Chapter 3 #2
The next twenty minutes flew by as we worked through variations of the drill.
Adan was a quick learner, his competitive nature driving him to master each element before moving on to the next.
I was genuinely impressed by his hockey intelligence.
He didn’t merely memorize the technique but wanted to understand the underlying principles.
“This is sick,” he said after successfully completing a complex sequence. “I can feel how much more control I have.”
“That’s the goal. At the professional level, it’s often the mental game that separates good players from great ones.”
We moved on to defensive awareness drills, working on his positioning when he didn’t have the puck.
This required even more hands-on coaching with me adjusting his stance, guiding his movement, demonstrating proper body angles.
Each touch was brief and professional, but I was increasingly aware of his presence, his focus, the way he absorbed instruction with complete attention.
“You’re a good teacher,” he said during a water break, leaning against the boards. “Different from the other coaches I’ve had.”
“How so?”
“You explain the why. Most coaches tell you to do something and expect you to obey without understanding the reason or even asking for it.”
The compliment pleased me, probably more than it should have. “Understanding the theory behind it makes it easier to adapt the technique to different situations.”
“Makes sense.” He took another drink of water, throat working as he swallowed. I forced myself to look away. He put his water bottle down again. “What’s it like in Sweden? I mean, hockey-wise. Is it really different from here?”
The question was innocent enough, but this was dangerous territory for me.
How much could I tell him without revealing too much and without resorting to lies?
“The style is different. More emphasis on skill and strategy, less on pure physicality. And the rinks are larger, which affects the pace of play.”
He frowned. “Larger how?”
“Four meters wider. That’s, erm…” I did a quick calculation.
“Roughly twelve feet, I think? It sounds small, but it makes a huge difference. In Sweden, you have more time to think, more space to develop plays. Here, everything happens faster. You have to make decisions quicker because the walls are always right there.” I gestured toward the boards.
“When I first came to Canada, I kept trying to make passes that worked perfectly in Sweden but got picked off here because there wasn’t enough room. ”
“Huh. So you had to change your style?”
“In some ways, yes. But it made me a better player. Learning to think faster, to see opportunities in tighter spaces.” I paused, remembering those first few weeks at Rideau when everything had felt cramped and rushed. “But it took a while to adapt.”
“And you’ve played hockey your whole life?”
I smiled automatically as I thought of my father.
Born in a normal family but elevated to royalty after marrying my mom, the actual princess, he’d insisted on giving me as normal a youth as possible…
and that had included hockey. He loved the game, always had.
“Yes, from the time I was very young. My father was very supportive of my hockey interests.”
True enough, even if it left out the part about being trained by former Olympic coaches on the palace grounds.
“That’s cool. My parents worked their asses off to pay for my hockey.” There was pride in his voice, not self-pity. “Dad still picks up extra shifts when I need new equipment.”
The contrast between our backgrounds hit me like a physical blow. Here was someone who’d earned every opportunity through talent and family sacrifice, while I’d been handed advantages he could never imagine. “They must be very proud of you.”
“Yeah, they are. They’re still hoping for me to make the NHL, you know? Not in a pressure way, but… I’m their investment. It’s their dream too.”
The honesty in his voice made something twist in my chest. “How did you feel when you knew you weren’t gonna get drafted?”
He dragged a hand through his hair, his expression tightening. “Disappointed, obviously. But I knew it was an uphill battle against kids who were at better clubs, where they had more money to spend on private coaches.”
“I’m sure you know, but the draft isn’t without its risks either.
If a team drafts you but doesn’t end up signing you, you’ll have become ineligible to be drafted again and will have to face an even harder battle to get picked up by another team.
Many a great player was recruited from his college team. ”
“You’ve seen that at Rideau?”
I nodded. “Meriah Callahan got signed by the Kraken last week. He’s a junior, like you, so you still have a shot.”
He sighed. “No pressure at all, right? Just the weight of my entire family’s financial future resting on my shoulders.”
I had nothing to say to that.
We spent the rest of the session working on shot selection, setting up scenarios where he had to choose between shooting and passing. His natural instinct was to shoot—he was a goal scorer, after all—but I wanted him to recognize when a pass would create a better opportunity for the team.
“This is the hardest part,” he admitted after choosing to pass in a situation where his old instincts would have demanded a shot. “Everything in me wants to take that shot.”
“But you recognized that the pass would create a better scoring chance for your line mate.”
“Yeah, but what if he misses? Then I look like an idiot for not shooting.”
“And what if he scores? Then you look like a player who understands hockey is a team sport.”
He considered this, skating slow circles around the practice area. “NHL scouts care about that stuff?”
“They care about players who make everyone around them better. Goal scorers are valuable, but players who elevate their entire line are invaluable.”
“Huh.” He seemed to be processing this, his expression thoughtful.
By the time we finished, both of us were breathing hard despite the cool air.
Adan had worked through every drill with complete focus, pushing himself to master each technique before moving on.
His dedication was impressive. This wasn’t someone coasting on natural talent, and I respected the hell out of him for that.
“Was this useful?” I asked as we skated toward the exit.
“Hell yeah. This was fun.”
“Fun?” Not what I had expected him to say.
“I know, shocker, right? I like learning new stuff, even if I give you shit about it.”
I grinned. “I’ll try not to take the shit-giving personally.”
“Probably for the best.”
As we walked back toward the locker rooms, my gaze drifted to him again—the confident way he moved, the satisfied expression on his face, the way he’d pushed his hair back from his forehead.
There was something compelling about his combination of cockiness and genuine curiosity, his willingness to be challenged.
He disappeared into the locker room, leaving me standing in the empty corridor with my pulse running faster than it should have been. The session had been successful. Adan had shown real improvement, absorbed the instruction well, seemed genuinely engaged with the learning process.
But as I walked back to the coaches’ office, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked when he’d mastered that corner positioning drill with the flash of triumph in his eyes, the unconscious smile that had transformed his entire face.
Or the way he’d listened so intently when I’d explained the strategic reasoning behind each technique.
Professional admiration, I told myself again, but I didn’t believe that lie even a little bit.
Because somewhere during that ninety-minute session, watching Adan Rivera work with complete focus and determination, I’d confirmed what I’d been suspecting about myself for years. I was definitely, undeniably attracted to men as well.
And I was definitely, undeniably attracted to this particular man.
Oj d?, indeed.