Chapter 14 Roman #2
"I don't know. He's so convinced that I'll leave eventually, he can't see that I'm trying to stay."
Seb stayed quiet a long moment.
"When people get scared, they write the ending for themselves. Luke does it. Grady’s doing it too. Once they decide how it ends, they act like it already has."
"What do I do?"
"You can't fix his fear. Only he can. What you can do is decide whether you're willing to wait for him to figure it out. And whether waiting means shrinking yourself to make him feel safer."
I already knew. I'd known since every moment Grady withdrew, and I felt the instinct to apologize for existing.
"I'm not shrinking."
"Good."
"But I'm not leaving either."
Seb's smile was small and a little bit sad. "Then you're braver than most of us." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Or stupider. Luke hasn't decided which."
I almost laughed. "What do you think?"
"I think love makes fools of us all." He picked up his sandwich. "At least you're an honest fool."
I left Seb's building and nearly walked straight into Grady on the sidewalk.
He stopped short. So did I.
"Roman."
Just my name.
"Grady."
We stood there like idiots. People walked around us on the sidewalk. A bike courier shouted at us to watch out.
"What are you—" Grady started.
"Had lunch with Seb. You?"
"Physio appointment. Around the corner."
"How's the hip?"
"Fine."
He was stretching the truth. I'd watched him ice it after practice.
He gave me the once-over, fast, professional, and then lingered on my mouth.
"We should—" He gestured vaguely at the sidewalk.
"Yeah."
Neither of us moved.
A woman with a stroller tried to get around us. We both moved at the same time, ending up closer instead of farther apart.
"Roman—"
My phone buzzed. So did his.
We both checked. It was the same group text from Rourke.
Practice moved to 5pm tomorrow. Ice scheduled for maintenance work.
When I looked up, Grady had taken a step back. Professional distance restored.
"See you tomorrow," he said.
He walked past me. Shoulder almost brushing mine.
I stood there on the sidewalk, watching him go.
When I got to my car, I drove to the lake instead of home. Parked near Montrose Harbor and walked out to where the breakwater met open water.
The wind was brutal. Winter didn't want to loosen its grip yet.
The water churned gray and restless. Gulls fought overhead, wings angled sharp, going nowhere fast.
Because I've never had an anchor.
I told Seb that Grady was my anchor. Unfortunately, they only worked when they held position. Grady kept drifting.
Simon Kavanaugh had published another piece this week. It was measured and analytical.
The Breakers are built for transition. Volkov has been the steady hand for years, but the league rewards speed now. Wilder represents that evolution—not as replacement, but as continuation.
Continuation.
Kavanaugh wasn't wrong. The league had gotten faster. Systems prioritized transition speed. Younger players logged heavier minutes earlier.
I fit that profile.
I hadn't positioned myself as Grady's successor. Hadn't asked to be framed as the future. I'd just played hockey the way I knew how: fast, instinctive, and committed.
The problem: success had volume. And that volume was rising.
Every strong game was supporting evidence.
I couldn't stop it.
Wasn't sure I wanted to.
Late spring snow began to fall.
There was a version of this story where I pulled back. Played smaller. Deferred in public and smoothed my threatening edges, waiting for Grady to feel secure enough to let me back in.
Seb and Luke had done that. Called themselves best friends because it was easier. Let the narrative protect them until it became a cage.
I could do the same.
Make myself smaller so Grady could feel adequate. Build my own cage.
The thought turned my stomach.
It wasn't love. It was a negotiation.
I didn't come to Chicago to negotiate my existence.
The boy in the red jacket surfaced in my thoughts again. The Goya portrait.
Present. Undefended. Himself.
That kid didn't know he'd outlast his father. Didn't know his face would hang in museums. He stood there, looking out, trusting that being seen was enough.
I wanted to trust that way.
Grady spent his career building walls that resembled professionalism. Control that looked like leadership. Distance that passed for strength.
Then I'd walked in and asked him to dismantle all of it.
No wonder he was terrified.
I turned back toward the parking lot. By the time I reached my car, I'd decided.
I wouldn't shrink. Wouldn't play worse to make Grady comfortable.
I wouldn't hide my competence or soften my ambition.
I'd keep showing up. Keep playing my game and being exactly who I was.
Visible. Capable. Open.
If Grady saw that as a threat, that was his choice. If the league framed me as inevitable, I couldn't stop them.
If management initiated conversations I never requested, I'd handle them as they arrived.
The only way this worked—the only way we worked—was if Grady could see me as I actually was.
Not as a prop in a replacement narrative.
I was the man who came to Chicago because he'd finally found something worth staying for. If Grady couldn't see that, I'd have my answer.
I sat in my car, engine running, heat blasting. Snow accumulated on the windshield.
My phone buzzed.
Supposed to get 4-6 inches tonight. Roads will be shit in the morning. Leave early for practice.
A captain's reminder. Practical. Distant.
Thirty seconds later, a private message. From Grady:
You good?
Two words. They read like a crack in his armor. A tiny offering.
I could excavate it for meaning and agonize over a proper response. Or I could be honest.
I typed back:
No, but I will be.