Chapter 10 Roman #2
Staff reserved the back room. Long tables pushed together. Enough seating for fifteen, though only twelve of us showed.
Rourke claimed the head of the table. Petrie sat three seats down, wedged between two defensemen who were already arguing the virtues of Italian beef vs. Philly cheesesteaks. Seb and Luke took seats across from each other near the middle. I sat beside Seb.
Rourke wasn't in team gear. Jeans and a quarter-zip. He looked like someone's dad showing up for a casual dinner, except his eyes tracked the room the way they tracked the bench during games. Assessing. Calculating. Missing nothing.
The server appeared with menus and water. Rourke waved off the menu. "Whatever they're having. And coffee."
She nodded and disappeared.
"Family-style," Tanner announced. "We're doing this right."
The ordering process took ten minutes. Too much food. Platters of pasta—penne arrabbiata and fettuccine Alfredo. Chicken parm. Veal marsala. Eggplant rollatini because one of the defensemen claimed he was trying to eat more vegetables.
"You're eating fried eggplant covered in cheese," Luke said flatly.
"It's a vegetable."
"It's not."
"It literally is."
Seb smiled into his water glass.
The food arrived in waves. Plates passed from hand to hand. The bread basket emptied and refilled twice in the first fifteen minutes.
Tanner leaned back in his chair, balancing a forkful of carbonara. "Petrie. You ever hear about my rookie year?"
Petrie looked up. "No?"
"Good. Because this story's going to save your life one day."
Groans rippled down the table. Someone threw a piece of bread at Tanner. He caught it one-handed and took a bite.
"So I'm twenty years old," he continued. "First road trip. We're in Montreal. I'm rooming with this veteran winger—guy's been in the league fifteen years. Quiet. Never says anything. I figure he's going to be a good influence."
"This is going somewhere bad," Luke said.
"Very bad," Tanner agreed. "So we get to the hotel. I'm unpacking. He's on the phone. Speaking French. I think nothing of it. Then there's a knock on the door. I open it. There's a woman standing there. Gorgeous. Dressed like she's going to the opera."
Petrie's eyes widened.
"I say, 'I think you have the wrong room.' She says, 'Room 412?' I say, 'Yeah, but—' and this veteran winger walks past me, hands her an envelope, kisses her on both cheeks, and they leave together."
"No," one of the defensemen said.
"Yes. So I'm standing there like an idiot. He comes back three hours later. Smells like expensive perfume. Doesn't say a word. Gets into bed and falls asleep."
"What'd you do?" Petrie asked.
"I called my mom."
The table erupted in laughter.
"You called your mom?" Seb repeated, grinning.
"I was twenty. I didn't know what else to do. I thought maybe I was supposed to report him or something. She told me to mind my own business and go to sleep."
"Smart woman," Rourke said from the far end.
Tanner pointed his fork at Petrie. "Moral of the story: What happens on the road stays on the road. Unless it's illegal. Then you call your mom."
Petrie laughed. He was letting down for the first time since we left Chicago.
"What happened to the winger?" someone asked.
"Played another five years. Retired with a Stanley Cup ring and a house in the south of France." Tanner shrugged. "Good guy. Weird roommate."
Rourke ate quietly, listening. He cut his chicken parm into precise pieces and worked through it methodically. When one of the younger guys asked him a question about tomorrow's matchup, he answered in three sentences.
"Their forecheck is aggressive," Rourke said. "They'll pressure the D-zone hard. Win the puck battles, and you'll have space to work."
"What if we don't win the puck battles?" the defenseman asked.
"Then it's going to be a long night."
Luke smirked into his pasta.
"You ever cook?" Tanner asked me.
"Not really."
"Smart. Cooking's a trap. You learn how, and suddenly everyone expects you to do it."
"You cook?" Petrie asked.
"Once. Burned water. Never tried again."
"You can't burn water."
"I found a way."
Petrie laughed again.
Seb said something in French to Luke, too quietly for anyone else to hear. Luke's mouth twitched.
Rourke stood. "I'm heading out. Don't stay up too late."
"Yes, Coach," the team muttered in unison.
Rourke nodded once and walked toward the door. He paused beside my chair on the way out, clapped me once on the shoulder and kept moving.
Dessert appeared. Tiramisu. Cannoli. Panna cotta someone ordered on impulse. Someone told another story—this one about a goalie who'd super-glued his pads together by mistake before a playoff game.
By nine-thirty, guys started peeling off. Early ice time tomorrow. Long day ahead. Petrie left with two of the defensemen, still talking, his earlier nervousness completely gone.
Seb and Luke left together. Seb's hand hovered near Luke's lower back as they walked toward the door.
I stood, pulled on my jacket, and walked out into the cold.
The Philadelphia streets were quieter now. A few people walking dogs. A couple stood under an awning, talking.
I kept my hands in my pockets and my head down.
When I reached the hotel, I considered going straight to my room. Instead, I walked toward the bar.
It was quieter now. Two guys in suits sat at a corner table nursing whiskey. The television played SportsCenter with the volume low.
Grady sat alone at the same table he'd shared with Carter earlier. He had a glass of water in front of him. No phone or tablet. Sitting there with his hands resting on either side of the glass.
I stood in the doorway watching.
Grady's right hand moved slightly. His thumb rubbed against the side of the glass. Once. Twice. Then stopped.
I walked to the bar and sat on a stool near the far end. Far enough that I wasn't crowding him. Close enough that if he looked up, he'd know I was there.
The bartender appeared. I ordered a beer even though I didn't need one.
Across the room, Grady moved. He picked up his water glass and drank.
I watched the television without seeing it. Highlights from a game I didn't care about. A commentator analyzing a power play breakdown.
Grady thought my motivation was ambition. That I'd come to Chicago because it was the next logical step. A contender. A chance to prove myself.
Even though I told him, he still didn't understand that ambition had nothing to do with it.
I came for him.
The team mattered, but he was the reason I'd insisted on Chicago.
The couple at the corner table stood and left. I finished half my beer and set it down.
I thought about Denver, and how Grady's control had fractured. Then he invited me to his condo. After that, he'd rebuilt the walls by morning.
I wasn't angry about it. I understood him better than he thought I did.
Glancing at Grady's table again, I saw he was looking at me. I met his gaze and held it.
He looked away first. He stood and walked toward the exit. I pushed my beer glass toward the bartender and stood.
Grady had just reached the doorway when I caught up to him. I came from the side, close enough that he'd hear me before he saw me.
"Grady."
He stopped. Turned his head slightly.
I reached out and placed my hand on his shoulder.
The contact was brief. Steady. My palm settled against the fabric of his shirt, fingers curving around the muscle beneath.
He froze, motionless under my hand. His breath caught, sharp and audible. His shoulder tensed.
“You’ve been solid lately,” I said. Voice level. “When you’re steady, the team settles.”
His jaw tightened. I saw it in profile. The muscle jumped once before he controlled it.
I let my hand fall away and stepped back. "See you at breakfast."
Then I walked past him toward the elevators. I pressed the call button and waited. The elevator chimed, and the doors opened.
After I stepped inside, I turned and pushed the button for 10. Grady was still standing in the doorway of the bar. Facing me with one hand braced against the door frame.
His eyes were dark. Fixed on me. His mouth was a tight line, but his chest rose and fell too quickly, as if he'd been running instead of standing still.
The doors shut. I leaned back against the wall as the elevator rose and closed my eyes.
I'd chosen contact without demand. Refused to disappear while also refusing to apply pressure.
Back in my room, I dropped my key card on the desk and sat on the edge of the bed.
My heart was beating hard. From wanting. From touching him and walking away.
I knew he wasn't ready yet.