Chapter 8 Roman
Practice ran fast.
Solidly efficient. Nobody had to think too hard because muscle memory did the work. Coach Rourke kept us moving through drills without extended explanations.
I hit every mark.
Grady anchored the blue line, calm and precise, reading plays two steps ahead. When I drove wide on a two-on-one drill, he closed the angle perfectly. Forced me to make the harder pass.
He glanced at me as I skated past. We clicked.
Same way we had in every game since I arrived in Chicago. No talking required. Only rhythm.
My body knew where Grady would be before I saw him. When to speed up and when to hold. Chemistry didn't lie.
"Nice work," Rourke said as we skated toward the bench.
I nodded. Stripped off my helmet and ran a hand through my hair. The sweat cooled fast against my scalp.
The locker room buzzed with post-practice noise. Pads hit the floor. Music kicked on. Luke razzed Seb about his tape job, and someone laughed loudly. Carter stayed quiet, leaning forward as he worked a lacrosse ball into his hip, jaw tight and gaze unfocused.
I unlaced my skates and pulled them off. Set them under the bench.
Grady was three stalls down.
He moved through his post-practice routine, folding his practice jersey instead of tossing it in the laundry bin.
The locker room was mostly empty by the time I got out of the shower. Only a few stragglers finishing up. I toweled off and pulled on jeans and a black henley. Grabbed my jacket.
Grady was still there.
I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked toward the exit. Passed his stall without stopping.
He stood. "Roman."
I turned.
He didn't move closer. "You doing anything tonight?" he asked.
Something inside me locked on. "No."
"Come by. Around eight."
It was neither a question nor a command. It was information delivered cleanly.
"Your place?"
"Yeah."
He didn't offer an address. He knew I could find it if I didn't have it. Players always knew where the other players lived.
"Okay," I said.
Grady's jaw shifted slightly. Then he picked up his bag and walked past me toward the parking garage.
I stood there for a moment. Somewhere deeper in the facility, a Zamboni engine rumbled to life.
This wasn't Grady slipping.
It was him choosing.
***
I stopped by home first.
Showered again even though I'd already showered at the rink. Changed into clean jeans and a dark gray t-shirt.
Threw a change of clothes into my gym bag. Toothbrush. The overnight essentials I kept ready because road trips taught you to pack smart.
I didn't overthink it.
My apartment felt smaller than usual. I'd moved in almost a month ago and still hadn't finished unpacking. Boxes stacked against the far wall. Minimal furniture.
I sat on the couch. Pulled out my phone.
Grady had said eight. He'd meant eight.
At 7:43, I stood. Grabbed my keys, wallet, and the bag. The drive took twelve minutes.
His building sat near the lake. Glass and steel. A place that cost enough to matter but not enough to feel showy. Professional. Understated.
I'd looked up his address weeks ago. I wasn't being creepy. It was a practical move. Considering emergency contacts and carpool logistics.
The parking garage had a code. I didn't have it. I circled the block once and found street parking two blocks over.
I had time to think as I walked. I wasn't nervous. I was focused.
It was the same charge I felt before a game. Adrenaline sharpening everything. Sounds louder and colors brighter.
The lobby was warm and well-lit. A doorman sat behind a desk. He looked up when I walked in.
"Help you?"
"I'm here to see Grady Volkov."
"Name?"
"Roman Wilder."
He picked up a phone. Spoke quietly into it and then hung up.
"Twenty-third floor. Unit 2312."
"Thanks."
The elevator was empty. I didn't rehearse what I'd say when he opened the door. This wasn't choreography.
Fifteen. Sixteen.
The elevator stopped, and the doors opened.
The hallway was long and quiet. Carpeted. Neutral walls. Recessed lighting. I found 2312 halfway down on the left.
I knocked twice. Footsteps approached, and the door opened.
Grady stood there in jeans and a black t-shirt. Barefoot.
We looked at each other.
"You came," he said.
"You asked."
He stepped back, and I walked past him. He closed the door behind me.
The condo looked like Grady.
Clean lines. Sparse furniture. Everything in its place. The living room opened to floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. City lights reflected on the edge of the dark water, with expansive blackness beyond.
I set my bag down by the door. Grady's eyes registered the overnight bag. He didn't comment.
He moved first, closing the distance between us. Nothing tentative about it. He'd decided.
He reached out, and his thumb settled against my jaw, grounding me in place.
"I've been thinking about this."
His voice was low and steady.
"Yeah?"
"Since that weekend."
Two years. He didn't bother with specifics, but I knew.
Heat threaded through me. "Me too."
His hand slid to the back of my neck, cupping the base of my head. It was the same look from the hotel bar two years back. Direct. Unwavering.
"I want this," Grady said.
Not, I think, or maybe.
His words landed cleanly.
I stepped close enough for our chests to touch. Heat radiated off him.
"It's yours to take," I said.
He kissed me.
Grady's lips were hot against mine, and his mouth tasted faintly of mint toothpaste. I let him inside immediately. His tongue swept against mine and I swallowed the sound he made.
His hand tightened at the back of my neck. I locked my hands on his hips and pulled him in close.
We'd done this before. That hotel room two years ago. Frantic and half-clothed, chasing something neither of us wanted to name.
Denver had been different. Only a kiss in a hotel corridor. A line crossed but not obliterated.
Grady pulled back just enough to speak. His breath was warm against my mouth.
"I want you to fuck me again."
It was like a clean check on the ice. I searched his face. Looking for any trace of doubt.
They weren't there.
What I found was need. Clear. Direct.
"You sure?" I asked.
"Yes."
Grady Volkov didn't surrender control. Didn't ask for things. Didn't make himself vulnerable in ways someone could use against him later.
Except during All-Star Weekend, and now he was doing it again.
"Okay," I said.
He kissed me again. Harder this time. Hungrier. He gripped the hem of my shirt and pulled it up. I raised my arms high, and the fabric hit the floor.
His hands were on my chest immediately. One hand squeezing the muscle. The other rubbed the ridges of my abs. He made my skin feel electric.
I reached for his shirt, pulled it over his head and tossed it aside.
Skin on skin.
He was broader than I. Heavier. Built solid through the shoulders and chest, powerful enough to move bodies around in front of the net. I ran my hands over him. Defined, powerful muscles. His breathing hitched when my thumbs brushed over his nipples.
"Bedroom," I said.
"Yeah."
He took my hand and led me through the living room. The bedroom was down a short hallway.
King bed covered by gray sheets pulled tight with hospital corners. A nightstand with a lamp casting warm light. Nothing else.
Grady turned to face me. He reached for my belt, working the buckle open with steady fingers. After he shoved my jeans down, I was naked except for my boxer briefs.
I stepped into his space and took my time with him, undressing him more deliberately than he had me.
We stood there. Both naked.
I watched his chest rise and fall. His cock was already hard, standing alert against his stomach, head already flushed and leaking.
"Get on the bed," I said.
He followed my lead.
Grady lay back against the pillows. Legs spread. No hesitation in his posture.
He looked at me, waiting.
I climbed onto the bed, settling between his thighs. Ran my hands up the outside of his legs, feeling solid muscle built from years of explosive starts and hard stops on ice.
"You have everything we need?" I asked.
He reached for the nightstand drawer. Pulled out lube and condoms. Set them within reach on the dark wood surface.
Prepared.
I picked up the lube. Warmed it between my palms before slicking my fingers. Grady's legs fell open wider, a clear invitation.
I pressed one finger against his hole. Circled slowly. Watched his face.
"Don't treat me like I'll break," he said.
I pushed two fingers inside at once.
His body tensed around the intrusion before slowly relaxing by degrees. I worked my fingers deeper, twisting slightly, and searching for the angle that would—
"Fuck," he grunted when I found it.
I stretched him carefully. It wasn't a concern about his fragility. I wanted to see every shift in his breathing, and every small adjustment his body made to accommodate me.
Grady rocked his hips forward, chasing the pressure. I wrapped my free hand around his leaking cock, stroking slowly from root to head.
"More," he said.
I added a third finger. Watched how his abs flexed as I opened him more. Sweat gleamed on his chest. He was loosening and letting me in.
Two years ago, we'd been strangers chasing heat. Now I knew him—a little better at least.
I knew that Grady folded his practice jerseys. He was a man who arrived early and stayed late. He knew how to carry the weight of the room without complaint.
I knew what it cost him to ask me to fuck him.
And I wanted to give him everything he deserved.
I pulled my fingers out. Tore open a condom. Rolled it on with steady hands and then slicked myself with more lube.
Grady watched me the entire time. Eyes dark and focused.
I grabbed his thighs and pulled him close to me, wrapping his legs around my waist. Then I lined myself up. Pressed the head of my cock against his hole.
"Now?"
"Now."
I pushed inside.