Chapter 7 #2
Nils hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, they made a difference for me. They offer more stability and protect your ankles better. Once I got used to them, they made me faster because my ankles could take more.”
Damn, okay then. I needed to get my hands on a pair. “How much are they?”
“Adan…”
“How much?”
“Three thousand dollars.”
I blinked. Holy shit. “That’s… That’s a lot.” It was too much. I couldn’t ask my parents for that much money for skates, and god knew I didn’t have the time to get a job myself. But if they could increase my chances of getting into the NHL… “What size do you wear?”
“What size?” Nils frowned, but then understanding hit. “Forty-three. Oh wait, that’s European size. That’s… about an 9.5 US, I think. Maybe a 10?”
“I’m a size 9.5.”
“You want to try them?”
Thank god he didn’t make me ask. “Can I? Just to see if they’d make a difference for me.”
“It’ll take you a few hours of training to get used to them.”
“So I’ll practice extra.”
He took a deep breath, then nodded. “Yes, you can borrow them.”
I put my brush down, then took his from his hand as well and put it on the tray.
“What are you… Mfph…”
I hugged him tightly, wrapping my arms around him and holding on. “Thank you.”
He awkwardly patted my back, not really hugging me back. “You’re welcome.”
I squeezed him for a second more, then let go. “I’m serious. This means a lot to me.”
“You can thank me in your first victory speech after winning the Stanley cup with your team.”
A rush of pure joy barreled through me. “You believe in me that much?”
“I do, Adan. You have what it takes… and I will do whatever I can to help you get there.”
Jesus, I wanted to hug him again, but that was probably pushing it, considering he’d already been uncomfortable with that first hug. “Thank you.”
“It’s my job.”
“Pretty sure that letting me borrow your skates is not part of your job description.”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “An omission for sure.”
We worked in comfortable silence for a while, the room gradually transforming from institutional beige to something that felt more like home. A few of the center’s kids wandered through occasionally, some offering to help, others curious about what we were doing.
“You guys are from the college?” asked a girl who looked about sixteen, settling onto one of the covered couches to watch us work.
“Yeah, Millard College hockey team,” I said. “I’m Adan, this is Coach Anders.”
“Nils,” Nils corrected me. “You can call me Nils.”
If she could, I could too, right? Deep down, I knew it didn’t work that way, but I pushed that thought down.
“Cool. I’m Maya. Thanks for doing this. The old paint was pretty depressing.”
“No problem. This your regular hang-out spot?”
“Pretty much. It’s better than home, most days.” She said it matter-of-factly, without self-pity, but something in her tone suggested there was a story there.
“How long has the center been around?” Nils asked.
“Like, five years? Sarah started it when she realized how many queer kids didn’t have anywhere safe to go. Lots of us got kicked out or couldn’t deal with family drama.”
“That’s tough,” I said, meaning it.
“Yeah, but it’s better now. Having a place where you can be yourself, you know? Where nobody’s gonna give you shit for who you are or who you like or what you dress like.”
Maya’s words stuck with me as she wandered off and we continued painting.
The idea of needing a safe space to be yourself, of having to find community because your family couldn’t provide it, made me think about how lucky I’d been to grow up with parents who supported my dreams, even when those dreams were expensive and uncertain.
“Heavy stuff,” I said to Nils as we took a break to eat the sandwiches Sarah had provided.
“It is. But important work, what they’re doing here.”
“Yeah. Makes you think about how much we take for granted.”
“Such as?”
“Family support. Having people who accept you for who you are. Not everyone gets that.”
Nils nodded thoughtfully. “Acceptance is rarer than it should be. And more valuable than most people realize.”
“You sound like you speak from experience.”
“Don’t we all? Everyone has parts of themselves they’re afraid to show other people.”
“What parts of yourself are you afraid to show?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard, and he was quiet for a long moment. “The parts that don’t fit other people’s expectations, I suppose. The parts that might make them see me differently.”
“Different how?”
“Less of whatever they think I am, more of whatever they’re not prepared to handle.”
I wanted to ask more, but something in his expression suggested he’d already shared more than he’d intended. Instead, I focused on my sandwich and tried to figure out why his answer had made me feel strangely sad inside.
The afternoon was spent on smaller projects: fixing the dripping faucet in the bathroom, tightening loose screws on chairs, touching up paint around doorframes. Work that required us to move around the building together, sometimes in close quarters, always finding easy conversation.
Nils was happy to let me take the lead and support me. Even though I was younger, he allowed me to study each problem and come up with a solution, and then he assisted me in fixing it.
“You’re a good assistant,” I told him as I spread glue all over a wobbly table leg.
“I’m very good at following directions… as long as they’re verbal and not communicated through diagrams and drawings.”
“That’s definitely true.”
We were crouched next to each other, holding the table steady while the wood glue set, and I was suddenly aware of how close he was.
Close enough to notice that he smelled like paint and soap and something else that was distinctly him.
Close enough to see the concentration in his expression, the careful way he held the table leg.
“There.” I tested the stability of the leg. “That should hold.”
“Nice work.”
He looked up at me, and for a moment, we were looking at each other, faces maybe ten inches apart, and something passed between us that I couldn’t quite identify. Not awkward, but charged somehow. Like there was something we weren’t saying.
“We should clean up,” he said finally.
“Yeah.”
By the time we finished for the day, the center looked noticeably better. Fresh paint, working fixtures, sturdy furniture: all small improvements that would make a real difference in how the space felt to the kids who used it.
“You two did amazing work,” Sarah said as we gathered our tools. “Seriously, this place looks better than it has in months.”
“Happy to help,” I said. “Let us know if you need anything else.”
“Actually,” she said, “we do community dinners once a month. It’s every first Sunday of the month. Nothing fancy, but a chance for everyone to get together and share a meal. We’d love to have you join us sometime.”
“That sounds really nice,” Nils said. “Thank you.”
As we walked back to the parking lot, I was reluctant for the day to end. Eight hours had passed without me noticing, filled with easy conversation and comfortable work and the kind of partnership that felt natural in a way I wasn’t used to.
“That was fun,” I said as we reached our cars.
“It was. Thank you for being a good work partner.”
“See you Monday.”
“See you Monday, Adan.”
As I drove home, I kept thinking about the day—not so much the work we’d done, but the conversations we’d had, the easy way we’d moved around each other.
I’d enjoyed spending time with Nils in a way that was new to me.
There was something about being around him that made me feel more like myself, more relaxed and genuine than I usually felt with people outside my immediate circle.
It was a good feeling. A really good feeling.
And for some reason, that thought made me warm and tight inside at the same time.