Chapter 8
NILS
The arena was quiet at six-thirty in the morning, exactly the way I liked it.
I put my bag in the locker room, this time bringing my skates and a pair of reserve skates I seldom wore.
When he’d been so clearly interested in trying out my skates, I hadn’t even hesitated in offering.
I hadn’t lied when I’d told him I would do anything to help him get better.
Lending out my skates seemed a minor thing in that perspective.
I pulled my coaching notes from my bag and reviewed today’s plan.
Core strength and balance training. Essential skills for the kind of corner battles Adan excelled at, and areas where improved stability could make him even more effective against larger defensemen.
And with him using my skates for the first time, it would hopefully help him adjust to those quickly and see if they would work for him.
The exercises would require hands-on instruction—adjusting posture, correcting positioning, ensuring proper form—but that was standard coaching protocol.
Nothing I hadn’t done hundreds of times before, and yet with Adan, it felt anything but routine. It never did.
Switching into a professional mode with him was a challenge.
It had been a challenge from day one, but with every encounter, it had become harder.
Especially now that we had developed a more personal relationship.
First that long talk on the bus ride home, then him stopping by when I’d been sick, and then we’d spent a whole day together at the Queer Youth Center over the weekend.
It had become harder and harder to switch back into professional mode. How could I see him as just another student when he was anything but?
I didn’t dream about other students.
I didn’t look forward to seeing other students.
I didn’t have trouble looking away when it came to other students.
I didn’t loan my expensive skates to other students.
No, that was all Adan. Only Adan, with his cocky grin and his gorgeous eyes and that perfect, sculpted body. Herregud, I was in so much trouble with him.
I shook off the thought. Adan would arrive in a few minutes, and I needed to set up the training area for today’s exercises. Balance boards, resistance bands, core stability equipment: all the tools necessary for building the foundation that would make him even more dominant in physical battles.
The equipment room smelled like rubber and metal, familiar scents that usually centered me in the present moment.
But as I gathered the gear we’d need, my thoughts wandered to the way Adan had smiled as we’d chatted while painting, the way he’d looked at me so earnestly as he’d talked about his plans for the future, how his whole face had lit up when he’d raved about his mom’s cooking.
Professional admiration, I reminded myself.
That was what I needed to focus on. I was proud of his progress, pleased with the results of our work together.
The fact that I paid way too much attention to the way he moved, the expressions that crossed his face, the sound of his laugh when he made a particularly good play—I needed to ignore that.
Move past that. Yes, I was attracted to him, but if I ignored it, it would go away. Right?
And the last thing I wanted was for him to pick up on it, so I had to fight harder to hide my feelings, to pretend he was just another student. Even if he was anything but.
The arena doors opened with their usual echo, and I heard the familiar sound of Adan’s gear bag hitting the floor near the bench. Right on time, as always.
“Morning, Coach,” he called out, using the title that still felt strange coming from someone only seven years younger than me. “You ready to torture me?”
“Good morning, Adan. And yes, I have some particularly diabolical exercises planned for today.”
He grinned as he sat down.
I grabbed my skates from my bag and handed them to him. “Here.”
He took them with something that looked a lot like reverence. “Are you sure about this? What happens if they get damaged?”
I patted his shoulder. “Yes, I’m sure. Don’t worry about it. Just test them and see if they’re a good fit for you.”
It took him a little longer to lace up as my skates had a slightly different system, but then he was ready to go. I’d put on my reserve skates in the meantime.
“What’s on the agenda?” he asked, pulling his helmet on. “More corner positioning? Shot selection? Please tell me it’s not defensive zone coverage, because my brain’s still not awake enough for that level of strategy.”
“Core strength and balance today. Foundation work that will make everything else more effective.”
“Sounds fun. By fun, I mean it’s probably going to suck.”
“It will be challenging. But you’ll understand the value once you feel the difference it makes in your stability during board battles. Think of it as an enhanced, hockey-specific exercise in not falling flat on your backside.”
Adan snorted. “I never fall.”
“You’re wearing skates you’ve never used before. Trust me, you’ll struggle.”
We stepped onto the ice together, and I tried to ignore the way the morning light from the arena windows highlighted the confident set of his shoulders.
“Oh,” he said slowly as he took his first strides on the ice. “They are different.”
“Take a few minutes to get used to them.”
He did, speeding up and slowing down, taking sharp corners and doing one-eighties.
“How do they feel?” I asked when he came back after a few minutes.
“Good. Still a little strange, but in a good way. They’re lighter. Sharper.”
“Alright,” I said, skating over to where I’d set up the training equipment.
“The exercises we’re working on today focus on core stability and balance.
When you’re fighting for position in the corners, especially against larger defensemen, your ability to maintain balance while generating power comes from your core strength. ”
“Makes sense. I’ve definitely been knocked off the puck by guys who were better balanced than me.”
“Exactly. Raw strength only takes you so far. But if you can maintain your center of gravity while applying force, you become much more difficult to dislodge.”
I demonstrated the first exercise, a basic balance challenge that required maintaining position on an unstable surface while handling a puck.
Adan watched intently, asking questions about foot positioning and weight distribution.
His focus was complete, professional, exactly what I’d come to expect from our sessions.
“Your turn,” I said, stepping aside so he could attempt the drill.
His first attempt was hesitant, him still finding his balance on the new skates. But then his natural athleticism took over, compensating for areas where his technique could be refined. But it was easy to identify several adjustments that would improve his effectiveness.
“Good start,” I said. “But let me show you some modifications.”
I skated behind him, placing my hands on his hips to adjust his stance. “Your weight distribution is slightly off. If you shift it back a few inches—”
The moment my hands made contact, something shifted.
Not his position, but something in the air between us.
Feeling his body through his practice jersey, the solid muscle of his core beneath my palms, the way he went perfectly still under my touch—all of it registered with an intensity that had nothing to do with coaching.
“Like this?” he asked, his voice sounding slightly breathless. Or was that my imagination?
I swallowed hard, trying to maintain my professional composure. “Yes, exactly. Feel how much more stable you are now?”
My hands were still on his hips, ostensibly to ensure he maintained the correct position. But I was acutely aware of every point of contact, the slight shift of his breathing beneath my palms.
“Much better,” he said, and there was something in his tone that made my pulse quicken.
I should’ve stepped back then. Should’ve moved on to the next exercise, maintained the professional distance that was supposed to exist between coach and player. Instead, I adjusted his position again, my hands sliding slightly lower to correct the angle of his pelvis.
“The power needs to come from here,” I said, my voice coming out rougher than intended. “Your core is the foundation for everything else.”
“I can feel that.”
The double meaning in his words—intended or not—sent heat rushing through my system. I was standing close enough to smell his shampoo, to see the fine sheen of sweat on the back of his neck, to notice the way his breathing had changed from steady to something more rapid.
“Let’s try the next variation,” I managed, though my own breathing was far from steady.
This exercise required him to maintain balance while I provided resistance, my hands on his torso to simulate the kind of pressure he’d face from an opponent. It was a standard training technique, one I’d used with dozens of players.
None of whom had ever affected me like this.
I positioned myself behind him again, my chest nearly against his back as I placed my hands on either side of his ribcage. “I’m going to apply pressure from different angles. Your job is to maintain your center of gravity no matter which direction I push.”
“Got it,” he said, and concentration filled his voice.
I started with gentle pressure to his left side, feeling the way his muscles engaged to counteract the force. He was strong, much stronger than his compact frame suggested, and the way his body responded to the challenge was mesmerizing.
“Good,” I said, increasing the pressure slightly. “Now from the right.”
My hands shifted to the opposite side, and herregud, I was paying far too much attention to the solid warmth beneath my palms, the way his breathing changed as he focused on maintaining balance.
When I applied pressure from behind, I had to step closer, my body nearly pressed against his as I tested his stability.
“Excellent,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He turned his head slightly, probably to ask a question about the technique, and suddenly we were inches apart. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, close enough to notice the way his lips parted slightly as he looked at me.
The moment stretched between us, charged with something that had nothing to do with hockey training. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, sense the shift in the air that meant we’d crossed some invisible line.
My hands were still on his torso, and I realized with a shock that I was stroking my thumbs along his ribs in a gesture that was anything but professional. His eyes had gone dark, and there was something in his expression that looked almost like—
“Coach?” he said softly, the word barely audible.
The title hit me like cold water. Coach. Student. Professional boundaries. Everything I was supposed to remember, everything I’d apparently forgotten in the space of a few charged moments.
I stepped back abruptly, my hands falling to my sides. “That’s… That’s good work. You’re getting the feel for it.”
The spell broken, Adan blinked and seemed to come back to himself. “Yeah, I think I understand what you mean about core stability.”
“Right. Excellent.” I cleared my throat, trying to regain some semblance of professional composure. “Let’s move on to the next exercise.”
The rest of the session passed in a blur of forced normalcy. We worked through the remaining drills with careful attention to maintaining appropriate distance, though I caught myself stealing glances at him. If Adan noticed my distraction, he didn’t comment on it.
When our time was up, he gathered his gear with his usual efficiency.
“Same time Wednesday?” he asked.
“Yes, Wednesday at seven.”
“Cool. Thanks for the workout. I can already tell this is going to help with board battles.”
“That’s the goal.”
He headed toward the exit, then paused and turned back. “Hey, Coach?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for letting me borrow your skates.”
The sincerity in his voice hit me hard. “It’s my pleasure, Adan.”
He smiled—that crooked grin that had been affecting me more than it should—and headed out of the arena.
I stood alone on the ice for several minutes after he left, trying to process what had happened.
How had he affected me so much, I’d barely been able to do my job?
I’d been so… so aware of him. Of every muscle in his body, every breath he took, every nuance of expression on his face.
God, I had it bad. I needed to cut this out. This was getting out of hand.
The fact that he was my student should’ve been enough to kill any inappropriate thoughts before they fully formed.
The professional relationship we’d built was too important to jeopardize over a momentary lapse in judgment.
The trust Coach Brennan and the program had placed in me was not something I could afford to compromise.
And even if none of those factors existed, there was still the fundamental reality that Adan was straight. Whatever I thought I’d seen in his expression during that charged moment, whatever I’d imagined about the way he’d responded to my touch, was almost certainly wishful thinking on my part.
The smart thing—the only reasonable thing—was to maintain strict professional boundaries from this point forward.
No more hands-on training that wasn’t absolutely necessary.
No more lingering glances or moments of inappropriate proximity.
I was here to coach hockey, not to complicate a promising young player’s life with my own confused feelings.
Today had been a wake-up call, a reminder that I needed to be more careful about maintaining appropriate distance.
But as I unlaced my skates in the quiet locker room, I couldn’t shake the memory of those few moments when Adan had been in my arms, the way his body had felt against mine, the look in his eyes when he’d turned to face me.
I had felt so damn good.
But I needed to make sure it didn’t happen again.