Chapter 14 Roman
The Red Line lurched north after morning skate, half-empty in the mid-morning lull.
I sat near the back and watched the city reorganize itself through the windows. Billboards shifted from English to Spanish and back again. Storefronts changed density and height.
The grid system here made sense if you paid attention—diagonal streets cutting across numbered blocks, neighborhoods announcing themselves in the languages on signs.
Two seats down, a guy in Carhartt read the Sun-Times sports section. I caught the headline before he turned the page: Breakers Find Their Rhythm. There was a photo—me standing beside Grady post-game, close but not touching. Not close enough.
I’d slept alone.
I woke up hard, thinking about Grady.
It wasn’t unusual.
I got off at Belmont and walked east. No destination. Just the habit I'd developed: ride to a random stop and walk until something made me slow down.
The wind off the lake was harsh. I pulled my hood up and kept moving, but the cold found every gap. Grady hated Chicago winters. Said they reminded him of playing juniors in North Dakota—wind that cut through everything and ice that never quite melted.
Grady moved through this city like he was defending territory. Head down, routes optimized, zero deviation.
I wasn’t trying to claim his space.
I needed to understand why he kept bracing against me.
I had lunch at a Thai place Seb mentioned, tucked between a dry cleaner and a tax prep office. The server brought pad see ew without asking about spice. It was my third visit. She remembered.
When I paid, the server asked if I'd be back.
I said yes.
My phone buzzed.
Film at 3. Don't be late.
Blunt reminder from Grady
I typed back:
See you there.
No response.
The texts read like calendar notifications, staying safely in hockey territory.
He could be inside me one night and look straight through me the next morning.
My body didn’t care. It remembered him anyway—the weight of him and the catch in his breathing when I touched him right.
I shoved my phone in my pocket and headed for the train.
***
Grady sat in the third row, aisle seat for video review.
I sat two rows back, close enough to register, far enough not to challenge.
His hands rested on his thighs. Strong hands. Scarred knuckles. I knew exactly how those hands felt gripping my hips, steadying me.
Rourke walked in. I looked away.
Professionalism. Distance. All the things Grady excelled at.
Rourke cued Toronto footage. Third period, defensive zone coverage. We watched their power play cycle low, our penalty kill adjusting. Same sequence, three angles.
"Wilder."
I straightened.
Rourke froze the frame. "Read this for me."
On screen: me in the high slot, stick down, tracking the puck carrier.
"Counterclockwise rotation," I said. "Their RD has it. I'm expecting the half-wall pass, so I'm cheating in that direction. If he shoots, Luke owns the lane."
"And if the pass doesn't come?"
"I'm late recovering to the slot."
"Right." He pressed play. Their defenseman faked the pass, fed it backdoor. I got back, barely. "You're fast enough to correct most mistakes. Playoff hockey doesn't leave that margin."
"Understood."
Hayes shifted in his seat. "Kid's fast enough to fix anything."
"Fast doesn't mean optimal," Grady said.
Not to me. To the room.
Hayes grinned. "Someone's grumpy. Volkov, you need a nap?"
"I need you to watch the screen instead of running your mouth."
"See? Grumpy."
Luke laughed. Rourke let it go. Team chemistry. It was the kind of chirping that kept rooms loose.
Twenty minutes later, we hit second-period zone entries. I'd carried it in clean, pulled two defenders, found Hayes backdoor for a one-timer that rang iron.
"Good patience," Rourke said. "You could've forced that earlier."
I nodded.
Grady spoke without shifting his gaze from the screen.
"Entry could've been cleaner. You drifted wide before cutting back."
I turned toward him.
He set his jaw. Expression neutral. Eyes fixed forward, pressing his thumb against his thigh.
"It worked," I said.
"This time."
Rourke glanced between us. Moved on.
The room felt smaller. Grady was twelve feet away, and I had to stare at the screen to stop looking at him.
I wanted to grab him by the collar and ask what the fuck we were doing. Instead, I sat still and pretended film study was the only thing happening in this room.
After film, most guys filtered out. I stayed. Grady stayed, too.
I walked down the aisle. Stopped at his row. I saw the tension in his shoulders.
"Problem with that entry?"
He looked up. Nothing shifted in his expression, but he looked at my mouth for half a second before he caught himself.
There. The crack in the armor.
"No."
"Sounded like one."
"I said it could've been cleaner. That's an observation, not a problem."
"Okay," I said.
I started to move. He spoke again.
"You're gonna hear worse in the playoffs."
I turned back. "From the other team? Or my captain?"
His jaw clenched momentarily.
"I'm trying to make you better."
"Thanks for the feedback," I murmured.
I left before he could offer any more clarification, and before I could do something stupid.
***
On Thursday afternoon, I visited the Art Institute.
No agenda. I'd noticed the Goya banner last week and had an open spot in my schedule. I walked directly to the special exhibition.
Goya: The Portraits
A painting in the second room stopped me. It was a boy, maybe eight, in a red jacket. His dark eyes focused on whoever had painted him two centuries ago. Not smiling or performing. Present.
The sign explained it was Goya's son, painted while the artist was losing his hearing.
I stood there too long, aware I was using a dead kid's portrait to process my relationship problems.
Something about it stuck. The trust in being seen. The lack of defense.
Grady and I had that once, two years ago. Before I was a trade prize. Before I became the future everyone kept talking about.
I'd looked at him then the way the kid in the painting looked at his father.
Undefended.
A woman in her sixties stopped beside me. Museum guide in one hand, reading glasses on a chain.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Do you know Goya?"
"Not really. Saw the banner and checked it out."
She smiled. "Best way to experience art. No expectations."
She moved on. I stayed with the boy in the red jacket for another minute, then kept walking.
***
Seb texted me Friday morning.
Lunch? My place. Luke's at physio.
I showed up at noon carrying sandwiches from the Italian spot near the rink: porchetta for him and mortadella for me. He answered the door in joggers and a Habs shirt so faded the logo barely registered.
"Didn't have to bring food," he said, taking the bag anyway.
"You're feeding me wisdom. Least I can do is provide pork."
His smile was brief but real. "Luke says I'm full of shit, not wisdom."
"Luke's not here. I'm taking your side."
We sat at the kitchen table. Seb unwrapped his sandwich, took a bite, and closed his eyes briefly.
"Fuck, that's good."
"Right?"
Seb finished half his sandwich, set it down, and looked at me.
"How are you doing?"
"Fine."
"You're telling the truth?"
I exhaled. "Honestly? No idea."
"Yeah. Figured."
I took another bite and chewed. It bought me time.
“Grady’s closing ranks.”
Seb nodded.
“Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would clock. He calculates every interaction. Like he lets me in just far enough to remind himself he can still shut the door.”
Seb leaned back. "What do you think is happening?"
"Media's framing me as the future. Management's watching. Fans are making compilation videos. And Grady's internalizing every word. Like every article about me is counting down to his irrelevance."
"Is it?"
"No. Fuck, Seb—" I stopped. Rubbed my face. "I'm not trying to take anything from him."
"I know."
"Then why does he think I am?"
Seb was quiet. He took another bite and chewed before speaking.
"Luke and I have been together six years. He still believes that what we have is sufficient. Privacy should be enough. Adding visibility would only create problems."
I heard the crack underneath Seb's comments. "Maybe he's right. Maybe it would. I'm exhausted being enough in private and invisible everywhere else."
"Have you told him?"
"I've tried. He doesn't hear what I mean. Hears criticism instead. Like I'm devaluing what we have."
"That's not what you're saying."
"No. Fear makes people hear the wrong thing."
The word landed.
Fear.
Grady wasn't calculating. I terrified him.
"He thinks I want his job," I whispered.
Seb tilted his head. "Do you?"
"No."
"Then why Grady?" His voice was gentle. No accusation. "You're clear it's not the captaincy or about replacement. So what is it?"
I opened my mouth and closed it.
Seb waited.
I'd known the answer for weeks. Longer, maybe. Naming it aloud would mean admitting something I'd been holding at arm's length. Something too large to wrap my arms around.
"Because I've never had an anchor."
Seb was quiet.
I kept going.
"Ever since I started playing hockey, I've been in motion. I learned momentum equals survival. If you stop moving, you disappear."
Seb said nothing.
"Then I met Grady. And he was—" I exhaled. "Steadiness. Continuity. Someone who didn't need to chase anything because he'd already built it. Wasn't trying to prove he belonged. He already did."
I stared at the table.
"Everyone assumes I came here because Chicago's a contender. Because the opportunity was too good. And yeah, that's part of it. But the real reason?" I looked up. "I came here because I wanted to stop moving. Wanted to build something that would last. And Grady—he's what that looks like."
Silence.
“An anchor,” Seb said softly.
“Yeah.”
He thought about it. “Not something that pulls you up.”
“Something that keeps me where I am.”
Seb nodded once. Then leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Does Grady know?”