Chapter 16 Roman
Hayes was explaining why his seven-year-old daughter thought volcanoes should be mandatory at all birthday parties when I stepped off the elevator into controlled chaos, stomach growling for protein.
"—so now Lily's convinced that science fairs are basically just explosions with permission slips, and my wife's giving me the look that means I'm sleeping on the couch until—"
"Until you learn to measure baking soda?" Seb suggested.
"Apparently cups and tablespoons are different units of measurement. Who knew?"
"Everyone," I said. "Literally everyone knew that."
Hayes shot me a look. "You're a hockey player. When's the last time you measured anything that wasn't ice time?"
Fair point.
By the time breakfast service wound down, fans still clustered near the revolving doors. Security leaned against the wall by the coffee station, scanning the room.
A woman in Breakers gear glanced up from her latte. She watched us walk across the marble floor, but she didn't move. She'd likely already taken her fill of photos.
One of our equipment kids jogged over before we reached the doors.
"Wilder. Film room. Yesterday." He held out my charging cable like evidence at trial.
"Shit. Thanks."
"Try Velcro next time. Or a lanyard. Old people love lanyards."
"I'm twenty-six."
"Exactly." He grinned and disappeared back toward the service hallways.
Petrie burst into the lobby, face flushed. The kid radiated energy like a space heater on overdrive.
"Coach said morning skate's optional but recommended, which—okay, hear me out—that's code for mandatory, right? Like when your calendar reminder just says ‘don’t forget’ and nothing else—"
"It means optional," Hayes said.
"But recommended means—"
"Petrie." My voice was calm. "You're going. I'm going. Everyone's going. Breathe."
The kid sucked in air like he'd been reminded he could breathe. "Right. Yeah. Okay."
Tuesday's highlight-reel goal still had him vibrating. Rookie scores on a breakaway, makes SportsCenter, suddenly believes he's figured out the secret to permanent success.
I'd lived in that headspace my first two years—the desperate certainty that if you just kept moving fast enough, nobody would notice you were making it up as you went.
The truth? Calm felt better than chaos.
We pushed through the doors into the cold and damp late March weather that sliced straight through my jacket. The team bus idled at the curb, exhaust ghosting white against the gray morning air. Fans called out from behind the barricade.
We filled the bus with a typical arrangement. Veterans claimed spots near the front. Younger guys deferred. Seb slid in beside Luke two rows ahead of me.
I checked my phone as we pulled away from the curb.
Twelve texts. Four missed calls. Instagram notifications breeding like rabbits.
Simon Kavanaugh's column sat at the top of my screen:
Leadership in Transition: What the Breakers' Future Looks Like
Outside the window, Boston scrolled past—storefronts, intersections, people walking with aggressive purpose.
Simon's opening played it careful:
Grady Volkov has been everything the Chicago Breakers needed him to be.
Steady under pressure. Reliable in crisis.
The kind of leader who doesn't demand attention but commands it through presence alone.
He's built the team into contenders. As captain for the past three seasons, he's been the standard bearer.
I ground my teeth.
But leadership isn't static. The league doesn't wait for comfort. And the most effective organizations understand that evolution isn't betrayal—it's stewardship.
The language was surgical. No cheap shots, but that only made it harder to read.
Roman Wilder's adjustment period is over. He's no longer rising. He's here. What's becoming crystal clear is his readiness for a different kind of responsibility.
He continued on, building his case with possession metrics and usage stats. He was a prosecutor who didn't need to raise his voice because the evidence testified for itself.
His conclusion landed like a verdict:
The question isn't whether Wilder is ready. It's whether the organization is prepared to acknowledge what's already visible to everyone watching.
For half a second, my breath hitched. Not panic—a sharp, involuntary stall, like my body had read something my brain was still pretending it hadn’t. My jaw tightened hard enough that my teeth clicked.
Then I exhaled. Slow. Deliberate.
My control slid back into place.
Two rows up, Hayes said something that made Seb laugh. It was a warm sound, comfortable and familiar.
My phone buzzed again.
Ignored it.
The truth had already arrived, clean and cold.
Simon framed it. Management would read it and nod. Fans would argue about it on message boards. Analysts would cite it during pregame coverage like scripture.
The story had momentum now. Self-sustaining.
I could pretend love fixed things.
Reality would still show up with the receipts.
Petrie leaned across the aisle. "You catch Kavanaugh's piece?"
"Yeah."
"Total bullshit, right? Grady's been rock-solid all season—"
"It's not bullshit." My tone was flat. "It's premature."
Petrie blinked. "Premature?"
"The timing might be off. It doesn't mean it's wrong."
His mouth opened. Closed. He retreated to his seat.
The bus slowed for a red light. A woman in a Breakers jersey crossed in front of us, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, absorbed in the life showing on her screen.
The light changed.
We kept moving.
The visiting locker room smelled like every other road facility—industrial cleaner losing a war against decades of sweat and old tape. Narrow benches. Fluorescent lights that hummed at a frequency designed to give you a headache.
Hayes was still talking about birthday party logistics. Seb kept offering suggestions that made the situation progressively worse.
"What about a petting zoo?"
"Lily's allergic to all mammals."
"Reptiles?"
"My wife vetoed snakes after the incident."
"There was an incident?"
"We don't talk about the incident."
I laced my skates while pretending not to eavesdrop. Someone made a crack about bouncy house insurance. Another voice suggested liability waivers for seven-year-olds.
Grabbing my stick, I joined the line heading toward the tunnel. Concrete walls painted in the home team's colors—red and gold, designed to intimidate visitors into forgetting they knew how to skate.
We stepped onto the ice. The arena was empty except for scattered media up in the press box and a handful of staff. The boards advertised businesses I'd never heard of—Tony's Auto Body, Prestige Dental, and a law firm with a phone number that rhymed.
Road ice forced you to adapt or die. Different dimensions. Boards that played faster or deader than home. The puck might slide or stick depending on which corner of the rink hated you most.
Rourke's whistle cracked like a gunshot. "Neutral zone transition! Breakout patterns, let's go!"
Veterans lined up on one side. Younger guys on the other.
The drill started cleanly. I took my wing position, read the D-man's shoulder, and accelerated into space.
Then Petrie jumped the gun.
Broke toward the boards a full second early and murdered the passing lane Hayes needed. The puck died against the wall.
Rourke's whistle shrieked.
"Reset!"
I circled past Petrie and tapped his shin pad. "Stop thinking. Watch Hayes's hips."
He nodded.
The whistle blew again.
This time I dropped deeper, giving Petrie room to make the read instead of cramming into his space like an anxious parent. Hayes carried the puck up. I delayed my route by half a beat. Spacing opened as if someone had drawn it on a whiteboard.
The pass came clean.
I gathered it at speed and carried it through the neutral zone.
Twenty minutes later we ran three-on-two rushes.
I carried down the right wing with Seb trailing and Hayes driving middle. The defenseman committed early, lunging to cut off my angle like he'd watched too much tape and decided I was predictable.
Six months ago I would've tried to split them. Would've gone for the highlight that proved I was more than scouting reports and metrics.
Instead, I pulled the puck to my forehand and fed Hayes.
He buried it before the second D-man remembered he had a job.
The puck snapped into the mesh with that sound that never got old.
Hayes tapped my shin pad in passing. "Clean."
Seb circled back. "Smart read."
I skated toward the bench. Sweat cooled against my skin. My breathing was steady. Heart rate had already dropped back toward baseline.
Rourke blew his whistle. "That's time! Stretch out, hydrate, stop looking so pleased with yourselves."
Grady stood near the gate. One hand resting on the dasher. Watching me with an expression I couldn't decode.
His jaw locked tight enough to crack teeth. I held his gaze for three seconds. Didn't smile or offer reassurance. I just let him see I was still here.
I sat on the bench and stripped my gloves off. Petrie collapsed beside me, breathing like he'd run a marathon. "That was better, right? Second time through?"
"Yeah. You got the timing."
"Cool. Good." He mopped his face with a towel. "Coach notice?"
"He notices everything."
The truth was simple.
I’d seen Grady's look before. It never came without a cost.
And I understood reassurance right now would sound like strategy.
Like managing him instead of loving him.
So I offered nothing. Just sat there and drank water.
***
We won the game that night 4-2.
I picked up an assist on Hayes's second-period snipe and drew a penalty in the third that led to Grady quarterbacking a power-play goal. Solid performance. Professional.
The locker room vibrated with road-win energy—music loud enough to violate noise ordinances, and guys chirping each other about missed passes and questionable facial hair.
Someone had smuggled in a Bluetooth speaker.
"If I have to hear 'My Heart Will Go On' one more time," Luke said to nobody in particular, "I'm filing a grievance."