Chapter 2
ADAN
I laced up my skates with the same routine I’d been doing since I was eight years old: left skate first, pull the laces tight through the middle eyelets, then the right.
The locker room hummed with the familiar sounds of twenty guys getting ready for practice: the thunk of equipment hitting the floor, the scrape of skate blades on rubber mats, the endless chirping that never seemed to stop.
“Yo, Rivera!” Tank called out from his locker three down from mine. His real name was Cole Monihan, but everyone called him Tank, and that was what his jersey said as well. “You ready to meet your new babysitter?”
I shot him a look that could’ve melted the ice. “He’s not a babysitter, asshole. He’s supposed to be some kind of skills coach.”
“Same thing,” chirped Danny Martinez, our right wing. “Coaches don’t hire special help unless they think you need fixing.”
“I don’t need fixing.” The words came out sharper than I intended, but whatever. These guys knew me well enough to know when I was pissed off. “I’m leading the team in goals and assists. What exactly needs fixing?”
Tank held up his hands in mock-surrender. “Chill, dude. We’re messing with you. You know we got your back.”
I did know that. Tank had been my roommate since freshman year, and he’d seen me through everything: the homesickness, the pressure, the late-night phone calls home when my parents worried about money.
He was solid, the kind of defenseman who’d throw his body in front of a slap shot without thinking twice.
“It’s bullshit,” I muttered, yanking my jersey over my head. “I’ve been playing hockey since I could walk. Never needed a personal coach before.”
And that was the truth. I’d dominated at every level: peewee league, high school, junior hockey. I’d earned this scholarship, earned my spot as the team’s leading scorer. So why the hell did they think I needed some European guy to come in and tell me how to play?
It was insulting, that’s what it was. Like they were saying all my success up to this point didn’t matter. Like I was some raw talent who didn’t understand the game.
“Maybe it’s different at this level,” suggested Marcus Webb, our captain. “NHL scouts are watching now. Different kind of pressure.”
“I can handle pressure just fine.”
I’d been handling pressure my whole life.
The pressure of being the family’s hope, the kid who was supposed to make it out of our neighborhood and into something better.
The pressure of justifying every dollar my parents had spent on equipment, ice time, travel teams. And now the pressure of knowing that I had two more seasons to make it happen, two more to prove I was NHL material.
But that pressure had made me stronger, made me better. It hadn’t made me need a special coach.
My parents had worked themselves to the bone for my hockey when they realized I had talent.
Dad had pulled countless double shifts at the plant, and my mom cleaned houses on top of working as a waitress.
They’d never complained, never made me feel guilty about it, but I knew what it cost them every time I needed new skates, every time there was a tournament out of state.
The full ride I’d received at Millard was supposed to be proof that their investment had paid off. That their son was good enough to make it on his own. So what were Coach Brennan and Coach O’Brien trying to accomplish by bringing in outside help? All they were doing was fucking with my head.
“We know, bro.” Tank stood up, fully geared except for his helmet. “But hey, this guy might teach you some fancy European moves. You could use some style to go with all that skill.”
I flipped him off, which only made him grin wider. Tank was like that—impossible to stay mad at, even when he was being an idiot.
My phone buzzed with a text from my mom.
Mom
?Cómo va todo, mijo? Your father says to remember to eat enough.
Me
Everything’s good, Ma. Tell Dad I’m eating fine.
She’d be making dinner right now. God, I missed her cooking, especially her empanadas. They were my favorite thing on the whole planet, though I loved all of her dishes. Most were family recipes from my abuela. She could cook—and all from scratch.
The guilt hit me like it always did—not because I wasn’t good enough, but because every day I spent in college was another day they had to wait to see their sacrifices pay off.
But I’d get there. I knew I would. And I sure as fuck didn’t need some fancy coach to make it happen.
“You good?” Tank asked, noticing my expression.
“Yeah, just my mom checking in.”
“Tell her I said hi. And that I’m keeping you out of trouble.”
“You’re the one who got us kicked out of that bar last month.”
“Details.” Tank grabbed his helmet and stick. “Come on, Rivera. Time to meet your new boyfriend.”
I shoved him hard enough to make him stumble. “Shut up, man.”
The corridors were cooler than the locker room, and I could already hear the familiar sounds of the rink: the hum of the ice-making equipment, the echo of voices from the arena.
This place was my sanctuary, had been since my first day on campus.
Everything else about college was complicated, but hockey made sense. It was my home.
We pushed through the double doors into the arena, and I immediately scanned the stands. Coach Brennan was there, talking to some guy I didn’t recognize. Blond, wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt that seemed out of place here. Way too formal. Had to be the new coach.
“That him?” Tank asked, following my gaze.
“Yeah, probably.” I studied the guy more closely. He was tall, probably an inch or two taller than my five-ten, but he didn’t look like he’d ever played hockey in his life. He was way too pretty and refined for that with that clean-cut, preppy style… and he was supposed to teach me? Yeah, right.
“He looks fancy,” Tank observed.
“No shit.” I grabbed my helmet and headed toward the ice. “Let’s go.”
The ice felt perfect under my skates, that familiar sensation of controlled power that never got old. A few of the guys were already warming up, taking lazy shots at the empty net. I joined them, letting my body fall into the rhythm of skating, stick handling, shooting.
This was what I was good at. This was what I’d been born to do.
“Rivera!” Coach Brennan’s voice boomed across the rink. “Come over here. Want you to meet your new coach.”
I glided over to the boards where Coach stood with the blond guy. Damn, he was young. He barely looked older than me, maybe just a few years? How the hell could he teach me anything?
“Adan Rivera, meet Nils Anders. Coach Anders is from Sweden originally, and he’s going to be working with you on individual skills development.”
Coach Anders extended his hand with a polite smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Adan. I’ve watched your game footage. You’re talented.”
His accent was subtle but definitely there, and his handshake was firm. I looked him up and down, not bothering to hide my skepticism. “So you’re the guy who’s supposed to fix me?”
“I’m not here to fix anything.” Coach Anders smiled at me. “Fixing implies something is broken. My goal is to fine-tune, help refine your skills and maximize your potential. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” I crossed my arms, aware that some of my teammates were watching from across the ice. At least I was eye to eye with him with my skates on. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like the coaches think I need help.”
“The coaches think you have NHL potential,” Coach Anders replied, his tone staying calm despite my attitude. “They want to ensure you live up to it.”
“And you think you can do that?”
“I think we can work together to identify areas for improvement, yes.”
Areas for improvement. Like I was some kind of project instead of the leading scorer on the team. “What makes you qualified to coach me? You ever play professionally?”
Something flickered in Coach Anders’ eyes, too quick for me to read. “I played center at college level. Rideau University in Ottawa.”
“You played for the Rideau Ravens?” That got my attention. Rideau was a powerhouse program that had sent multiple players to the NHL.
“I was the starting center for two seasons.”
Okay, that was actually impressive, but I wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easy. “And now you’re coaching college players in America instead of playing professionally. Why?”
“Adan.” Coach Brennan’s voice carried a warning.
But Coach Anders held up a hand. “It’s a fair question.
” He looked at me directly, those blue-green eyes steady.
“Halfway through my last season, I tore my ACL in my right knee. That ended my college career prematurely, unfortunately, but making it to the NHL was never my goal. I found that I enjoyed the strategic aspects of hockey as much as the playing, and that’s why I majored in sports coaching.
Coaching allows me to help players reach their potential while still being involved in the game I love. ”
It was a diplomatic answer, but there was something in his tone that made me think there was more to the story. Still, I wasn’t ready to back down. “So what’s your big plan for me? Some fancy European system?”
“Why don’t you show me what you can do first?” Coach Anders suggested. “Then we can discuss where to go from there.”
I glanced around the rink. Most of the team was here now, and they were all watching this little standoff. Tank gave me a subtle nod. He had my back, whatever happened.
“Fine.” I pushed off from the boards. “But when I’m done, you show me what you’ve got. Fair?”
Coach Anders’ eyebrows rose slightly. “You want me to demonstrate?”
“Hell yeah. If you’re gonna coach me, I want to see you can actually play.”
Coach Brennan looked like he wanted to intervene, but Coach Anders nodded. “That seems reasonable.”