Chapter 18 Roman
The Formica table's edge was cold against my forearms.
I sat across from Seb at Lou's, a diner three blocks off Michigan Avenue that served breakfast until three and didn't care if you nursed coffee for an hour. The place was half-full: office workers on lunch break, and a couple of older men reading newspapers at the counter.
Last night, Carolina had beaten Tampa in regulation. The math became official while Grady and I sat on his couch watching a romcom.
Eliminated.
I'd left his place around eleven. I hit fewer red lights than usual.
This was my first season in Chicago. Now, it was over.
I woke up this morning to seventeen texts. Teammates cycling through variations of tough year, next season, proud of you guys.
I'd answered three. Deleted the rest.
Rourke gave us the day off. He sensed we all needed to process.
Seb texted around ten:
Lunch? Luke's sister is in town, and she needed a private audience.
I'd said yes.
Now, Lou's hummed around us, the hiss of the griddle and silverware scraping plates.
I ordered an Italian beef. I’d learned quickly that there were rules here.
Seb worked through an omelet like he had a system. Methodical. No wasted motion.
"You sleep?" he asked.
"Enough."
"Grady?"
I glanced up. His expression gave nothing away. No judgment or agenda.
"I was there when the news came through," I said. "Left after."
He nodded. Cut another precise triangle of egg.
"He tackled me."
Seb's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "What?"
"Grady. He tackled me." I leaned forward, elbows on the table. "We were fighting over the remote. He wanted to wallow. I wanted something with a guaranteed happy ending and no consequences."
"And he tackled you?"
"Yeah. We—" I gestured, showing the trajectory. My hand swept too wide and knocked the napkin dispenser. It tipped. Seb caught it before it hit the table. "We both went down. Hard. Nearly took out the coffee table on the way."
Seb's mouth twitched.
"He had me pinned," I continued, demonstrating the angle with my hands. "Full tactical advantage. I'm flat on my back, he's on top of me, and I look up at him and say—" I grinned at the memory. "I say, 'Got you.'"
"He had you pinned."
"Completely."
"And you said you won."
"Yeah. I think I confused Grady for a minute."
Seb set his fork down. His shoulders started shaking.
Then he laughed, genuine, unguarded laughter that turned heads at the next table. He pressed his knuckles against his mouth, trying to contain it.
I started laughing too.
We sat there losing it while a server refilled our coffee mugs and pretended not to notice.
The season was gone. And here we were, laughing about a wrestling match over a remote control.
Seb wiped his eyes. "Grady Volkov. Wrestling you in his picture-perfect condo."
"He started laughing, too. Can you see it?"
"You're a menace."
"I've heard that before."
Seb picked up his coffee. Drank. Set the mug down with care.
"He's in it now," Seb said. "Whether or not he wants to be."
I didn’t argue.
Grady, on the floor, pinning me down and laughing.
Not the captain.
Him, looking down at me like he’d forgotten the rules for a second.
"I don't want him cornered," I said.
Seb looked at me. "I know."
"The season ending—" I stopped. Reframed my comment. "That's just what happened. It's not on him. Not on me. It just... is."
"Yeah."
I stared at the coffee rings on the table. Someone had wiped it down, but not well enough. Faint brown circles overlapped, old and new.
The playoff push was gone. Grady had no excuse to keep the walls up.
I exhaled.
Seb didn't push. He finished his omelet and signaled for more coffee. We talked about other things, whether Petrie would shave the playoff beard that died with our season, and what Rourke might change for next year.
When we left, the sun had burned through the clouds. The air was sharp but no longer mean. Winter was losing its grip.
Seb walked toward the parking lot. I headed in the opposite direction.
"Roman."
I turned.
He stood with hands shoved in his jacket pockets.
"Whatever happens next," he said, "you're not doing it alone."
I nodded. "Thanks."
He walked away.
I pulled out my phone. I needed my anchor.
I'm coming over.
Grady's reply came fast.
Good. I was about to text you.
It was a short drive. I found street parking a block away. The doorman looked up when I entered. Nodded without reaching for the phone.
"Mr. Volkov's expecting you."
"Thanks."
The elevator climbed. I watched the numbers tick upward. Fifteen. Eighteen. Twenty-three.
The doors opened onto carpet and recessed lighting. I walked to 2312. Knocked twice.
Footsteps. The lock turned.
Grady opened the door in jeans and a gray t-shirt. No shoes.
He stepped forward and pulled me in.
The hug was tight. Immediate. Like he’d been holding still until I got there.
We pulled back and looked at each other.
"Come in," he said.
I stepped past him. The condo looked the same. Clean. Spare. Still, something felt different. Lighter. The windows let in afternoon sunlight that turned the hardwood floors golden.
Grady closed the door and locked it.
He looked exhausted. Not the post-game kind, deeper. Bone-tiredness that sleep wouldn't quickly fix.
All season, Grady had been moving toward the postseason. The next game. The next win. Now there was nothing ahead except six games that meant nothing.
"I had to come," I said. "I needed you."
"I needed you too."
Grady Volkov didn't say things like that. He showed up. He performed. He expected you to translate it without help.
He'd just translated it himself.
Then he leaned in and kissed me.
Unhurried. Deliberate. No urgency.
I kissed him back.
He took my hand and turned down the hall.
We took our time.
Grady led me to the bedroom, fingers laced with mine. He stopped beside the bed and turned to face me.
I reached for his shirt. Lifted it slowly. He raised his arms, and I pulled it over his head.
His movements mirrored mine. Stripped my shirt off and tossed it on the floor.
I ran my hands over his chest—solid muscle, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He reached for my hips, thumbs firm at my sides.
We stood like that. Breathing. Present. I leaned in and kissed him deeper.
My tongue swept against his, and he made a sound low in his throat. His grip tightened.
His cock hardened against me. Mine responded, insistent.
We stripped each other with purpose until we were both naked.
Grady sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me down with him. I climbed onto his lap, straddling him, knees bracketing his thighs.
"I want you," he said. "Inside me."
My breath caught. I nodded.
"Yeah."
I cupped his face with both hands. Kissed him soft and slow. Let him feel I wasn't going anywhere.
"Lie back," I said.
He settled against the pillows. Legs spread.
I opened the nightstand drawer. Lube and condoms exactly where they'd been before.
Grady watched as I knelt between his thighs.
I poured lube onto my fingers. Warmed it. Reached between his legs.
The first finger pushed inside. His body resisted, then yielded.
Grady's breathing deepened. He dug his fingers into the sheets.
"More," he said.
I added a second finger. Worked him open, watching his face.
I crooked my fingers and found the spot that made his back arch.
"Fuck," he breathed.
I stroked his cock with my other hand. His hips jerked.
"Like that—"
I added a third finger. Stretched him wider. His body opened the way it had before.
Grady's cock was hard in my hand, leaking. I pulled my fingers free and reached for the condom.
My hands were slick. The wrapper slipped through my grip. Once. Twice.
I paused, aware of how ridiculous it must look.
"Are you—" Grady propped himself on his elbows, watching me wrestle the foil packet. "Do you need help?"
"I've got it."
The condom shot out of my hands and landed on his chest.
We both froze.
Then Grady started laughing.
Genuine laughter. It shook his shoulders and made his abs flex.
I stared at him. The condom had landed on his chest, absurdly centered.
Then I was laughing too.
"Very smooth," I managed.
"Elite coordination." He picked up the condom and held it out. "Try again."
I took it from him. Looked at the wrapper. Looked at him—flushed and laughing and more open than I'd ever seen him.
"Fuck it," I said.
I tossed the condom aside.
Grady's laughter faded. "What are you—"
"Come here." I grabbed his hips and pulled him toward me until we were chest to chest. "I want my hands on you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
I wrapped my hand around his cock. He bit his lip.
Grady reached between us and gripped mine. His palm was furnace-hot, calluses from stick tape catching slightly on my skin.
"Lube," I whispered.
With his fingers slick, he tried again.
"Fuck," I breathed.
"That good?"
"You know it is."
I stroked him from base to tip, twisting my wrist the way I'd learned he liked. His breathing was shallow and rough. A small muscle twitched in his jaw.
"Roman—"
"Not yet."
I slowed down. Let my grip loosen just enough to make him chase the edge.
"Bastard," he said.
I grinned. "Patience."
"Fuck patience."
His hand tightened on my cock and stroked faster. Deliberate. My hips jerked forward, and a sound tore out of me I hadn't meant to make.
"Fuck—Grady—wait—"
He slowed. Grinned at me. "How's that patience working out?"
"Shut up."
We kept going. Building it. Letting it crest and then pulling back. His hand was on me. Mine on him. Both of us slick and hard and so fucking close.
Grady's free hand gripped my shoulder. His thumb dug into muscle. "I need—"
"What do you need?"
"More. Faster. I can't—"
I stroked him harder. Faster. No teasing now. Pressure. Friction.
"Look at me," I said.
His eyes opened. Pupils dilated, irises nearly black.
"Right here. Don't look away."
His mouth opened. No sound came out. Only halting breath, sharp and desperate.
I tightened my grip.
"Roman—fuck—I'm gonna—"
"Shoot it."
He came with a broken sound, spilling hot cum across my hand and his stomach. His entire body tensed and then released.
The sight of him—wrecked, open, and mine—pushed me over the edge. I came hard, my hand still on his cock, cum striping his chest and abs. White against the muscle. The orgasm rolled through me in waves, sharper than I expected, lasting longer.
Grady pulled me down and kissed me. Messy and grateful.
We lay there tangled together. Sticky and satisfied.
Eventually, I reached for my t-shirt. Used it to clean us both up. The fabric came away damp and smelling like sex.
Grady watched me with heavy-lidded eyes.
"That was—"
"Yeah. It was."
I settled against his side, fingers splayed across his chest. His pulse thumped steadily under my palm.
"Stay tonight," he said.
Not a question.
"I was planning on it."
The afternoon light was fading. Neither of us moved to turn on a lamp. Grady's fingers started tracing patterns along my spine—slow circles, figure eights, lines that connected nothing.
His breathing slowed. Drifting toward sleep.
I lay there listening to the city beyond the window. Traffic. A siren somewhere distant. The building settled around us.
I stayed.