Chapter 17 Grady
The calculator app on my phone didn't lie.
I sat in the training room after morning skate, thumb moving through the math one more time. Points possible. Games remaining. Every permutation that might've mattered three days ago.
None of them worked now. We were done. Mathematically eliminated.
We had six games remaining. Now, they would only be rituals of professional effort.
No one had announced it yet. Management would wait for the official confirmation tonight when Carolina beat Tampa. Then they'd release a statement. Something dignified about competing hard and building for next year.
I set my phone face down on the treatment table.
The athletic trainer glanced up from taping Carter's ankle.
"Something wrong?"
"No—well, yeah, but I'm okay."
Carter didn't look at me, but his jaw shifted slightly.
He knew.
I'd been captain for three seasons. We'd made the playoffs twice. This season, the one that was supposed to be inevitable after Roman joined us, was over.
The weight sat in my chest like I'd swallowed an anvil.
I stood. "Thanks, Andrew."
"You got nothing done."
"All good."
He gave me a look that said he didn't believe me. "Ice that shoulder tonight."
"Yeah."
I walked out before he could say anything else.
The locker room was mostly empty. Petrie sat in his stall scrolling through his phone.
Roman's stall was empty. He was probably still on the ice. Rourke had kept him back to work on something. Likely power play entries or faceoff positioning.
I changed quickly. Suit pants and a dress shirt. The routine was automatic now. My hands knew what to do even when my brain was somewhere else.
My phone buzzed. It was Roman.
Dinner?
One word. No elaboration.
He knew. He had to know.
You couldn't play professional hockey and not understand when the math stopped working.
He was offering solidarity. Shared disappointment. The quiet gravity of two people who'd bet everything on a season that was now a footnote.
Yeah. My place. 7?
I'll bring food.
***
I waited in my condo on the 23rd floor. Clean lines. Minimal furniture. Everything in its place. My place to sleep and recover. Nothing more.
I checked the fridge even though I already knew what was in it: protein shakes, eggs, and vegetables that had probably crossed the line.
When the knock came at seven, I was ready.
Roman stood in the hallway holding two bags from the Thai place four blocks over. He wore gray joggers and a hoodie.
"Food delivery for—." He pretended to look at a label on one bag. "Gregory Bolkoff?"
"Cute." I stepped back. "Come in."
He moved past me, setting the bags on the kitchen counter. "Got the usual. Pad see ew, spring rolls, and that curry thing you pretend not to like."
"I don't pretend."
"You ate half of it last time."
I didn't argue. He was right.
We piled food on plates and headed for the couch because I never used the dining table.
The food was good. Hot.
Roman didn't mention the playoff miss. He talked about practice. Rourke kept him late to work on zone entries. He told me Petrie finally got the timing right on a play they'd been drilling for two weeks.
Ordinary conversation between professional players.
I waited for the mood to shift. An acknowledgement of what we both knew, what the Chicago hockey world knew.
Somehow we'd advanced to talking about next year when Roman finished eating. He took his plate to the kitchen and rinsed it in the sink.
He returned to the couch, picked up the TV remote, and started scrolling through streaming services.
I had a bite of food halfway to my mouth. "What are you doing?"
"Finding something to watch."
"Roman."
He didn't look up. Just kept scrolling. Past sports documentaries. Past action films. He stopped on something colorful. Bright. A poster showing two people in formal wear, laughing while they raised champagne glasses.
It was a romcom. Likely a glossy, absurd thing about mistaken identities and wedding disasters on the way to people falling in love in the most improbable ways.
He clicked play.
The opening credits rolled. Upbeat music. Pastel color lettering. Everything designed to communicate that nothing serious would happen for the next ninety minutes.
I stared at him. "You're kidding."
"Nope."
He settled back into the couch cushions.
"We just missed the playoffs."
"I know. I do the numbers."
"And you want to watch—" I gestured at the screen where two strangers were meeting cute at an airport baggage claim. "—that?"
"Yeah."
My jaw tensed. The muscle under my ear twitched.
"This isn't appropriate."
Roman looked at me. His expression was calm. Unapologetic.
"Why not?"
"Because—" I stopped. "We should be—"
"What? Sitting in silence? Going over what went wrong? Buying funeral flowers and wailing?"
"It's called being professional."
"It's called wallowing."
The word landed hard. My spine straightened.
"I don't wallow."
"No. You only force yourself to take personal responsibility for everything—good or bad—particularly bad." There was no heat in his voice. It was a simple observation. "We're not doing that tonight."
"Give me the remote."
"No."
"Roman."
"Grady." He mimicked my tone. Calm. Infuriating.
I reached for the remote. He pulled it back, holding it just out of range.
"This is ridiculous," I said.
"Yes. You should stop."
On screen, the protagonists were arguing about a shared taxi. The dialogue was sharp, witty, and completely irrelevant to anything that mattered.
I tried reasoning. "It's about timing. Respect. We owe it to the team—"
"We owe the team our best effort in the six games we have left. That's it." Roman shifted his position, tucking the remote behind him. "We don't owe them hours of grieving."
"That's not—"
"What?" He leaned forward slightly. "That's not what captains do? That's not how you were taught to handle disappointment?"
"Don't."
"I'm right here, Grady. I know what you're doing. You're turning this into another weight you have to carry on your back. Another thing you failed at that you can use as a ball and chain." His tone didn't change. "I'm not participating."
My throat closed. Heat crawled up my neck.
"You don't get to decide—"
"Neither do you."
I lunged for the remote. Roman twisted away, reflexes carrying him half off the couch.
I followed, reaching over the armrest, my hand closing on empty air where the remote had been a second earlier. He laughed—short, breathless—as he tried to stand.
I caught his wrist. He pulled. I didn't let go.
"Grady—"
We collided with the couch. My shoulder hit the cushions. His weight knocked me sideways. We went down hard. Not onto the couch. Past it.
The floor came up fast. My elbow cracked against the coffee table. His knee jammed into my thigh.
The remote clattered away, skittering under a bookshelf.
I tried to shift my weight. Get leverage.
Roman was already moving, trying to roll away, but my hand was still on his wrist and his other arm came up to brace against my chest and suddenly we were a tangle of limbs going nowhere.
He laughed again. Surprised. Almost helpless.
I shoved his shoulder.
He shoved back.
We were breathing hard, neither of us gaining ground.
"You're such an asshole," I managed.
"You started it—"
My hand slipped on his hoodie. He used the momentum to twist, get one leg free, and try to leverage himself up.
I hooked my arm around his waist and hauled him back down.
We hit the floor again. Harder this time.
The breath slammed out of both of us. I ended up on top of him. My weight pinned his chest, with one of his legs trapped under mine and our faces maybe six inches apart. I froze.
His chest rose and fell against mine. Fast. Hard. I could feel his heartbeat through both our shirts, a rabbit-kick rhythm of exertion.
His eyes were bright. Face flushed. Hair falling across his forehead.
He grinned. "Got you," he said. Breathless. Triumphant.
"I'm the one—" I started.
I had him pinned. Complete tactical advantage.
He looked at me like he'd won.
A crack went through my chest like melting lake ice in April. I tried to hold it back. Tried to lock it down the way I always did. Discipline. Restraint.
It didn't work.
I laughed.
Hard. Sharp. The sound ripped out of me before I could stop it.
It wasn't polite amusement or a careful chuckle I'd perfected for press conferences.
It was real laughter. Uncontrolled. It came from somewhere beneath my ribs and refused to be civilized.
Roman's grin widened.
Then he started laughing too, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine.
We lay there on the floor of my pristine condo, tangled together, laughing like idiots while a romcom played to an empty couch. I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed so hard. Weeks. Months. Maybe years.
It eventually hurt my stomach and made my eyes water. It felt dangerous because it meant I'd lost my grip on myself.
I pressed my forehead against his shoulder, still shaking. He rested a hand on my back. Warm. Anchoring.
The laughter ebbed slowly.
When it ended, I was still lying on top of him. His body was warm beneath mine. One of my hands braced against the floor beside his head. The other pressed flat against his ribs.
My thumb started moving. Small circles against his ribcage. I hadn't done that on purpose.
Roman didn't push me away. We stayed there as our breathing slowed.
The movie still played somewhere above us, with upbeat dialogue and music meant to signal that everything would work out fine in the end.
I—felt lighter. Like I'd set down a weight I'd been carrying for so long I'd forgotten it was there.
I stopped the thumb circles and forced my hand flat. Lifting my head, I looked at Roman. "You're still an asshole," I said.
"Yeah? You gonna let me up?"
"Maybe."
I didn't move, and neither did he.
On screen, someone was chasing someone else through a farmer's market, knocking over displays of apples and flowers.
It was choreographed chaos.
Consequences were temporary. Everything would resolve itself in the third act.
Real life didn't work that way.
I finally pushed myself up and sat back on my heels. Roman stayed where he was for another beat, then rolled to a sitting position.
His hoodie was twisted sideways. He looked like he'd been in a bar fight. I probably looked the same.
He reached under the bookshelf and pulled out the remote. "Truce?"
I took it from him and set it on the coffee table. "Truce."
We returned to the couch.
The movie continued. I had no idea what the plot was.
Roman settled in as if he actually cared what happened next. I watched him more than the screen.
The tension had drained from his shoulders. He looked comfortable. Like wrestling on my living room floor and watching an absurd romantic comedy was exactly how he wanted to spend the night we got eliminated from playoff contention.
The idea didn't fit anywhere in my understanding of leadership. Of captaincy. Of what you owed a team when the season collapsed.
I'd spent my entire career believing that leadership meant sacrifice. That being the captain meant absorbing every loss and every failure so the team didn't have to.
Roman had just proven me wrong.
Not through logical argument. Through laughter and refusal to—wallow. Through showing up with Thai food and choosing joy.
I pulled my phone out. Checked for messages out of habit.
One missed call. My father. No voicemail. Just the notification.
He'd call back tomorrow. Or I'd call him. We'd have the conversation we always had after seasons ended badly.
Leadership isn't—I shut the thought down before it could finish. Didn't want his voice in my head right now.
On screen, the couple was fighting. Words they didn't mean. Hurt they couldn't take back. It was the moment before everything would change.
Roman glanced at me and moved closer. We watched the rest of the movie in silence.
When it ended, he stood and stretched. "I should head out."
"Yeah."
He gathered his things and straightened his hoodie. I walked him to the door. He paused with his hand on the handle and looked at me. "One more thing."
"What's that?"
He threw his arms around me, squeezing hard with a powerful hug.
Before I could say anything, he kissed me. Not intensely sexual, only—an effort to comfort.
He left without any additional words.
I locked the door behind him. Stood there for a moment in the quiet.
The condo felt different. Lived-in. Like something real had happened instead of just time passing.
I went to bed knowing the season wasn't over. Six games left. Professional obligation. We'd finish strong because that's what you did.
My role wasn't gone either. I was still captain. Still responsible. Still the constant the team circled around.
But Roman compromised my armor. I'd felt it crack on my living room floor.