
Then he kept talking like it didn’t matter. Something about the trainer and his massage gun. I finished my eggs without tasting them.
"Heading up," I said when Hayes paused for breath. He nodded and raised his mug.
The elevator was empty. I pressed the button for my floor and leaned against the back wall.
The doors closed, and I was alone with the Muzak version of a song I’d never liked enough to learn the name of.
Something that used to play everywhere my first year in the league. Hotels. Rental cars. Arenas between periods.
I stared at the floor indicator and waited for it to end.
***
The team charter hummed with a low, constant vibration that settled into my bones. Leather seats. Overhead lights dimmed just enough to flatten everything into the same color.
White noise of engines that never quite faded into the background. We were returning to Chicago. Two hours in the air. Long enough to pretend nothing was wrong.
I took my usual seat. Three rows from the back, window side.
Routine. I always sat alone on flights. Gave me space to review film, study playbooks, and decompress without performing captain for anyone.
Roman boarded last. He walked down the aisle with his bag over one shoulder and stopped at my row.
I looked up.
"This seat taken?" He gestured to the aisle seat beside me.
I looked past him down the aisle. "There are empty rows."
"I know."
He dropped his bag in the overhead compartment and sat beside me. Close enough that his knee almost touched mine when he shifted to settle in.
Roman pulled out his phone and headphones. The cord tangled slightly, and he worked it free with focused fingers.
The engines powered up. That low vibration that meant wheels would leave the tarmac soon.
I opened my playbook. Same pages I'd reviewed all season. Defensive zone coverage. Neutral zone regroups. Systems we'd been running since September.
Roman put his headphones in, settling back against the seat with his eyes closed.
We taxied. The plane turned. Acceleration pressed me back slightly.
Roman's shoulder brushed mine. "Sorry," he said without opening his eyes.
My focus fractured, and I hated how fast it happened. I turned a page. Tried to concentrate on gap control and stick positioning. The diagrams blurred slightly.
Roman's breathing was steady beside me. Even.
The plane lifted. That moment of weightlessness before we climbed.
I stared at the same diagram for five minutes. Forward pressure. Support angles. Details I could recite in my sleep.
Roman shifted and pulled out one earbud. He turned his head toward me. "Grady, I—"
"Fellas."
We both looked up.
Seb stopped in the aisle. “Rourke wants captains and alternates up front. Strategy talk for Thursday.”
I closed the playbook. Roman stood to let me out.
“I’ll be back,” I said. It sounded like a lie the moment it left my mouth.
I stepped into the aisle and followed Seb forward without looking back. The rest of the flight passed in fragments, voices and diagrams I already knew.
Whatever he’d been about to say stayed where I’d left it.
By the time the meeting broke and I stood to deplane, Roman was already gone.
I hadn’t seen him leave.
***
Lakeshore Forum ice was faster than most rinks in the league.
Harder. Less snow. The puck stayed flat, and your edges told on you if you were late.
Morning practice, the day after our return from Denver. The only fans in the stands were die-hards who showed up regardless of the schedule.
I did my usual warmup routine. Figure eights. Backward crossovers.
Roman skated past. Fast. Always faster than necessary during warmup.
Rourke blew his whistle. "D-zone coverage. First unit."
I skated to position. Roman took the left wing.
We'd run the drill a hundred times this season. Standard setup. Defending against a cycle. Reading gaps. Maintaining structure when they had possession below the goal line.
The puck came around the boards. One of the younger guys was running the cycle below the goal line, trying to protect it long enough to make a play.
I stepped up. Closed the gap without over-committing. Gave myself room to pivot if he reversed or tried to slip past.
Roman didn't cheat toward the slot looking for a breakout opportunity. He stayed with his man. Read the coverage. Trusted I'd force the turnover.
Most wingers couldn't resist drifting. They looked for offense before defense was secure. Thinking two steps ahead when the present demanded focus.
Roman held position.
The puck popped free off a stick battle. I controlled it behind the net, pivoted, and came out strong side.
Roman was already moving. Anticipating. Not calling for the puck. Just reading the play and breaking.
I hit him with the pass before he raised his stick. The connection was clean. Tape-to-tape. He caught it in stride and exploded through the neutral zone, body low, edges cutting hard.
Zone exit. Textbook.
Hayes tapped his stick on the ice from the bench. Someone said, "Nice."
Rourke didn't comment. He reset the drill and ran it again.
Then again.
And again.
Each time, we executed it perfectly.
Each time, my body tracked Roman's position without conscious thought. Where he'd be before he got there. How he read the pressure. The exact moment he'd commit to a lane.
My grip tightened on my stick.
The ice blurred, and I was back in the hallway in Denver, with a desperate edge to my breathing. He'd gone still against the wall and let me take what I needed.
I came back a step late.
"Volkov."
I turned. Rourke watched me from center ice.
"Yeah, Coach."
"Again."
I nodded and skated back to the faceoff dot. Roman glided past.
We ran the drill. Same result.
When the whistle blew for a water break, I skated to the bench and sat. Planted my hands on my thighs, spreading my fingers wide.
Down the bench, Roman drank from his bottle. His chest rose and fell. Sweat darkened his hair at the temples.
He glanced over, catching me watching.
I looked away.
Across the ice, Rourke stood with his arms crossed. He wasn't writing on his board or talking to the assistant coaches.
He was watching.
Waiting.
Practice ended with conditioning. Sprint work. Down and backs until our legs burned and our breath came hard.
I finished with the first group and headed for the tunnel.
The corridor wasn’t empty. Trainers rattled through with carts, and a video assistant spoke into his headset, but no one was looking at me. The flow thinned, attention already shifting back to the ice.
Footsteps sounded behind me.
I turned.
Roman stood ten feet away, helmet off, hair damp, gloves hanging from one hand. He was still breathing hard from the last sprint.
We were close enough to talk without raising our voices. Far enough that it looked accidental.
He looked past me once, down the corridor, toward the noise, and then back.
“You already know why I left.”
His voice stayed level.
“I’m here now.”
"Roman—"
"I'm not leaving this time." He took a step closer. "So if this was a mistake, say it. Say it to my face.”
My grip on the moment slipped.
"You need to—"
"Tell me."
I couldn't.
He looked at my mouth. Then back up.
"Tell me you didn't want what we did in Denver," he said.
The equipment room door ten feet down the hall opened.
Eddie stepped out. Towels stacked over one arm, with a clipboard in the other hand. He stopped when he saw us.
"Sorry, boys. Didn't mean to interrupt."
"You're not," I said. I used my captain's voice. Calm. Professional. "Just heading to the room."
He nodded and walked past, shoes squeaking slightly on the concrete. Roman waited until his footsteps faded.
I braced, and then he walked past me toward the locker room.
Our shoulders brushed. Deliberate this time. A choice, not an accident.
***
My condo was too quiet when I got home.
Years ago, I hired someone to clean twice a week. Keep surfaces clear and floors spotless. The result was space that felt more like a hotel than a home. Functional. Temporary. A place to sleep between games.
I dropped my bag by the door and walked to the kitchen. Poured water from the filter pitcher and drank it standing at the counter.
Late afternoon light streamed through the windows at an angle that gave everything sharp edges.
My phone buzzed.
Mom.
I answered on the second ring.
"Hey."
"Grady. Good, I caught you."
Her voice was bright.
"Just got back from practice."
“How are you holding up?”
“Fine. We’re playing well.”
“I figured,” she said. “Your posture’s better this year. You’re not hunching in interviews anymore.”
I smiled faintly. “That’s specific.”
“It’s what mothers do,” she said. “We notice what ESPN doesn't mention.”
A pause.
“Your father was proud of how you talked about the new player,” she added. “You made him sound like part of something. That matters.”
“Yeah.”
“People like knowing that they belong.”
I rubbed the back of my neck.
"Thanks."
“Your place still looks like a hotel?”
I blinked. “What?”
“The condo,” she said. “Every time you call, it sounds like you’re passing through it.”
Silence stretched, the comfortable kind. The kind that came from years of knowing exactly how much space to leave each other.
“Your father ran into Karen at the market,” Mom said finally. “Her son just got engaged.”
“I remember Michael.”
“Mm.” A pause. “To a guy he works with. They’ve been together a while, apparently. Bought a place.”
“That’s great for them.”
“It is.” I heard the smile in her voice. “Your father said it sounded solid."
I leaned back against the counter and listened.
“It got us talking,” she went on. “About how fast time moves when you’re busy building something. One day you look up and realize everyone else has chosen where they want to land.”
Another pause. Then her voice was softer.
“Michael’s about your age now,” she said. “Thirty-two, I think. Same age you were when you took the C.”
I didn’t answer. There was nothing to add to that.
Except I was thirty-four and living alone in a condo that felt like a hotel. Playing a game that didn’t care how tired I was or whether anyone was waiting when I got home.
And the only person I wanted—
I shut that thought down before it could finish.
"Yeah," I said. "That's great for them."
Mom talked for a few more minutes. She shared updates on family I barely knew. Cousins getting married. Aunts retiring. A dinner next month I'd probably miss because of my schedule.
I gave the right responses. "Sounds good." "Tell them I said hi." "I'll try to make it."
The call ended the way it always did.
"Love you, sweetheart. Take care of yourself."
"Love you too."
I set the phone down on the counter. Silence descended on the condo.
I walked to the living room and sat on the couch. The TV was still on from this morning. I'd left it running while I made coffee. Some drama I'd been half-watching for weeks. Family dynamics. People wanting things they couldn't name.
I kept the volume low and watched without really seeing.
Two people in an expensive kitchen. One of them said something. The other turned away. Then turned back.
The space between them collapsed.
I turned the TV off. Sat in the dark for a long time, listening to the building settle around me.
Then my phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Roman's name lit up the screen.
Stop pretending you don't want this.
Heat flared under my ribs, sharp and immediate.
I picked up the phone and stared at the message. Just truth delivered like a weapon.
I could've deleted it or replied with something sharp and final. Drawing boundaries. Absolute clarity.
I read it again.
The third time, it landed differently. Not an accusation. More of an invitation.
Fourth time: challenge.
I set the phone facedown on the table and walked to the bedroom. Stripped off my shirt and left it on the floor. Changed into sleep pants and climbed into bed.
I repeated the words out loud.
Stop pretending you don't want this.
This time it sounded like the truth.