Chapter 10 Roman
The bus idled at the hotel entrance while the equipment staff unloaded bags from the cargo bay.
I stood on the sidewalk with my duffel over one shoulder, watching Philadelphia work. The city didn't waste energy on charm. Brick facades. Clean corners. People moved with their heads down, not because of the cold but because they had somewhere to be.
The hotel matched my observation: functional glass and concrete, three blocks from the arena. No marble lobby or chandeliers. Efficiency.
Hayes walked past me toward the entrance. "Place looks like a tax office."
"Works, though," I said.
He shrugged and kept moving.
The lobby was already filling with Breakers. Petrie stood near the check-in desk, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Luke collected key cards while Seb waited beside him.
I scanned for Grady.
He stood near the elevators with his bag at his feet, scrolling through his phone. He'd changed out of his suit jacket somewhere between the airport and here. Dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Professional even when loosening up.
Carter approached him. Said something. Grady nodded once and pocketed his phone.
The front desk called my name. I grabbed my key card, thanked the clerk, and headed for the elevators. Most of the team had already gone up. Grady was gone.
My room was on the tenth floor. Standard road setup: two queens, desk by the window, bathroom with aggressive lighting. I dropped my bag on the luggage rack and sat on the edge of the bed.
The window overlooked a parking structure and part of the arena. No skyline or waterfront.
Philadelphia didn't try to be more than it was. I respected that.
My phone buzzed. Group text from Hayes about dinner at seven. Italian place two blocks over. I sent back a thumbs-up and set the phone on the nightstand.
I had forty-five minutes.
I changed out of my travel clothes—jeans and a Breakers quarter-zip—and pulled on dark jeans and a clean T-shirt, one that fit and showed a little muscle. Threw on a jacket.
Stretched my hamstring against the desk. Still tight but manageable. I’d ice it before bed.
The dinner wasn't mandatory, but most of the team would show up . Shared road meals were routine. Gave guys something to do besides sit in hotel rooms and overthink the next day's game.
I grabbed my key card and wallet, left the room, and took the elevator back down.
The lobby had emptied. I walked toward the bar tucked off to the side. Low light with muted televisions showing ESPN. Practical furniture—no plush seating or decorative touches.
Seb sat alone at a corner table with a beer. He saw me and raised his glass slightly. An invitation.
"You eaten?" Seb asked.
"Not yet. Hayes organized something at seven."
He nodded toward the empty chair. "Sit for a minute."
I pulled out the chair and sat down . The server appeared within seconds. I ordered a beer to signal I wasn’t in a hurry.
Seb took a drink and set his glass down carefully. "Usually I'm hanging with Luke right now. He's getting treatment on his shoulder. Took a cross-check in the third period last game."
"Bad?"
"No. Preventive maintenance." Seb's fingers traced the condensation on his glass. "Eddie wanted to work on it before it tightened up."
I nodded. Made sense.
"Philadelphia's a grind," Seb continued. "Crowd here knows hockey."
"Saw that last year when I was with Vegas. They don't miss much."
The server returned with my beer. I thanked her and took a drink. Cold. Clean. Better than expected for a hotel bar.
"How's the hamstring?" Seb asked.
"Manageable. I'll ice it tonight."
"Good." He traced another line through the condensation. "You've been playing through it well. Can't tell from the bench."
"It's not bad enough to sit."
"Still. Smart to stay ahead of it."
I nodded.
The television above the bar showed highlights from last night's NHL games. I watched a defenseman take a hit along the boards.
Seb watched for a moment, then looked back at me. "You seem settled."
"Yeah?"
"Not distracted. Not riding adrenaline." He paused. "Here."
I took another drink and considered his observation.
"I am."
Seb waited. Not pushing. Leaving space.
I set my beer down and looked at him directly. "I came to Chicago for Grady."
Seb's expression didn't change. He nodded once as if he already knew that .
"That was real," I continued. "Still is."
"Okay."
"I'm staying because the team matters." I kept my voice level. "That's also real."
Seb studied my face.
"Those aren't competing things for me," I said. "They don't rank separately or negotiate with each other."
He took a drink. "No?"
"No."
Seb leaned forward slightly, forearms on the table. "Most guys would decide they needed to choose," he said.
"I'm not most guys."
Seb chuckled softly. "No, you're not."
I didn't elaborate. Didn't explain how it felt to want someone and love the work at the same time. Seb understood—or he didn't. Either way, the truth didn't change.
"Does Grady know?" Seb asked.
"He knows I came for him."
"And the rest?"
“I don’t think he’s ready to believe both things can be true,” I said. “That wanting more doesn’t mean losing what he’s built.”
“Luke and I—” He stopped. Tried again. “We let people assume things for a long time. It felt easier.”
I waited.
“It wasn’t,” he said quietly. “Easier, I mean. It just felt like it—because nothing had to change.”
He didn’t offer more than that. Didn’t make it a warning or advice. Just recognition.
I understood what he was saying. Luke and Seb hadn’t hidden who they were from me—they’d just stopped correcting the story when the world supplied an easier one. And I knew exactly why that would feel safer than saying it out loud.
"Thanks," I said.
Seb raised his glass slightly. "For what?"
"For asking."
He smiled briefly and took a drink.
The bar filled gradually over the next twenty minutes.
Carter Hayes appeared and scanned the room. He spotted an empty table in the back corner and headed for it. His gait was careful. Not a limp, measured. He sat with his back to the wall, stretching his leg out under the table.
Grady followed a few steps behind.
I tried not to stare. Carter said something as Grady reached the table. Grady's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close.
The server appeared. Carter ordered a ginger ale. Grady asked for water.
They settled into conversation. Carter leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on his thigh near where the hip flexor had been bothering him. He said something that made Grady shake his head.
Luke walked in a minute later, shoulder moving easily. Whatever Eddie had done had worked. He spotted Seb and crossed the room.
"How's it feel?" Seb asked as Luke reached our table.
"Loose." Luke rolled his shoulder once. "He worked it out."
"Good."
Luke glanced at me. "Roman."
"Luke."
He pulled out the third chair and sat down .
More guys drifted in. The noise level rose incrementally—voices layering and glasses clinking.
Petrie appeared in the doorway.
He stood there for a few seconds, scanning the room. His shoulders were tight. He held his phone in one hand like he might need an excuse to leave. He shoved his other hand in his pocket.
Rookie seasons were tough, and he'd been called up mid-season.
I caught his eye and raised my chin. He hesitated, then walked over.
"Petrie," I said.
"Hey." He shifted his weight. "You guys headed to dinner?"
"Seven," Seb said. "Italian place. Hayes has the details."
I gestured to the empty chair beside me. "Sit."
Petrie ordered a Coke. The server nodded and moved on.
"First time in Philly?" I asked.
"No, but first since juniors."
"Their crowd's loud. They know the game."
"I heard. Rourke said I might get minutes if the second line needs a spark."
"You will."
"You think?"
"Yeah." I took a drink. "He wouldn't say it if he didn't mean it."
Petrie relaxed slightly. The server brought his Coke.
“What should I know?” Petrie asked. He hesitated, then added, “I mean—about being on the road when it stops feeling like you’re still auditioning.”
I thought for a second.
“Stop treating every shift like a referendum. You’re past the part where you have to prove you belong. That work’s done.”
He frowned slightly, processing.
“On the road,” I went on, “guys lean harder on routine. Some need noise. Some need quiet. Figure out which one keeps you sharp and stick to it.”
“What about you?” he asked.
“Quiet before games,” I said. “Noise after.”
Petrie nodded.
Seb chimed in. “And don’t read the room like it’s judging you. Everyone’s managing something. Hip. Shoulder. Kid at home with the flu.”
Luke lifted his glass. “You do your job. Nobody cares how you unwind.”
Petrie nodded again, shoulders easing as he leaned back in his chair.
Across the room, Carter said something to Grady. Grady's response was too quiet to hear, but Carter's laugh was low and brief. His hand moved from his thigh to the table, fingers drumming once before going still.
I turned back to Petrie. "Morning skate tomorrow."
"Yeah. Rourke said it's up to me."
"Skate. Even if it's light. Get a feel for their ice."
"Their ice is different?"
"Like every rink's different. Different soft spots. A corner faster than the others. You want to know before game time."
Rourke called from across the room. "Wilder. You coming to dinner or sitting there all night?"
"Coming," I called back.
Seb stood. Luke followed. Petrie grabbed his phone and fell in behind them.
We walked toward the door in a loose group. Rourke was coordinating—who was riding with whom, and whether anyone needed the address.
I glanced back once.
Grady was still sitting with Carter. He lifted his water glass, stopped halfway to his mouth, and set it back down. His fingers stayed on the glass for a beat longer than necessary.
I turned and followed the others out.
A crowd packed the Italian place.
Not fancy. Red-checked tablecloths and wine bottles as decor. The smell hit immediately—garlic, tomato sauce, and fresh bread.