Chapter 9 Grady
Hayes drove wide through the neutral zone, pulling the defense with him. I held the blue line, reading the collapse. The passing lane opened exactly where it should—high slot, Roman breaking into the space with two strides of separation.
I threaded the puck through. Tape to tape.
Roman caught it in stride and beat the goalie before the lane closed.
Rourke's whistle cut through before we could celebrate. "Reset. Next group."
No praise or criticism. Nothing but whistle.
That meant it was clean.
I skated back to the line, breathing steady. My edges bit into fresh ice. Everything about the morning was sharp. Precise.
We'd been piling up wins for two weeks straight. They weren't blowouts. They were solid, responsible wins that boosted us in the standings.
I watched the next group run the same drill. Petrie retrieved the puck behind the net.
Cut off by the defense, he looked for an option.
"Short!" Roman called from the weak side.
Petrie hit him without hesitation.
Roman absorbed the pressure, chipped the puck past the collapsing forward to the breaking winger. The play continued cleanly through the neutral zone.
Petrie had looked to Roman for the read. For the solution when the play broke down.
Young guys responded to solid offense. Roman had earned that trust through production.
By the time we came off the ice forty minutes later, my legs burned from honest exertion.
The locker room wrapped me in heat and noise—steam hanging low while voices bumped past each other. I sat at my stall and started unlacing my skates. Left first, working from the top down.
Three stalls over, Roman stripped off his gear with efficient movements. He folded his practice jersey instead of tossing it in the laundry bin.
I kept my eyes on my skates. Safer than remembering him in my bed three nights ago.
Across the room, Luke handed Seb a water bottle without being asked. Seb took it, drank, and handed it back. A small nod passed between them.
Carter walked past, towel over his shoulder, moving slower than usual. Not an injury. Just a little drag.
"Good work today, Cap," he said.
"You too."
Winning fixed things. That's what I'd learned over twelve seasons.
When you won, tensions eased. Trust climbed. Players aligned naturally around success.
The shower ran hot enough to sting. I stood under it longer than necessary, letting the water work into my shoulders.
Steam filled the space. I pressed my hands flat against the tile and breathed.
Roman's voice from three nights ago surfaced before I could stop it.
Right there. Don't stop.
Heat crawled up the back of my neck. My cock stirred. I turned the water colder, pressing my forehead against the tile until the urge passed.
Rourke caught me in the hallway outside his office. "Volkov. Got a second?"
I followed him inside. On the wall was a massive whiteboard covered in X's and O's. He had three filing cabinets, and a desk buried under game sheets and scouting reports.
He didn't sit. Neither did I.
"Dallas Thursday," Rourke said. "They're running a 1-2-2 forecheck. I'm keeping you with Wilder and Hayes. That line's producing."
"Makes sense."
He turned to the board and drew quick circles. "You two are working," he said.
"We read the game similarly."
"More than that." He capped the marker. "You trust him. He trusts you. That's harder to construct than people think."
I didn't respond.
Rourke studied me for a moment. "You good with the workload? Heavy minutes in the last few games."
"I'm fine."
"Carter mentioned his hip's bothering him. Might need to lighten his load Thursday. That puts more on you."
"I can handle it."
He nodded toward the door. "Get some food. I'll see you tomorrow."
I walked out. Pulled out my phone. The group chat had seventeen new messages. Near the bottom, Roman had responded to something about burgers.
Lou Malnati's isn't a burger place, Petrie. It's pizza, you fucking tourist.
I stared at his name on the screen. His hands had typed that message. The fingers that had pushed—
I pocketed my phone and headed for the parking garage.
***
The condo was cold when I got home.
I dropped my bag by the door and walked to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Leftover chicken. Greek yogurt. Eggs.
I grabbed the chicken container and ate standing at the counter.
My phone buzzed.
Mom.
"Hey."
"Grady, good. I wasn't sure I'd catch you."
"Just got home from practice."
"How are you feeling? Your father said you skated a little slower in the last game."
"I'm fine. We won."
"I know, sweetheart. I watched." A pause. "You played well. That pass to Roman in the second period was beautiful."
I set the fork down. "Team effort."
"Mm. He's fitting in nicely, isn't he? Roman."
"He's an excellent player."
"Your father likes how he moves. Says he makes space for other people." Another pause. "That's a valuable quality."
I didn't respond to the comment. We talked about nothing in particular for another ten minutes.
After I hung up, my phone buzzed. It was Carter.
Sullivan's tonight? Need to get out of my head.
I typed back:
What time?
7:30?
I'll be there.
***
Dallas came to Lakeshore Forum on Thursday, sporting a three-game winning streak.
The arena was loud before puck drop. Sold out. Chicago in mid-February. The locals were looking for something to believe in.
Rourke had been right when he warned us about their forecheck. They collapsed hard, baiting passes and jumping lanes.
First shift, they caught Hayes trying to rim it around the boards. Turnover. Immediate pressure.
I backpedaled hard, reading their odd-man rush. Forced the winger outside, taking away the shooting lane.
Roman picked the puck up at our blue line and exploded through the neutral zone. Hayes buried the feed. We took the lead forty seconds in.
We won 4-2. Then beat Minnesota 3-1 on Saturday. Tuesday in Nashville, 4-3. Thursday against Colorado, 5-3.
Five consecutive wins.
The locker room after the Colorado game hummed with controlled energy. Music played. Guys moved through their routines without rush or friction.
Carter sat at his stall, working ice against his hip. He caught me watching and shrugged.
"Maintenance," he said.
Across the room, Luke handed Seb a water bottle without being asked. Easy.
Roman walked past on his way to the showers. "Hell of a pass," I said.
He stopped and turned. "Hell of a finish."
Then he kept walking, and I forced myself not to watch him go.
I found Carter in the training room three days later.
He sat on a table while Eddie worked a massage gun into his hip flexor. The motor whined, high-pitched and insistent.
I grabbed a foam roller from the rack and started working my calves.
"How's it feel?" I asked.
Carter waited until Eddie pulled the massage gun away. "Like I'm thirty-five."
"You need more rest between games?"
"Nah," Carter leaned back on his hands. "I just have to manage it differently. Used to be I could skate through anything. Now I gotta be smarter."
Eddie switched off the massage gun and moved to the other side of the room.
Carter sat up slowly. Tested his hip with a small rotation.
"You ever think about it?" he asked.
"About what?"
"After." He gestured vaguely at the room. "When your body finally says fuck you loud enough that you can't ignore it anymore."
"Not really."
"Liar." He smiled briefly. "Everyone thinks about it. We just don't say it out loud."
I reached for my water bottle. "You planning something I should know about?"
"No. Maybe. I don't know." He shrugged. "My agent keeps asking about next year. Whether I want to explore options or stay put."
"What'd you tell him?"
"That I'd think about it." Carter slid off the table carefully. "That wasn't the truth. I've been thinking about it for six months."
He walked to the mirror and stretched his hip. "I've got some time left. Maybe a year. Maybe two if I'm lucky. I'm not stupid. I know the clock's ticking."
"You're still effective."
"Yeah. For now." He grabbed his towel. "But effective shifts over into adequate and then liability faster than you think."
Carter walked toward the door and stopped in the doorway.
"You know what the worst part is?"
I waited.
"Knowing exactly how it ends. That one day you'll wake up and realize you can't do it anymore." He looked at me. "You just have to decide whether you'll leave before it decides for you."
He left.
I sat there on the training table, foam roller resting against my shin.
Maybe a year. Maybe two if I'm lucky.
I'd played with Carter for eight years. He was reliable. His game made everyone's job easier by his presence.
And now he was talking about options. He hadn't committed yet to next season.
We flew to St. Louis on Friday afternoon.
Luke and Seb boarded together and took the row directly across from mine.
I pulled out my tablet and opened the St. Louis scouting report. The plane taxied and then lifted.
Across the aisle, Seb pulled out a pack of gum. He handed Luke a piece without asking if he wanted any.
The exchange took four seconds. I'd seen them do variations of it a hundred times.
Luke's hand rested on the armrest between their seats. Seb's arm was close enough that they were almost touching.
Almost.
I thought about Carter talking about endings. About knowing exactly how it ends and having to decide whether you leave before it decides for you.
Then I thought about Luke and Seb.
Not hiding. Comfortable. Unafraid.
The hotel gym in St. Louis was empty at eleven-thirty. I'd tried to sleep after our game. We'd won 3-1, but my mind wouldn't settle.
The gym had a standard hotel setup. Treadmills. Weight rack. Fluorescent lights humming faintly.
I was halfway through my second set of shoulder presses when the door opened. Roman walked in wearing joggers and a gray t-shirt.
He stopped when he saw me. "Can't sleep either?"
"Wound up."
Roman nodded and walked to the weight rack. Grabbed dumbbells and started working through bicep curls. The sounds of breathing and weights clacking filled the room.
I finished my set and moved to the bench. Started chest presses. Roman worked through his routine nearby.
When I racked the weights and sat up, Roman was watching me.
"That play in the second period," he said.
I grabbed my water bottle. "Which one?"
"When their forward tried to go five-hole on the rush. You closed the angle before I could rotate back."
"Standard coverage."
"No." He set his dumbbells down and stepped closer. Like moving closer to a fire. Heat radiated back and forth between us.
"You read it two seconds before it happened," Roman continued. His voice was quiet and steady. "Gave me time to support instead of scramble."
I took a drink. Needed something to occupy my hands to keep from reaching for him.
"That's the job."
"Yeah." He held my gaze. "But you trusted I'd be there when you needed me. Didn't check. Didn't call out. Just knew."
Nothing in his posture suggested he wanted more than conversation.
"I wanted to say thanks," Roman said. "For backing the play. For trusting me to do my job."
"We're linemates. That's how it works."
"Right." He held my gaze for another second, then looked away. "Yeah."
Roman picked up his dumbbells again and went back to his curls.
We worked in silence for another ten minutes. The gym stayed empty except for us. When I finished my last set, I grabbed my towel and water bottle.
"Getting some food before bed," Roman said. "You want anything?"
"I'm good."
"Yeah." He set the dumbbells back on the rack. Wiped them down. "See you at breakfast, then."
"Roman."
He turned.
I didn't know what I wanted to say. Didn't have words for what was happening between us. His t-shirt clung to his chest, damp with sweat. His mouth had been on mine three nights ago.
"Good game tonight," I said finally.
"You too, Cap."
He walked out. I stood there in the empty gym, breathing harder than the workout warranted.
Thirty seconds later, I grabbed my things and headed for the elevator. The doors started to close.
A hand caught them. Roman. He held a bag of chips as he stepped inside.
The elevator rose.
"That thing you said earlier," Roman said. "About standard coverage."
"Yeah?"
"It's not standard when most guys wouldn't have read it that fast."
"I've been doing this a long time."
"I know." His voice was quiet. "That's why it matters."
The doors opened. We both stepped out and turned in opposite directions.
I could turn back and cross the distance between us in two steps. Press him against the wall. Feel his weight against me again.
My hand actually moved. Reached toward him before I caught myself and stopped. Roman glanced over his shoulder and saw it. Knew.
"Thanks for trusting me," he called as he turned back and continued walking.
I returned to my room on unsteady legs. Waved the keycard over the lock.
Inside, the room was dark except for the alarm clock. 1:03 AM.
I stripped out of my damp gym clothes and climbed back into bed. Roman was calm in the gym. No demands. He thanked me for something routine.
I pressed my hands flat against my thighs. I was already half hard and my breathing was shallow. It was too late, or too early, to do more.
My phone buzzed, and I reached for it on the nightstand. It was Roman.
Can't sleep either. For what it's worth—I meant what I said. All of it.
I didn't respond.
Couldn't.
I pressed my hand against my chest, felt my heart hammering. Was I losing control?
Grabbing my phone, I typed a response I'd never send.
I know.
Deleted it and typed a different one.
I can't.
Deleted that too.
One more. The truth.
I want to.
I stared at it. Three words. Kept my thumb over the send button for five seconds. Deleted it.
Set the phone face down on the nightstand and waited for sleep.
My cock was still half-hard.
And I still had my hands pressed flat against my thighs. Pinning myself in place.