Chapter 11 Grady
The coffee had gone cold.
I stood in the kitchen with my phone, scrolling through morning sports coverage. Dress pants on. Undershirt. My button-down hung over the back of a chair.
The TV played muted SportsCenter in the living room. Highlights I'd already seen.
Trade deadline coverage dominated the feed. Teams making moves. Analysts breaking down rosters. Chicago had been quiet—management holding steady, trusting what we'd built.
I opened Simon Kavanaugh's column.
Continuity and Evolution: How the Breakers Are Building Long-Term
The Chicago Breakers have made their intentions clear: they're not chasing quick fixes. They're building structure around a player who represents both present impact and future leadership.
Roman Wilder's adjustment period is over.
What we're watching now is settlement—a player who doesn't just fit the system but shapes it.
His decision-making under pressure, his ability to elevate linemates, and his instinct for high-leverage moments suggest more than talent. They suggest staying power.
In conversations with front office personnel and coaching staff, one phrase keeps surfacing: "a player you build around." Not will build. Build. Present tense.
I set the phone down.
The column wasn't aggressive. Simon had criticized no one. He'd simply described what was happening as if decisions had already been made.
Roman wasn't becoming important. He already was.
I walked to the living room and grabbed my button-down. Buttoned it. Tucked it in. The outside world had moved on without asking my permission.
Turning off the TV, I left.
On my way to the locker room, I passed Rourke's office. The door was open. Two assistant coaches stood inside with him. One leaned against the desk. The other held a tablet.
"—need to think about continuity through the deadline," the one with the tablet said. "If we're not moving pieces, we're committing to what we have."
"I'm comfortable with that," Rourke said.
"Line combinations stay intact?"
"For now. Roman's chemistry with the top unit is working. We don't fix what isn't broken."
I kept walking.
Continuity.
It meant we're keeping things as they are because they're already pointed in the right direction. I pushed through the locker room doors.
I was the first one there. As I sat at my stall, the door opened. Eddie walked in carrying a medical kit.
"Morning, Cap."
"Eddie."
He unpacked supplies at the training table. Tape. Gauze. Pre-wrap.
The door opened again. Collins from the front office cut through on his way to somewhere else. Phone to his ear.
"—yeah, no moves today," he said. "We're in our window. No reason to disrupt what's working."
He disappeared through the far exit.
I pulled off my dress shoes and set them in my stall. After a quick visit to the equipment room, I came back with fresh tape. Seb and Luke had arrived. They talked quietly near Luke's stall.
Tanner came in next, headphones on. Headed straight for his gear.
Roman arrived with Hayes, both mid-conversation. Roman laughed at something Hayes said. He caught my eye as he crossed to his stall.
It was a comfortable look. Soft and open.
Rourke walked in five minutes before ice time and clapped his hands once.
"Let's go. Pace today. I want speed through transitions."
I fell into line as we headed for the ice. Halfway down the tunnel, I heard one of the assistant coaches talking to Petrie behind me.
"You're learning fast," the coach said. "Getting comfortable in the system. That's good. We need guys who can step up next season."
Petrie nodded, but my attention snagged on the phrasing.
Next season.
Petrie’s and Roman’s names lived in sentences about the future.
Mine lived in sentences about stability.
Both were respectful. Both were correct.
They just sorted people into different timelines.
Rourke drove a hard practice.
He pushed the tempo on every drill. Breakouts at full speed. Transition sequences that required split-second reads. No standing around or coasting.
Roman thrived.
He hit every gap. Found space before the defense could collapse. On a two-on-one rush, he took the pass at full speed and buried it glove-side before Tanner could set.
Rourke blew his whistle. "That's the pace. Do it again."
By the time we finished, my quads felt like someone had wrung them out.
Back in the locker room, I unlaced my skates at my stall. Pulled off my pads methodically.
Down the row, Roman sat with his gear half off, laughing at something Tanner said. Sweat slicked his hair back. He looked comfortable. Present.
Petrie asked him something about a drill we'd run. Roman answered without hesitation, gesturing with his hands to show the angle he'd taken. Petrie nodded and listened.
I watched Roman belong. He was existing in space that made room for him.
He glanced over and caught me watching. I spotted a quick smile.
My throat went dry. I wanted to anchor myself there, in Roman's smile.
Seb said something from across the room. Roman turned toward him and responded. Everyone laughed.
Tanner stood and stretched. "Anyone want to grab lunch? That new place on State?"
"I'm in," Petrie said immediately.
Hayes shook his head. "Treatment. Eddie's got me scheduled."
"Roman?"
Roman pulled his shoulder pads off. "Yeah. Sounds good."
"Cap?" Tanner looked at me.
"Can't. I've got film."
Tanner nodded and started gathering his things.
I headed for the showers. The hot water hit squarely between my shoulder blades, and I let the heat work into the muscle.
Through the steam, I heard voices from the locker room. Roman's laugh carried.
I thought about how many people had turned to him during practice. Luke asked him about a defensive rotation.
Even the younger guys gravitated toward him. Petrie especially. Watching how Roman moved and asking questions.
He'd arrived in Chicago raw and hungry. Talent without brakes.
Now he looked settled. Confidence was easier when everything confirmed you belonged.
I returned to my stall, dried off, and dressed. Pulled on jeans and a Breakers polo. Grabbed my bag.
Roman was still at his stall, tying his shoes. He looked up as I passed.
"You sure about lunch?" he asked. "Film can wait."
"Can't. Rourke wants me to review the breakout sequences."
Roman nodded. "Alright." His tone was light. No sign of disappointment.
As I neared the door, he spoke.
"Grady."
I turned.
He was standing with his bag over his shoulder.
"Good practice today," he said.
"Yeah."
He held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Then smiled slightly and walked past me toward the door.
I stood there after he left.
That look—
I didn't trust it anymore.
***
The film room was empty.
I sat in the second row with my tablet, reviewing breakout sequences from yesterday's practice. The screen showed Roman carrying the puck through the neutral zone. Clean entry. No wasted movement.
I scrubbed back and watched it again.
His timing was perfect. He read the gap before it opened and hit it at full speed. I paused the video.
I came to Chicago for you.
Roman had said it in the hallway after our first game together. Standing there with his hands loose at his sides. Looking at me like I'd gutted him when I called it a training exercise.
I'd believed him. His words sounded like a genuine confession. Costly.
Sitting here now, watching him execute perfectly on screen, I started questioning the truth in his words.
He came for me because I was the captain. The thought arrived fully formed.
It wasn't the man. It was the position.
Roman was twenty-four when we met. Talented but unproven. Playing for a team that didn't showcase what he could do. He needed a team that would bet on him. A captain who would age out soon. Someone who'd already built what he was still reaching for.
Of course he came for me.
Youth attaches upward. Ambition looks for guarantees.
I scrubbed forward on the tablet. Another sequence. Roman receiving a pass at the blue line. He didn't hesitate. Drove wide. Created the angle himself.
The kid I'd met two years ago wouldn't have made that play. Too much hunger. Not enough patience.
This Roman didn't reach. He rose.
Chicago had given him what he needed.
Ice time. Trust. Visibility.
And I'd given him access.
Not only to my bed. To the system.
I'd opened doors without realizing what I was doing.
Roman had walked through them and made himself essential.
I closed the tablet.
His feelings were genuine. I didn’t doubt that.
But real didn’t mean fixed.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out. A text from Roman.
Lunch was good. You would've liked it. Next time?
I stared at the message and typed back:
Yeah. Next time.
***
I drove home in silence. Traffic flowed. Lights changed. I followed the route I knew by heart.
My condo was exactly as I'd left it that morning. Button-down still draped over the chair. Cold coffee in the sink.
I changed into sweats and a t-shirt. Stood in the kitchen, deciding whether to eat. Pulled out a yogurt and retrieved a spoon from the drawer by the sink.
The remote control sat on the coffee table. I picked it up. Turned on the television.
ESPN. Highlights from last night's games.
I sat on the couch.
A reel played: top goals of the week. The announcers ran through them with practiced enthusiasm. Fifth place. Fourth. Third.
Second place: Roman.
The clip showed his goal from three nights ago. He'd split two defenders at full speed and gone top shelf on the backhand.
The replay slowed it down. Showed the angle. The patience. The finish.
“Twenty-six years old,” the first announcer said. “That’s grown-man hockey.”
“Yeah,” the second said. “That’s a guy you build a franchise around.”
The highlights moved on. I kept staring at the screen.
They were measuring Roman's career by what hadn't happened yet. Seasons still unplayed. Championships not yet won.
The highlights shifted to a retrospective segment. Greatest defensive plays of the month.
My name appeared on screen. A shot block from two weeks ago. I'd gone down in front of a one-timer. Took it off the thigh. Got back up. Cleared the rebound.
"Grady Volkov," the announcer said. "Still one of the most reliable defensemen in the league. Does all the little things that don't show up on the scoresheet."
Still reliable. Does little things.
I was the maintenance man.
I turned off the TV.
Roman was ascending. His trajectory pointed up and out. More ice time would result in more responsibility and generate more gravity.
I was steady, moving laterally. Holding ground.
Roman was becoming essential.
And when he completed the transition and stepped into the captaincy, the version of me he’d needed wouldn’t exist anymore.
I stood and walked to the window. Chicago spread out below me.
Somewhere out there, Roman was having lunch with his teammates. Building the connections that would outlast me.
Not because he was trying to replace me. Because we ran on different timelines.
My phone buzzed again. I pulled it out.
Roman's name. Another text.
Tanner just told me a story about his rookie year that I absolutely need to tell you. Remind me tomorrow.
I read it twice.
He wrote like we had tomorrow. And the day after. And all the days beyond that.
***
My phone lit up on the nightstand while I lay in bed at 11:30.
I'd been lying in bed for forty minutes. Not sleeping. Lying there.
I reached for it. A message from Roman.
You awake?
I stared at it.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Can't stop thinking about that sequence in practice. The one where you held the blue line and I drove the net. We didn't even look at each other and it worked.
Another message came through before I could respond.
Feel like we could do that in our sleep.
I sat up against the headboard. For a moment—just one moment—I imagined answering honestly.
Come over.
I want to see you.
I'm tired of being careful.
Clear. Simple. True.
My thumb moved toward the keyboard.
Then stopped.
I saw what happened next.
Roman would come over. We'd fall back into each other like we had the last time I invited him over. Like we had that first night two years ago. And for a few hours, it would feel like enough.
Then tomorrow, the media would still write about his future. Management would still use his name in sentences about next season. And I would still be the captain standing between him and the future.
Eventually, he'd have to choose. I couldn't make him choose against his career for something that wouldn't survive the transition anyway.
My attachment to him was needy. His attachment to me was circumstantial.
I could see the difference now.
I typed back:
Muscle memory. Reps.
The response came fast.
It's more than that.
I read his message. My fingers moved across the keyboard.
Get some sleep. Game tomorrow.
Three dots. Then:
Yeah. You too.
A pause. One more message.
Good night, Grady.
I lay back down.
The condo was dark except for the city lights bleeding through the windows.
Three weeks ago, I'd kissed Roman in a hotel hallway in Denver.
Two weeks ago, he'd sent me a photo of bread and his hands.
Casual. Affectionate. One week ago, he'd told Seb—thinking I wouldn't hear—that he came to Chicago for me and stayed for the team.
He said both things were true, and they didn't compete.
Roman believed this was sustainable.
He believed his feelings existed independently of circumstances. That wanting me and wanting the captaincy were separate truths that could coexist without friction.
Maybe they could. For now.
But I'd seen enough transitions to know how they worked. When the captaincy came—and it would come—everything would reorganize. His responsibilities would expand. His focus would shift. The pull between us would compete with everything he'd worked for.
And I'd become the complication he had to manage.
I would not do that to him.
I reached for my phone one more time. Opened his messages.
Good night, Grady.
I imagined him typing it. Lying in his own bed across the city. Thinking it meant something permanent.
Roman's affection was genuine, but he was drawn to a version of me that wouldn't survive what was coming.
When everything shifted, the attachment would change too.
Not because he wanted it to. Because that's how gravity worked.