Chapter 13 Grady #2
I didn't know what to say to that.
Carter stood and walked to the sink. Splashed water on his face.
"I used to think the end would feel like failure," he said. "Like I'd wake up one day and realize I wasn't good enough anymore."
He grabbed a towel.
"It doesn't feel like that. It's just time. I had my run and now someone else gets theirs."
He leaned against the counter. Eyes on me.
"Wilder's good."
"I know."
"Better than good. He's also smart enough to know he hasn't peaked. Not yet."
I adjusted the ice pack on my hip.
"He'll get there. Maybe soon."
"You saying I should step aside?" I asked quietly.
"No," Carter's voice was steady. "I'm saying the league doesn't wait for anyone to be ready. It moves. And we either move with it or we get left behind."
He pulled on his hoodie.
"For what it's worth? You're still the best defensive captain I've played with. That doesn't change because someone younger is breathing down your neck."
At the door, he glanced back.
"Doesn't mean you stop mattering, Grady. Only means the shape of it changes."
He left me sitting alone in the rehab room. His words sank deep into my chest.
The shape of it changes.
It was easy to say. Carter wasn't in love with the person who was supposed to replace him.
He hadn't built his entire identity around being indispensable.
***
The team's flight back to Chicago was quiet and dark.
Most of the guys slept. I didn’t. My hip complained every time I shifted position.
By the time I let myself into my apartment, it was late morning. The city outside my window was wide awake.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Roman.
You awake?
Checking in. Again.
I typed back.
Yeah.
Want company?
I closed my eyes for a moment, then I typed:
Yeah.
I was halfway through reheating leftover pasta when my phone rang.
Mom.
I picked up.
"Hey."
"Grady." Her voice was warm. "Did I wake you? Your voice is a little rough."
"No. Just got home from Toronto."
"Good game last night. Your father and I watched."
They watched every game. Didn't matter if it was a Tuesday night in Toronto or a Saturday afternoon matinee against a team fighting for a draft lottery pick.
"Thanks," I said.
"That block in the third period looked painful."
I pulled a fork from the drawer. "It was fine."
"Mmm."
The sound she made—half acknowledgment and half skepticism—was one I'd heard a thousand times. She didn't believe me, but she wouldn't push.
"Your father wants to say hello," she said.
Dad's voice came on the line. Deeper. More reserved.
"Grady."
"Hey, Dad."
"Hell of a win."
"Yeah. We needed it."
"You looked solid out there. Steady."
Steady. The word he always used. It was the trademark Volkov family virtue.
"Wilder's really coming into his own," he continued. "That assist was something else. Reminds me of watching you when you were younger."
I set the fork down.
"He's got a different game than me. He's a winger," I said carefully.
"Sure, but the instincts are the same. The vision. Coaches can't teach that."
I stared at the reheated pasta I wouldn't eat and tried to figure out if Dad had just complimented me or written my obituary.
Mom came back on the line.
"We won't keep you long. But I wanted to check in. See how you're doing."
"I'm fine."
She was quiet for a moment.
"Your uncle Peter retired last month."
The shift in topic caught me off guard.
"From the firm?"
"Mmm. Forty years practicing law. He handed his cases off to the younger partners and stepped back."
"How's he doing?"
"Happy, I think. Relieved. He said the hardest part wasn't leaving. It was trusting that the work would continue without him."
I closed my eyes.
"It did," she continued. "The firm didn't fall apart. Clients stuck around, and the younger lawyers stepped up. Peter realized something important."
"What's that?"
"Leadership isn't something you hold onto until it's taken from you," my mother said quietly. "It's something you pass forward when the time is right."
"I know."
"You're allowed to matter without being indispensable, Grady."
I gripped the edge of the counter.
Mom had a gift for making profound statements sound like weather observations.
Dad's voice came back.
"Son, what your mother's trying to say is that we're proud of you. No matter what happens next."
"Thanks, Dad."
"The Breakers are lucky to have you," my father continued. "And they'll be lucky to have Wilder too. Those two things can both be true."
I didn't answer.
"You still there?" he asked.
"Yeah. I'm here."
"Good. Get some rest. Big stretch coming up."
"I will."
"And Grady?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever's coming—you'll handle it. You always do."
The call ended.
Mom's voice echoed in my head.
Leadership isn't something you hold onto until it's taken from you.
I dumped the pasta in the trash.
My phone buzzed.
Just parked. Buzzing up.
I unlocked the front door and went back to the couch.
Sat down.
Waited.
The door opened. Roman stepped inside.
He wore joggers and a hoodie, looking tired in the good way—lingering from a hard-fought win and a plane ride home.
He saw me and smiled.
"Goya exhibit's coming to the Art Institute. Saw the banner on the drive over. You like art?"
"When my hip cooperates."
Roman closed the door. Crossed the room. Sat down beside me.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah."
He studied me.
"I don't think that's true."
"I'm fine, Roman."
"Grady—"
"I'm tired. That's all."
He didn't push and settled back against the couch. We sat in silence.
Roman's hand rested on the cushion between us.
"You know what Seb said to me?" he asked after a moment.
I didn't answer.
"He said he and Luke have been together for years. They let people call them best friends because it was easier." Roman turned to face me. "And then he said it stopped feeling easy. It felt small."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I don't want us to feel small."
"We're not them," I said.
"Then what are we, Grady?"
The question was simple. The answer wasn't.
We were captain and rising star. Veteran and future. The man holding the room, and the man who would take it.
"We're—" I started.
Roman waited.
"We're here," I said finally. "That's enough."
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Okay."
He leaned back and rubbed a hand over his face.
Roman opened his eyes and turned toward me. "You look wrecked."
"I am."
"Come on." He stood. Held out a hand. "Bed."
"It's barely after lunchtime."
"We don't have to do anything," he said. "I want you horizontal before you fall over."
"Romantic."
"I contain multitudes."
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
We ended up in bed twenty minutes later. Roman insisted on ibuprofen and water before he let me lie down.
I was too tired to argue.
Roman lay on his back. I was on my side, the heat wrap pressed against my hip.
He moved his hand until he touched mine, letting it rest there.
Roman's breathing deepened. Sleep.
I stayed awake. The hip throbbed.
Roman murmured something so quiet that I almost missed it.
I couldn't make out coherent words. It was a soft exhalation that might've been my name.
His fingers wove together with mine. Even unconscious, he was reaching for me.
I pulled my hand away. Carefully. Slowly.
He was still sleeping, but his hand moved across the sheet until it touched my arm.
A calm settled over him.
I was falling in love with someone who—
The thought fractured.
If I finished it the way I'd been finishing it—who was only staying long enough to replace me—I'd have to ignore the evidence of his hand on my arm. The sound of my name in his sleep. That he kept choosing me even when I gave him every reason not to.
And if I didn't finish it that way?
If I let myself believe he was staying because he wanted to?
Then I'd have to face the possibility that I was the one creating the distance.
I closed my eyes. Roman's hand stayed warm against my arm.
And I lay there in the dark, slipping back into convincing myself that I understood.