Chapter 2 #2
I grabbed a puck and started skating, letting my instincts take over.
I’d been showing off my skills since I was twelve years old, and I knew exactly what impressed people.
Speed, power, precision. I deked around invisible d-men, fired shots at the empty net, showed off the stick handling that had been getting me noticed since junior hockey.
When I finished, I was breathing hard but satisfied. Let the fancy European match that.
“Very impressive,” Coach Anders said, and he sounded like he meant it. “Your acceleration is excellent, and your shot has real power behind it.”
“Thanks.” I waited for the ‘but.’ Coaches always had a ‘but.’
“No ‘but’,” Coach Anders said, surprising me. “That was genuinely impressive. But I’m curious. How do you think you’d do in a one-on-one situation against someone with more experience?”
The challenge was subtle but unmistakable. Heat flashed through my chest. “Bring it on.”
Five minutes later, Coach Anders was suited up in spare gear, looking completely comfortable on the ice.
He moved with the fluid grace of someone who’d spent years playing at a high level, not the awkward movements of a coach who’d never been that good as a player.
Okay, so he had some skills. Didn’t mean he had something to teach me.
“Alright,” he said, skating to center ice. “You attack, I defend. Let’s see what you can do. But Adan?”
“What?”
“I charge extra for skating lessons.”
That son of a…
I grabbed a puck and took off, confidence surging through me. This would be easy. I had speed, size, and the element of surprise. Some European coach who probably hadn’t played competitive hockey in years? Puh-lease.
I came at him full speed, planning to use my acceleration to blow past him. Instead, he read my approach perfectly, angled me off, and stripped the puck so smoothly, I barely realized what had happened until it was sliding away from my stick.
“Huh,” I said, skating back to retrieve it. “Lucky.”
“Try again.”
This time, I came in more carefully, using my body to protect the puck.
Coach Anders stayed patient, matching my movements, forcing me to make the first move.
When I tried to cut inside, he was already there.
When I went outside, he had the angle covered.
After thirty seconds of battling, he poke-checked the puck away again.
I cursed. “What the fuck?”
“One more?” Coach Anders asked, suppressing a smile. He had every right too, dammit.
The third attempt, I tried everything: speed, power, deception.
I faked left, went right, used my shoulder to try to create space.
Coach Anders absorbed the contact, stayed with me step for step, and when I overcommitted trying to get around him, he stepped up and cleanly separated me from the puck.
Then, before I could react, he was heading the other way with possession. I turned to chase him, but he was already at the other end, calmly placing a wrist shot in the upper corner of the net. Textbook accuracy, no wasted effort.
“Son of a bitch,” Tank called out from across the ice. “Coach schooled Rivera!”
I skated back toward center ice, my face burning with embarrassment. Three attempts, three clean defensive plays, followed by a goal that looked effortless. “Again,” I snapped.
Finally, I managed to outsmart him and get past him to score—though the latter didn’t mean much when there was no goalie. But it had been far from easy and had taken me a good twenty seconds. In a real game, I wouldn’t have that kind of time.
“Again.”
Coach Anders didn’t say anything, just positioned himself again. I scored again, but on the next two attempts, he got past me, and so we ended up with a final score that was still heavily in his favor. Dammit.
“You done?” Coach Brennan called out, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice, the asshole. Must’ve been the first time he’d seen me get beat on the ice.
“Yes. Whatever.”
Coach Anders skated back toward me. I stayed quiet. What was I supposed to say? That I’d been completely outplayed by a guy I’d assumed would be easy to beat?
“That went different from what you expected?” Coach Anders asked, and to his credit, he didn’t sound gleeful.
“Yeah. Different.” I looked at him more carefully now, seeing things I’d missed before. The way he held his stick, the positioning of his feet, the calm confidence that came from someone who’d played at levels I was still trying to reach. “You actually know what you’re doing.”
“I hope so. It would be rather embarrassing if I didn’t, given my job.”
I snorted. “Not every coach can play.”
“I’m well aware. But I can.”
I crossed my arms. “What are you planning to teach me?”
“How to do what you do, but better and smarter. Your skills are impressive, Adan. But skills alone won’t get you to the next level. You need to understand when and how to use them.”
From across the ice, Tank laughed. “Dude’s got you thinking, Rivera!”
“Shut up!” I called back, but there was no heat in it. I turned back to Coach Anders, who’d taken his helmet off. His hair was messed up now, and he looked more human, less pristine. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Some old guy with a whistle and a clipboard.”
Coach Anders smiled, and it transformed his whole face. “I do have a clipboard, and if you prefer, I’d be happy to bring a whistle.”
Despite myself, I laughed. “Great. Just what I need.”
“Our first session is scheduled for Wednesday at seven a.m.,” he said. “Is that too early?”
“Nope, that’s fine.”
“Good. I was thinking we could meet every other day for now. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. That gives you time to practice what we work on during regular team sessions.”
I shrugged. “Every other day works.”
“Good. We can adjust it later when needed. We’ll start with some basic positioning work and see where that takes us.”
As he walked away, I watched him go. There was something about the way he moved, confident but not cocky, that made me think there was more to him than the polite surface he showed.
And he was good-looking. Very Scandinavian, with that tall, blond Alexander Sk?rsgard look, and a pair of eyes that were a mix of green and blue.
Not that it mattered since I didn’t swing that way.
But a guy could appreciate another guy’s looks without it meaning anything, right?
“So?” Tank skated up beside me. “Verdict?”
“He’s not terrible.”
“Oh, that’s high praise coming from you.”
“Shut up.”
The thing was, I’d been expecting to hate this. I’d been ready to prove that I didn’t need some fancy coach telling me how to play hockey. Because I was already good, the best player on this team. Hell, the best player this program had seen in years. I didn’t need help.
When I hadn’t been selected for the draft, I’d been disappointed, but it had made sense.
My high school hadn’t been on the radar for most scouts, so I’d hoped that going to Millard would make a difference.
It hadn’t. The scouts had been there and they’d seen me play, but I still hadn’t been drafted.
Too raw, they’d said. I needed more development.
I thought that’s what I had been doing: developing. But what if there were things I didn’t know? What if the reason the scouts passed me over wasn’t because I lacked talent, but because I was missing something else entirely? My chest tightened.
“You okay, dude?” Tank asked, studying my face. “You look like you’re planning something.”
“Just thinking,” I said.
“About what?”
I glanced toward the tunnel where Coach Anders had disappeared. “About Wednesday morning.”
“You’re gonna work with this guy?”
“I’m gonna see what he’s got. If he can teach me something that’ll get me to the NHL, then hell yeah, I’ll work with him.”
“And if he can’t?”
I shrugged. “Then I’ll prove I was right all along.”
Coach Anders might have some skills, but that didn’t mean he was better than me and that he could teach me something. No, the jury was still out on Nils Anders.