Chapter 20 Roman
Iwoke to sunlight cutting across unfamiliar angles.
My body wanted to move—old wiring from early morning ice times and red-eye flights—but I stayed put. The warmth soaked into my shoulders and pooled in the hollow of my collarbone. My bedroom felt different without the season stacked against the walls like equipment bags.
No practice schedule. No lineup announcements from Rourke. No need to prove anything before noon.
I grabbed my phone. Empty. Quiet.
And underneath that lay possibility.
I thought about Grady.
Typed:
You busy today?
His reply came slow.
No. What's up?
I grinned.
Get dressed. I'm kidnapping you.
No explanation. I wanted to see if he'd follow on faith alone.
When?
Hour.
Okay.
Grady was waiting outside his building when I pulled up. He stood on the sidewalk with his hands shoved in his pockets, weight on one hip, looking like he didn't know where to put himself without a game-day schedule dictating his existence.
I killed the engine and got out. I walked toward him and stopped when I was a few steps away. Close enough to see the stubble he hadn't bothered shaving.
"You don't look like a guy who just lost his captaincy," I said.
He smirked slightly. "Didn't lose it. Handed it over."
"Semantics."
"Important ones."
"If you say so." I gave him the once-over. Focused on the line of his jaw and how his throat moved when he swallowed. "You look like a guy who finally got a day off."
He didn't argue.
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
He studied me, trying to read the play and anticipate the next move. Finally, he nodded and followed me to my car.
I drove west. Away from the lake. Away from all the glass and steel. Grady watched out the window but didn't ask questions. His hand rested on the console, fingers loose.
Two weeks after I arrived in Chicago, following a practice where nothing clicked and Rourke benched me for the final drills, I'd driven until I found streets that didn't care who I was.
Brick walk-ups with rusted fire escapes.
A neighborhood that asked no questions as long as you kept your voice down.
I parked near a coffee shop I'd been back to enough times that the guy behind the counter knew my order by heart.
"Here?" Grady asked.
"Here."
We got out. The air was warmer than it should've been for late April—spring lying through its teeth. People walked past in short sleeves they'd regret by sundown.
Inside, the place was half-full. Mismatched furniture. Nobody looked up.
The counter guy, twenties, with full-sleeve tattoos, glanced at me and started my order before I opened my mouth.
"You're a regular," Grady whispered.
"Regular enough."
"I didn't know this place existed."
"You wouldn't. It's not between your apartment and the rink."
He frowned.
I ordered for both of us. When the drinks came, I led us to a table by the window.
Grady wrapped both hands around his cup but didn't drink. His eyes darted as he scanned the room.
"You live in this city like it's an away game," I said.
His brow furrowed. "This is my home. I live here."
"Not really. You've been too scared to try."
"I thought—" He stopped. Recalibrated. "I thought distance was the same thing as safety."
"It's not."
"No." He looked into my eyes. "It's just lonely."
I rested my hand on the table near his wrist.
He stared at my fingers. Then he shifted his grip and let our hands touch.
Nobody in the shop looked over. They didn't give a shit.
Grady exhaled as if he'd been holding his breath since I arrived in the city. I turned my hand palm-up on the table. Let him choose.
He threaded his fingers through mine.
When we left, we walked without a destination.
Grady fell into step beside me. I caught his scent, clean soap and a new citrus cologne, the smell I'd woken up next to yesterday morning.
At an intersection, I snagged his sleeve and pulled him back from the curb. Traffic was light, but a car blew through the yellow light, anyway.
My fingers grazed the inside of his wrist. We crossed and kept walking.
"How'd you find this neighborhood?" he asked.
"Got lost after Rourke benched me back in January. Didn't feel like going home and staring at the ceiling."
"You could've called."
"Didn't think I was allowed. Not yet."
Half a block later: "You were always allowed."
We passed a small park. Clumps of daffodils poke their heads out of the ground, holding fat buds.
I led us to a bench. It had seen better decades. The wood was worn smooth in spots and splintered in others. I sat. Grady dropped down beside me, close enough for our knees to touch.
The warmth in the air felt borrowed. I knew Chicago well enough to know the weather wouldn't hold. Tomorrow could bring snow.
I turned toward Grady.
"I'm officially C now."
Grady's shoulders remained loose. His jaw didn't lock. He exhaled and nodded.
I shifted to face him fully. "You're the only thing that ever mattered."
He looked at me, searching for a catch.
There wasn't one.
I took his hand. His fingers tightened around mine.
"I thought success would feel louder than this," I admitted. "Like there'd be a moment where everything snapped into focus and I'd know I made it. But this?" I gestured at the park and the surrounding neighborhood. "This is what I was chasing. You're my anchor, Grady."
Silence.
"I chose you in that hotel bar," I said. "Chose you when I pushed for the trade. I'm choosing you now."
His hand came up to my face. Palm warm against my jaw.
"I believe you."
"Good."
He leaned in and kissed me. Right there in the public park.
I felt the scrape of stubble and the warmth of his breath. When he pulled back, I saw something new in his expression.
Peace.
We sat. Didn't talk.
A couple walked by with a dog. An older woman settled onto the bench across from us with a paperback. The city moved around us like we were residents instead of sports refugees.
Eventually I stood and offered Grady my hand.
He took it. Let me pull him up.
"Come home with me."
He studied my face.
"Not just today," I clarified. "Home."
"Roman—"
"Not asking you to move in tomorrow or call a press conference. Just asking you to stop treating us like we're temporary. Stop treating us like something you'll have to sacrifice eventually."
He was quiet. I watched him think through the logistics and the optics.
"Okay."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He squeezed my hand. "Okay."
We walked back toward the car.
At a crosswalk, I took his hand. Held it while we waited for the light.
A woman glanced over and then looked away. She kept walking.
No cameras or explosions. We were just two men holding hands on a street corner in Chicago.
When we reached the car, I stopped.
"What?" Grady asked.
"You know we're done hiding, right?"
"I know."
"I'm not dragging you in front of cameras tomorrow or asking Kavanaugh for an interview. I just need you to understand that I'm not pretending anymore. Not with the team or anyone."
"I understand."
"And you're okay with that?"
He turned and cupped my face in both hands.
"I'm okay with it."
I kissed him.
He kissed back, and heat flared between us. His hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers curling into my hair.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing harder.
"Get in, Volkov."
"You're bossy when you get your way."
"You like it when I'm bossy."
"Yeah," he admitted. "I do."
I started the engine and pulled into traffic.
Grady's hand settled on my thigh. The weight and heat of it burned through my jeans.
The drive back took fifteen minutes. I parked and killed the engine outside Grady's building.
"You coming up?"
"Yeah."
The lobby was empty. We crossed to the elevator.
Grady took my hand again while we waited. The elevator arrived, and the doors opened.
Inside, he turned toward me. I expected words, maybe logistics or suggestions for our next move.
Instead, he kissed me. Slow and certain.
He reached out to frame my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. I backed him against the wall, pressing close.
I kissed him harder. The elevator chimed.
I took his hand and led him down the hall to 2312. His hands weren't entirely steady when he unlocked the door.
Once we were inside, he had questions.
"You hungry?"
"No."
"Thirsty?"
"No."
"What do you want?"
I stepped closer, our chests nearly touching.
"You."