Chapter 10
ADAN
The locker room was electric with post-game energy, twenty guys high on adrenaline and victory. We’d dominated Syracuse. Four goals in the third period had turned a close game into a blowout, and everyone was riding that high that came from playing hockey the right way.
“Rivera!” Tank shouted over the music someone had cranked up on their phone. “That goal in the second period was fucking beautiful!”
“Which one?” I grinned as I unlaced my skates—the amazing, epic skates Nils had lent to me that were making more of a difference than I had ever expected them to. He’d been right. I was faster on them, did feel more secure in sharp and sudden movements.
I’d scored twice tonight, both goals coming from techniques Nils had drilled into me. The shot selection and the positioning were becoming automatic now.
“The wraparound! Dude came out of nowhere with that move.”
“Just saw the opening and took it.”
Martinez was already half-dressed, pulling his jersey over his head. “That’s what I’m talking about! Rivera’s finally playing like he’s got a brain instead of trying to bulldoze everyone.”
“Hey, fuck you too, Martinez.”
“I’m serious, man. You’re seeing the ice different now. Making plays I didn’t know you had in you.”
The compliment hit me the right way. It was true. The game felt different now. Clearer. Like I understood something fundamental that had been missing before.
Webb was sitting on the bench next to me, pulling off his pads. “Speaking of playing smart, did you see that pass you made to Evans in the third? Kid was so surprised to get a clean feed, he almost missed the net.”
“‘Almost’ being the key word,” Evans called out from across the room. “I buried that shit!”
Tank snorted. “Barely. You looked like you were gonna pass out from shock when the puck hit your tape.”
The usual post-game chirping filled the room as everyone started the familiar routine of getting out of their gear. Sweaty jerseys hitting the floor, pads being tossed into equipment bags, guys moving around in various states of undress as they prepared for showers.
I pulled my jersey off and started working on my shoulder pads, my mind already drifting to the bus ride home. Another two-hour trip, another chance to maybe sit with Nils and talk about something other than hockey.
I’d had such a good time with him on Volunteer Day. Granted, he’d been a little off during training the Monday after, like he’d been in some kind of trance or something, but things were back to normal now. And I was looking forward to spending two hours on the bus with him.
“Rivera, you coming to the party at Sigma Chi tomorrow night?” Martinez asked, now down to his compression shorts and nothing else.
“Maybe. Depends on how dead I am after morning skate.”
“Dude, it’s Saturday. There’s no morning skate.”
“There’s always morning skate if you want to get better.”
Tank threw a sweaty sock at me. “Jesus, when did you become such a hockey monk?”
“You’re saying that as if it’s new.”
“Heads up, boys!”
Coach Brennan’s voice cut through the noise as he entered the locker room, followed by Coach O’Brien and Nils. The music got turned down, and everyone settled into the respectful attention we gave the coaching staff after games.
“Fantastic game tonight,” Coach said, his weathered face creased with satisfaction. “That’s the kind of hockey that gets noticed. Smart plays, good positioning, taking care of the puck. You guys did everything we’ve been working on.”
I was down to my compression shirt and shorts now, in the middle of pulling the shirt over my head when I noticed Nils watching me. His eyes tracked the movement for a second before he looked away, focusing on Coach Brennan’s speech.
Probably evaluating my conditioning. Coaches were always assessing players, even in the locker room. Making sure we were staying in shape, not carrying extra weight or showing signs of injury. It was part of the job.
“Special recognition goes to Rivera tonight,” Coach Brennan continued. “Two goals, one assist, but more importantly, the decision-making that led to three other scoring chances. That’s what we call elevated play.”
Pride swelled in my chest. Public recognition from Coach was worth its weight in gold.
“Keep playing like that, and scouts will come visit your games, kid.”
Coach O’Brien nodded his agreement. “The positioning work is really paying off. You’re creating space for yourself and your teammates.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I said, grabbing my towel and shower gear.
“Well, keep it up,” Coach Brennan said. “All of you. This is what happens when you buy into the system and trust the process.”
The coaches headed back out, and the celebration resumed. I made my way toward the showers, thinking about Nils’s brief glance. It was good to know he was paying attention, that he was looking out for me.
The shower area was crowded and loud, steam rising from multiple shower heads as guys washed off the sweat and effort of two and a half hours of hockey. The usual post-game banter continued with us rehashing plays and making plans for later, the endless chirping that never seemed to stop.
But my mind kept drifting back to Nils.
He was so much fun to hang out with outside of hockey.
It wasn’t so much the change of scenery, but the way he’d seemed more relaxed, more like a regular person instead of the always-composed coach I was used to.
The way he’d laughed when I’d made jokes about IKEA when he’d been sick, the stories he’d shared about university, the comfortable silences that hadn’t felt awkward at all.
I’d enjoyed it more than I’d expected. The furniture building and the work at the Youth Center, yes, but also the conversation, the sense of actually getting to know him beyond hockey.
He was smart in ways that went beyond the game, funny in a dry way that caught me off guard, and genuinely interested in hearing about my family and my life.
It was nice having an adult who treated me like an actual person instead of a hockey player with potential.
“Earth to Rivera!” Tank’s voice cut through my thoughts. “You’re gonna run out of hot water if you stand there much longer.”
“Right. Sorry.”
I finished washing and headed back to my locker.
I got dressed quickly, pulling on sweatpants and a Millard Hockey T-shirt, then grabbed my gear bag and followed the team out to the bus.
The night air was cool, carrying the first real hints of autumn, and I could already feel the post-game fatigue starting to set in.
But I wasn’t tired enough to skip the chance to hang out with Nils.
The bus was filling up with players, everyone claiming seats and settling in for the journey home. I spotted Nils all the way in the back, sitting alone with his coaching notebook open, probably reviewing game notes or planning future training sessions.
Perfect.
I made my way down the aisle, nodding at teammates who were already getting comfortable. Tank had claimed a window seat and was already putting on his headphones. Martinez and Webb were sharing a row, probably planning to stay up the entire trip talking about the game.
“Mind if I sit?” I asked when I reached Nils’s row.
He looked up from his notebook and something flickered across his expression, something I couldn’t quite read.
“I…” He paused, glancing around the bus like he was looking for an excuse. “Wouldn’t you prefer to sit with your teammates?”
The suggestion hit me wrong. After all we’d shared by now, all the time we’d spent together, I’d thought we’d moved past the formal coach-student distance.
“Not really,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual.
“They’re either gonna sleep or talk about the game for the next two hours. I was hoping for actual conversation.”
“I see.” But he still looked uncomfortable, like my presence was a problem he needed to solve.
Heat flashed in my chest with the sharp sting of rejection. “Never mind. I can sit somewhere else.”
I started to turn away, already scanning the bus for another empty seat, when his hand caught my wrist.
“No, you misunderstood,” he said quickly. “Please. Sit.”
I studied his face, trying to figure out what was going on. He looked tired, maybe a little stressed, but there was something else there too. Something that looked almost like conflict. “You sure? Because you made it seem like you’d rather I’d not.”
“I’m sure. I apologize for giving a different impression.”
I settled into the seat next to him, still confused by his initial reaction but willing to let it go.
Maybe he’d been focused on his coaching notes, caught off guard by the interruption.
Or maybe it was because English wasn’t his first language.
He did have a tendency for more formal language than most people I knew.
“Good game tonight,” he said as the bus pulled out of the parking lot.
“Thanks. Those positioning techniques you taught me are really becoming automatic.”
“I noticed. Both goals came from excellent decision-making.”
“The wraparound especially. I never would’ve seen that opening before.”
“You’re learning to read the game at a higher level. It shows in your play.”
“And those skates are freaking amazing.”
His face lit up with a smile. “I’m glad to hear that. You can use them for as long as you want to.”
We fell into easier conversation as the bus hit the highway, the initial awkwardness fading as we talked about the game, about specific plays and techniques. But there was still something different about Nils tonight, a careful distance that hadn’t been there before.
As the trip wore on and the bus grew quieter, our conversation shifted to other topics. I told him about Professor Henley’s latest boring economics lecture, and he shared a story about a statistics professor who’d once put his entire class to sleep during a final exam.
“The proctor had to wake people up to remind them they were supposed to be taking a test,” he said, and I laughed harder than the story probably deserved.
“That’s amazing. Did anyone actually pass?”
“I have no idea. I suspect the professor curved the grades heavily to avoid explaining to the department why his entire class failed.”
“Smart. Cover your ass and hope no one asks questions.”
“Precisely.”
The lights had been dimmed now, and most of the team was either asleep or quiet with their devices. The steady hum of the engine and the rhythm of tires on asphalt created a sort of cocoon around our conversation.
Nils had closed his notebook and leaned back in his seat, looking more relaxed than he had when I’d first sat down. Whatever had been bothering him earlier seemed to have faded, replaced by the easy comfort we usually had between us.
We kept talking as the miles rolled by, our voices getting quieter as the bus grew more still. Nils told me about some of the places he’d traveled to, and I shared more stories about growing up in Buffalo, about the neighborhood rink where I’d learned to play.
Gradually, his responses got shorter, and I could see his eyelids getting heavy. The long day was catching up with him—coaching, the stress of the game, probably still recovering from being sick.
“You should get some sleep,” I said. “You look beat.”
“I’m tired, but I don’t want to be rude.”
“It’s not rude. Sleep. I’ll make sure you don’t miss our stop.”
He smiled at that, a soft expression that made something warm spread through my chest. “Thank you.”
He adjusted his position in the seat, turning slightly toward the window and closing his eyes. Within minutes, his breathing had evened out, and he’d fallen asleep.
I settled back in my own seat, content to sit quietly and let him rest. Outside the windows, dark countryside rolled past, the endless boring nothing along I-90.
Inside the bus, the only sounds were the engine, the tires, and the quiet breathing—or not so quiet, as Webb was putting a sawmill to shame with his snoring—of sleeping hockey players.
But I wasn’t sleepy. I was too comfortable, too content with this moment of peace. There was something soothing about sitting next to Nils while he slept, something that felt right in a way I couldn’t quite explain.
I glanced over at him, taking in the way sleep had softened his features. The careful composure he always maintained was gone, replaced by something more vulnerable, more human. His blond hair had fallen across his forehead, and his face was completely relaxed.
He looked younger like this. Peaceful. The stress lines around his eyes had smoothed out, and there was something almost gentle about the way his lips were slightly parted.
Beautiful.
The thought hit me like a physical blow, sudden and undeniable and completely unexpected.
He was beautiful.
Not handsome in the way I might notice another guy was good-looking. Not attractive in some distant, objective way.
Beautiful in a way that made my belly flutter and my pulse quicken and my breath catch in my throat.
Beautiful in a way that made me want to reach out and brush that fallen hair away from his forehead.
Beautiful in a way that made me realize, with crystal clarity and growing panic, that I was attracted to him.
Oh.
Oh.