7. Grady #2
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do with all the time," Carter whispered. "When I'm not playing anymore. I've been doing this since I was six. Skate. Shoot. Win. Everything else is—" He gestured vaguely. "Filler."
"You've got time."
"Do I?"
Carter was thirty-five, a year older than me. He'd been playing through a hip injury all season. Everyone knew. Nobody talked about it. He was still effective and valuable, but the window was closing.
"Building gets sold," he said. "Body breaks down. Rookie comes in, and suddenly you're the veteran teaching him systems you invented." He paused. "Everything you built starts feeling temporary."
I set my glass down carefully.
He wasn't talking about buildings anymore.
My phone buzzed a third time. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
Roman's name. Three messages.
The preview showed a photo. Roman's hands—those long fingers I remembered wrapped around my—
I turned the phone face down on the table. Too fast and too hard.
Carter watched me do it, but he said nothing.
Heat crawled up the back of my neck. I picked up my whiskey and drank it .
"You doing okay?" Carter asked.
He didn't mean it to be a loaded question.
"Fine."
"You sure? I didn't mean—"
I looked into his eyes and interrupted. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Carter leaned back against the booth.
"You ever notice," he said slowly, "how some guys absorb everything? Take on all the weight. Be the steady one. The dependable one. They do it so well that eventually nobody asks if they're okay anymore. They assume."
I didn't respond.
"Problem is," Carter continued, "leadership that only absorbs eventually isolates. You get good at carrying things solo. So good that you forget other people can help. Or you stop believing they will."
"Carter—"
"I'm not talking about you specifically." He picked up his drink. "Just saying. I've seen it before. Guys who make themselves indispensable. They think that's the same as being connected."
The words landed cleanly.
I wanted to redirect the conversation back to his building or his mother or anything else. Instead, I sat there.
Roman's messages remained unread on my phone. That photo burned behind my retinas even face-down.
"Control's a good mask," Carter said. "Looks like strength. Feels like safety. But if you wear it long enough, you forget what your actual face looks like underneath."
He stared into his whiskey.
"You're talking like you're already gone," I said.
"Maybe I am." He shrugged. "Or maybe I'm tired of pretending I'm not thinking about it."
The jukebox switched songs. Springsteen's "Glory Days." I closed my eyes for a moment. Too appropriate.
I reopened my eyes. "Thanks for meeting me," Carter said.
"Yeah."
We sat a while longer. Carter went back to the bar for another round. We talked about other things—upcoming games, and whether Petrie's beard made him look like a lumberjack or a serial killer.
When we finally left, the wind had died down, and the temperature had dropped another five degrees.
Carter walked toward the side street where he'd parked. I headed in the opposite direction.
"Grady."
I turned.
He stood under a streetlight, hands in his pockets.
“Whatever you’re holding onto,” he said, “make sure it’s actually keeping something in. Not just keeping everything out.”
***
The condo was dark when I got back.
I didn't turn on the lights. The ambient glow from the city outside was enough.
The clock on the microwave read 10:38.
Standing at the kitchen counter, I pulled out my phone and opened Roman's messages.
The first was a photograph. It was the baguette from the grocery store, sitting on what looked like a cutting board. His hands framed it—those long fingers, with tendons visible along the backs of his hands.
I still couldn't forget those hands.
Gripping my hips. Pressing against my chest. Wrapped around my cock while he—
I opened the second message:
How's your night going?
The third, sent twenty minutes later:
Never mind. Enjoy your evening.
I locked the phone and walked to the living room. Sat on the couch. The leather was cold again. It never held heat.
Carter's voice was still in my head.
Leadership that only absorbs eventually isolates.
Competing with it, something more visceral. Roman's lips pressed against mine in Denver, our tongues dancing.
I leaned forward and pressed my hands flat against my thighs. I'd told myself I could forget.
The lie was cracking.
I thought about Roman in the grocery store. Comfortable. Real. Now, those hands in the photo.
Letting go and stopping the fight, I let myself remember.
Roman above me. Lean muscle and sharp breath. He pushed into me with confidence, no hesitant rookie energy.
His mouth had been hot and demanding. Fueled by desire, clear and unapologetic.
I'd forgotten how good it felt to be wanted like that. No, forgotten was the wrong word. I'd buried it.
Heat settled low in my gut. I turned away from the window and walked back to the kitchen.
Picked up my phone and opened the photo again.
Roman's hands. I remembered them gripping my thighs while he fucked me. Thought about the sounds he made: deep, raspy moans. Remembered how he'd looked at me after—satisfied. Like he'd gotten exactly what he came for.
I'm learning from the best.
The bastard. I locked the phone and set it on the counter.
Walked to the bedroom. I stripped off my shirt and left it on the floor. Changed into sleep pants.
My body knew what I wanted.
I climbed into bed. The room was dark.
I closed my eyes and let myself think about it. Our bodies worked in tandem.
My hand moved down my stomach. Slid beneath the waistband of my sleep pants.
I stroked myself slowly and let the memory build.
Roman kneeling between my legs. His tongue flicking at a nipple.
Fuck.
I gripped myself harder. Stroked faster.
I thought about seeing him tomorrow. Practice. Video review. His stall three down from mine in the locker room.
I thought about those hands from the photo wrapped around me again. That mouth. That body.
Stop pretending you don't want this.
I came hard, body tensing as pleasure rolled through me.
After, I lay there breathing. The room settled back into quiet.
I cleaned up. Changed my sleep pants. Got back into bed.
Something had shifted. I wasn't pretending anymore. At least not to myself.
Tomorrow I'd see him at practice. We'd run drills and tape sticks and do all the things we'd always done.
But I wouldn't look away.
And when the right moment came, I'd stop hiding.