Chapter 16 Roman #2
"You love Celine," Seb shot back. "You cried during Titanic."
"I was twelve."
"You were seventeen."
"Alleged."
I showered fast and dressed faster. Knotted my tie correctly on the second try—a personal victory.
The mixed zone waited.
The hallway between the locker room and the parking garage was narrow and fluorescent-bright. It made everyone look either hungover or recently deceased.
Media clustered behind rope barriers with recorders extended like they were trying to catch confessions instead of soundbites.
Players passed in twos and threes. Some stopped. Some nodded and kept moving.
A reporter in his mid-thirties called my name. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, with credentials hanging from a lanyard that advertised too many corporate sponsors.
"Roman! Got a second?"
I slowed but didn't stop completely. It was an old trick I'd learned from veterans. It made you look accessible without committing to a full interview.
The reporter stepped forward, recorder already switched on. "Great game tonight. You and Volkov are clicking on another level. Some analysts say your chemistry could translate beyond the ice, specifically around leadership structure. What do you think about your developing role with this team?"
This was it.
I had choices.
I could deny everything. Laugh it off as a media invention and redirect to chatter about the team's success.
That would be dishonest.
Agreeing was option two. I could lean into the narrative and say something quotable about opportunity and the future.
That would gut Grady.
There was a third option. I could evade. Smile and deflect until the reporter gave up and found someone else to quote.
That could have consequences later.
I stopped walking.
"My role's the same as anyone's," I said. "Show up. Work. Make the guys around me better. Everything else lives above my pay grade."
He adjusted his grip on the recorder. "But you're clearly being positioned as a future—"
"I'm not positioning myself as anything." Voice level. Calm. "I play hockey. That's the job description."
"Simon Kavanaugh's column this morning made the case that—"
"I read it."
Silence. I didn't take the bait.
He tried again. "Do you feel ready for a leadership role if management asks?"
He was laying a trap. Any answer became a headline.
Wilder: I'm Ready to Lead
Wilder Dodges Captaincy Questions
Wilder Refuses Comment on Succession Plans
I spoke carefully. "Good teams are precisely that: more than one person. We've got strong leadership. Present tense. That's not changing."
Not an endorsement or denial. Unvarnished truth.
The recorder stayed up another three seconds. Then he lowered it.
"Thanks, Roman. Appreciate the time."
"Yeah."
Kept walking.
Behind me: "You get that?"
"Got it."
The hallway opened into the parking garage. My teammates were already loading the bus.
I exhaled. Long and controlled.
Tomorrow someone would write about my non-answer. Analysts would dissect the phrasing like Talmudic scholars. Message boards would construct conspiracy theories from semicolons.
None of it mattered. I told the truth.
I didn't lie to protect myself or Grady, but I did refuse to take part in the story they were writing without us.
I walked to the bus with my bag slung over one shoulder. Grady materialized from between two parked SUVs.
We fell into step. Neither of us spoke.
Heat still radiated off him, the specific warmth that came from a body that had just played professional hockey for sixty minutes and was still cooling down. I caught the smell of him underneath the parking garage exhaust. Sweat and his iris and wood cologne.
I wanted to close the distance between us. I wanted to wrap an arm around his body to prove he was still here and mine in the only way that mattered.
Anyone glancing over would see two teammates heading toward the bus after a win. Normal. Unremarkable.
Grady stopped. I stopped beside him. He looked at me, direct and unflinching, how he looked at everything.
I held his gaze.
After a beat, he nodded. Once. Small enough that you'd miss it if you weren't looking. Then he climbed onto the bus.
I waited two seconds before I followed.
The doors hissed shut, and the bus lurched forward, tires crunching over road salt and whatever grit accumulates in parking garages that never see daylight.
***
My hotel room looked like every other road accommodation I'd inhabited: beige walls and blackout curtains.
I dropped my bag just inside the door. Kicked off my dress shoes. Let them land wherever gravity decided.
Peeling off my suit, I dropped my jacket on the chair and tie over the doorknob. Changed into sweats and a t-shirt.
My phone buzzed.
Grady.
Get some sleep.
Three words. It was really him checking whether I was still breathing.
I stared at his name on my screen and the contact photo. Grady on the ice at practice, caught mid-laugh, hearing something Carter Hayes had said, looking more relaxed than he ever let himself look in public.
Typed back:
You too.
The words I hadn't sent sat uncomfortably in my chest. Missing you. Want to hear your voice. Want to know if you're okay or just pretending.
I lay back flat on the bed. Thought about the day management would offer me the captaincy.
When the choice came, I wouldn't lie.
Wouldn't pretend I didn't want what they were offering to make Grady feel safer. I wouldn't hide what mattered to spare anyone's feelings.
I also refused to let the story paint me as cruel.
I'd loved Grady since All-Star Weekend two years ago. Loved him through the trade. Through every time he carefully put distance between us. Through every moment he chose discipline over honesty because discipline was the only language he trusted.
Still loved him now.
It wouldn't change.
But loving someone didn't mean erasing yourself to make them comfortable. It couldn't mean making yourself smaller so their fear had more room to breathe.
I had to stand exactly where I was, honestly, trusting that the people who mattered would stand beside me. If they didn't, I'd survive that, too.
I couldn't stop myself from hoping for more. Grady's hand in mine. His breath against my neck in the dark.
That sound. That specific rasp in his voice when he let control give way to want.
I let sleep take me under, tasting the memory of his mouth.
And dreamed of home.