Chapter 13 Grady
My hip locked up during warm-ups.
Not a flare—something more dull. A grind that started deep in the joint and radiated down my thigh with every stride.
It'd been building for a week. Stiffness after games. Tightness in the morning. It disappeared under adrenaline and came back worse in the quiet moments.
I stretched it out against the boards. Rolled through the motion twice. Told myself it was only fatigue.
Rourke ran drills as usual. I pushed through the first rotation. Hip caught on the crossover. Not enough to stumble, but enough to feel the geometry go wrong.
Roman was two lanes over. He turned his head. A half-second glance tracking my stride pattern. He'd noticed.
The next rotation came faster. Roman closed the gap before I could adjust. Not aggressive. He matched my speed and murmured something about coverage angles.
Our shoulders brushed as we curved toward the net. The contact spiked my pain.
I didn't react. Gave him nothing to read.
When the whistle blew, Roman skated past without looking back.
Practice ended with bag skates. I finished in the middle of the pack. Exactly where a veteran should be when younger legs were supposed to set the pace.
Roman finished ahead of me. Not by much. He wasn't showing off. Simply skating clean.
When I hit the bench, he was already there. Breathing hard but controlled. He glanced over.
"You good?"
"Yeah."
"Hip?"
Surgical assessment.
"It's fine."
"Okay."
He let it drop, but the fact that he'd named it meant he'd been tracking it longer than I realized.
I stayed on the ice after everyone cleared. I wanted to move with no one watching. Needed to test whether the joint would release, or if I was grinding it worse.
By the fourth lap, I had my answer. It wouldn't go away with rest.
I wasn't ready to tell anyone. Telling someone would mean admitting I couldn't do the job.
I stepped off the ice and walked toward the tunnel. Rourke was waiting. Arms crossed.
"Volkov."
I stopped.
He didn't move or ask questions. He looked at me the way coaches do when they already know what's up and they're giving you one chance to say it first.
"I'm good, Coach."
He was silent for a beat, and then he nodded.
"See you tomorrow."
I stepped into the locker room, and the heat hit me. Bodies. Exertion. The post-practice sweat that made the air thick. My hip throbbed in response to the heat.
Luke was two stalls down, half-dressed, while Seb handed him a towel. Seb's fingers brushed Luke's shoulder as he passed it over.
They stood close. Closer than necessary.
I realized with a strange clarity that this wasn't new. They'd always been like this. I'd simply chosen not to see it.
The room absorbed it without breaking, which meant it was possible.
Or it meant the room had lower standards for drama than I did.
Across the room, one of the younger defensemen struggled with his shin pad. He looked up. At Roman.
"Wilder, you got an extra strap?"
Roman glanced over. "Check with Grady. He keeps a spare kit."
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry, Cap."
I handed him a replacement strap.
When I passed Roman's stall on my way to the showers, he spoke.
"You icing that tonight?"
"Probably."
"Good." He returned to his phone. "Heat's better for the deep stuff, though. If it's muscular."
"I know."
"Yeah. Just saying."
When I returned to my stall from the shower, I had a text from Roman.
Dinner?
The same offer he'd extended three times over the past week.
Every time I said yes.
Saying no would feel like confirmation that something was ending.
I typed back.
Yeah. Your place or mine?
Yours. I'll bring food.
Roman was still choosing me. Still showing up. Still checking in with care disguised as routine.
***
The Scotiabank Arena ice was fast. Toronto kept it cold and hard. The surface punished hesitation.
We were down by one heading into the third period. Every point mattered. It was early March, and the postseason loomed over the horizon. Three teams within two points, all of us in early contention for the same playoff spot.
I'd already logged eighteen minutes through two periods. The hip had started grinding around the twelve-minute mark. Now it was a constant low burn that spiked every time I pivoted hard or absorbed contact.
Adrenaline kept it manageable. Barely.
The third period started with a faceoff in our zone.
Toronto came out fast. Aggressive forecheck. They smelled blood.
I took the first shift with Roman and Hayes. Cold air bit at my lungs. The rink smelled like popcorn and beer and fifteen thousand people who'd paid good money to watch us lose.
I picked up their center at our blue line and angled him wide. The hip screamed. I locked my jaw and sealed off the middle.
He dumped it deep. I pivoted—something ground wrong in the joint—and absorbed the hit from their winger. The impact sent ice spray across my visor. Cold mist on my face.
I chipped the puck free to Roman at the half-wall.
He caught it clean. Threaded a pass through two defenders to Hayes.
Hayes one-timed it.
The goalie kicked it out. Rebound bounced to the slot.
Roman was already there. He buried it.
The horn sounded.
The Breakers' bench erupted. I skated toward the celebration. Slower than usual. The hip had seized on the pivot.
By the time I reached the group, Roman glanced over his shoulder. Our eyes met for half a second.
He smiled. It wasn't a big, media-facing grin. Something smaller. Only for me.
I tapped my stick against the boards.
Three minutes left. Still tied.
Roman carried it through the neutral zone. Two Toronto defenders converged. He dropped it back to me at the blue line.
I took two strides and fired.
The shot was clean. The goalie got a piece of it, and the puck deflected wide.
Roman beat his man to it. Controlled it behind the net. Read the play.
Hayes drifted to the slot. Seb cut to the far post. Toronto's defense collapsed toward the net.
Roman waited. Patiently.
Then he slid the puck through traffic to Hayes.
Hayes redirected it. Top shelf.
The horn sounded again.
The crowd noise shifted. Higher. Sharper.
Not the entire building—the pocket of Breakers fans behind our bench.
“WIL-DER. WIL-DER. WIL-DER.”
Roman hadn’t scored, but he’d made the play that made the goal inevitable. The crowd recognized it. So would the media.
I reached the group and tapped Hayes's helmet. Bumped gloves with Seb.
Roman was in the middle of it all. Smiling. Accepting congratulations.
We skated back to the bench, and I tried very hard not to think about the fact that the crowd had been chanting his name while I was still wiping ice spray off my visor.
Toronto pulled its goalie with ninety seconds left. Rourke sent me out to close the game.
Six-on-five. I took my position at the top of the box. My breath came in clouds. Sweat cooling under my pads despite the cold.
The puck cycled. Toronto was hunting for a seam. Any breakdown.
I remained disciplined. Didn't chase. Didn't over-commit.
The puck came to their defenseman at the point. He wound up for a one-timer.
I stepped into the lane. The shot hit me square in the hip.
Pain exploded. White-hot and immediate. I went down.
The puck bounced free. Roman picked it up at the blue line and chipped it into the empty net.
Game over.
The ice was cold against my gloves. The crowd noise muffled and distant. Roman skated over and reached down.
I took his hand. He pulled me up, but instead of letting go, his grip tightened. He stared into my face.
“You good?” he asked.
The question was quiet. Meant only for me.
Not Are you good to play?
Just Are you okay?
Gratitude was appropriate.
Panic hit instead. Sharp and irrational.
Because if he were looking at me like that now—
I shut the thought down before it could finish.
"Yeah," I said.
Someone on the bench shouted something. Roman let go.
"You're a terrible liar," he said.
"I know."
He stayed close as we skated back. Our loyal fans were still chanting his name.
The locker room after the win was electric. Music blasting. Guys laughing. Rourke giving a short, controlled speech about staying focused and taking it one game at a time.
Across the room, reporters surrounded Roman. Microphones. Cameras. Questions about his assist and our chemistry.
He handled it smoothly. Gave credit to Hayes. Talked about the team. Mentioned me once.
"Grady made the play. I just finished it."
The reporters nodded. Scribbled notes. Moved on.
I left before the scrum ended and found my way to the bus through the maze of concrete hallways. I climbed on and found my usual seat near the back.
Roman got on about ten minutes later. He looked down the aisle and saw me.
He walked past his usual spot and sat down beside me. His shoulder touched mine. Light contact. Barely there. He didn't say anything and stared at his phone.
The bus pulled out. Toronto's lights streamed past the windows. Golden and blurred.
I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. My hip throbbed.
The crowd's chant echoed in my memory.
"WIL-DER. WIL-DER. WIL-DER."
Roman's hand shifted on the armrest between us. His pinky finger brushed mine. He kept it there. Touching.
***
The visiting rehab room at Scotiabank Arena was quiet except for the hum of the ice machines. It was nearly three in the morning.
I thought I was alone.
Carter Hayes sat on one of the treatment tables, compression wraps on both knees, working through slow leg extensions. He looked up when I walked in.
"Grady."
"Carter."
I picked up an ice pack and sat down across from him. He finished his set and exhaled.
"Hip?" he asked.
I didn't bother lying. "Yeah."
"How long?"
"A couple of weeks."
He nodded and reached for his water bottle.
"I figure I've got about a year left," he said. "Maybe less."
His expression was calm, matter-of-fact.
"Body's done. Knees are bone-on-bone. I can play through it for now, but the math never lies." He set the bottle down. "Another season, maybe two if I'm lucky. Then it's over."