Chapter 5 #2
Sleep wasn’t happening for me, though. Too pumped from the game, too busy thinking about how different everything had felt out there. I grabbed my water bottle and headed toward the back of the bus, thinking I’d locate some quiet space to decompress.
Instead, I found Coach Anders.
He was alone in the last row, looking out the window at the dark countryside rolling past. The overhead reading light cast a soft glow across his profile, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the way his blond hair had gotten slightly messed up during the game.
He had a notebook in his lap, probably reviewing game notes or planning future training sessions, his long fingers absently tapping against the cover.
There was something peaceful about the way he sat there, completely absorbed in whatever he was thinking about.
Without the usual composed expression he wore during practice, he looked younger somehow, more relaxed.
The short sleeves of his standard Millard polo shirt had rolled up a bit, showing off surprisingly nice biceps for someone who’d been out of the game for that long and who spent most of his time holding clipboards instead of hockey sticks.
Maybe he still worked out a lot? There was so much about him I didn’t know.
The guy never seemed to stop working, but right now, he looked more like he was just… thinking. Taking a moment to himself in the quiet of the bus.
“Mind if I sit?” I asked.
He looked up, surprised. “Of course. Please.”
I slid into the seat across the aisle from him. For a moment, we sat in comfortable silence, the rest of the team a world away from our little pocket of quiet in the back of the bus.
“Everyone else is asleep,” I said.
He chuckled. “Ah, the sweet symphony of snoring teammates. It’s the sound of victory.”
“That was one hell of a game tonight.”
“You played exceptionally well. Those corner battles in the second period… You executed the positioning perfectly.”
“Yeah, about that.” I leaned forward slightly. “I wanted to thank you. The techniques you’ve been teaching me made a huge difference tonight.”
“You made the difference. I simply provided some tools. You were the one who chose to use them.”
“Still. I know I was a dick when we first started working together. You could’ve given up on me, but you didn’t.”
He smiled, and in the dim light of the bus, it looked different somehow. Less like a coach smiling at a student, more like… I don’t know. Like a friend. His eyes were kind. Warm. “You were not a dick. You were protecting what you cared about. I understood that.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for being patient with me anyway.”
Silence settled between us again, but it wasn’t awkward. It was the kind of comfortable quiet that happens when you don’t feel like you have to fill every moment with words.
“What made you want to coach?” I then asked. “I mean, you played at a really high level. I know you had that injury, but you recovered. You could probably have gone pro somewhere, right?”
Coach Anders was quiet for a long moment, looking out the window. “I discovered I enjoyed helping others succeed,” he said finally, turning back to me. “There is magic in watching a player understand a concept they have been struggling with. The moment when everything clicks is quite rewarding.”
“Is that why you came to America? To coach?”
“Partly. I also wanted to experience a different hockey culture. Canadian university hockey was excellent, but American college hockey has its own character.”
“What’s it like? Sweden, I mean.”
His face softened. “Beautiful. Green. Lots of forests and lakes. The light is different than here. Softer in summer, almost nonexistent in winter. The hockey culture is more… refined, I suppose. Less physical, more strategic.”
“Do you miss it?”
“I do, but this experience is incredibly valuable. I’m learning things about myself I would not have discovered at home.”
The tone in his voice made me curious. “Like what?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Like the fact that I’m more adaptable than I thought. That I can build a life somewhere completely new and find satisfaction in it.”
“That’s cool. I’ve never lived anywhere but Buffalo. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to go somewhere completely different.”
“Where would you go?”
I thought about it. “I don’t know. Somewhere warm, maybe. California or Florida. Somewhere I could play hockey but not freeze my ass off eight months of the year.”
Coach Anders laughed, a genuine sound that made warmth spread through my chest. “The cold builds character.”
“Says the guy from Sweden.”
“Fair point.”
“What’s one thing that you miss about home?”
He made a soft humming sound. “The stars.”
That was about the last thing I’d expected him to say. I’d thought he’d mention his family, maybe, or certain foods. But not this. “The stars?”
He nodded. “I’m a hobby astronomer. Nothing too complicated or fancy, though I did bring my smallest telescope with me. But Buffalo has too much sky glow to see the stars.”
Light pollution. We’d learned about that in class. “That’s called light pollution, right?”
“Yes. It’s a problem throughout most of the northern hemisphere, and it makes it hard to impossible to see the stars at night.”
“But you can see them in Sweden?”
“Not in Stockholm, our capital, or in our cities, but we still have plenty of spaces left that have little to no sky glow. The north, especially, has pristine skies.”
I tried to imagine it but came up short. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the stars. I mean, not really, with a telescope or anything.”
Coach Anders let out a soft gasp. “Really?”
I shrugged. “City kid, you know? Plus, with all the hockey training I did, it didn’t leave a lot of time to go looking at the sky. Or money.”
“That makes sense. Maybe I could…” He stopped, then cleared his throat. “I hope you’ll get to see them one day.”
We kept talking as the bus rolled through the darkness.
About music—he was into some bands I’d never heard of, but also classic rock that I actually knew.
About TV and movies—I was surprised to discover he preferred action and suspense movies too, which seemed too normal for someone as smart as he was.
About travel, about food, about the weird differences between American and European culture.
It was the longest conversation I’d ever had with him that wasn’t about hockey, and I genuinely enjoyed his company.
He was funny in a dry way, smarter than anyone I’d ever met, but not condescending about it.
And there was an element about talking to him in the dim quiet of the bus that felt…
comfortable. Like I could say anything and he’d listen.
“What about you?” he asked as we passed a sign saying we were ten miles out from Buffalo. “What are your plans for the future?”
“NHL, hopefully. But if that doesn’t work out…” I shrugged. “I don’t know. Business degree, maybe get into sports management. My parents always said I had to have a backup plan, so I’ve worked hard to keep my grades up.”
“Your parents sound wise.”
“They are. They sacrificed a lot for my hockey. Worked extra shifts, skipped vacations, all that stuff. I know how much this means to them.”
“That is a significant responsibility.”
“Yeah, but it’s not pressure, you know? It’s more like motivation. I want to succeed for them as much as for me.”
“That says good things about your character.”
The simple compliment hit me harder than it should’ve. Coming from him, it felt meaningful in a way I couldn’t quite explain.
By the time we pulled into the Millard parking lot, most of the team were stirring awake, gathering their gear and making noise about getting food or going to parties. But I was reluctant to leave the quiet bubble we’d created in the back of the bus.
“Thanks,” I said as we stood up to collect our bags.
“For what?”
“For the conversation. For treating me like a person instead of a player.”
An expression flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or another emotion I couldn’t identify.
“You are a person, Adan. A very impressive one.”
As we filed off the bus with the rest of the team, I was thinking that I’d been looking at this whole coaching relationship wrong. Coach Anders wasn’t some guy who happened to know a lot about hockey. He was someone I liked hanging out with, someone I wanted to get to know better.
The thought should’ve been simple, innocent. But for some reason, it made my chest feel warm in a way I didn’t quite understand.