Chapter 13
NILS
I hadn’t slept.
Every time I’d closed my eyes, I’d felt Adan’s lips against mine, tasted the lingering hint of mint from his gum, remembered the way his hands had fisted in my sweater when I’d kissed him back.
The memory played on an endless loop: the shock of his mouth on mine, the split second where I could’ve pushed him away, the moment I’d given in completely and kissed him like I’d been wanting to for weeks.
I’d made coffee at four in the morning and sat at my kitchen table, staring out the window at the dark Buffalo streets and trying to convince myself that what had happened was a mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment that couldn’t be repeated.
But even as I told myself that, I could still feel the echo of his touch, the way his stubble had scraped against my skin, the soft sound he’d made when I’d deepened the kiss for a moment before reality had crashed back in.
By the time my alarm went off at six, I’d already been dressed and ready for an hour, my coaching notebook open to today’s practice plan.
We had an extra team session today instead of my one-on-one with Adan.
I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, so instead, I focused on preparing the drills.
Power play systems. Defensive zone coverage.
Penalty kill formations. Technical, measurable, completely professional objectives that had nothing to do with the way Adan’s eyes had looked when he’d pulled away from me.
It couldn’t happen again. Whatever had passed between us last night, whatever feelings had been acknowledged, it had to end there. Adan was my student, my responsibility, and I would not allow my personal desires to compromise his hockey career or my professional integrity.
The resolution felt solid as I drove to the arena, as I used my key card to enter through the staff entrance, as I set up equipment for morning practice. I was Coach Anders. Adan was a player under my instruction. Everything else was irrelevant.
That resolution lasted right up until Adan walked into the arena.
He was early, as always, his gear bag slung over his shoulder and his helmet tucked under his arm. But when he saw me setting up pylons for the first drill, he paused. That cocky grin split his face wide open, and the memory of last night’s kiss hit me like a physical blow.
“Morning, Coach,” he said, and then he actually winked at me. The bastard winked at me. Granted, no one else was there, but still. He couldn’t do that. He shouldn’t do that.
I quickly looked away, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach. “Good morning.”
I didn’t trust myself to look at him again. Instead, I focused on my clipboard, on the drill diagrams I’d reviewed a dozen times already.
But I was aware of him with every cell in my body. The way he moved across the ice during warm-ups, the sound of his skates cutting through the morning silence, the way he smiled when everything went his way.
Don’t look at his mouth. Don’t think about how he tasted. Don’t remember the way he’d pressed closer when you’d kissed him back.
Herregud, I was so fucked.
The rest of the team filtered in over the next fifteen minutes, their voices and laughter filling the arena with the familiar energy of morning practice.
I tried to lose myself in the routine of coaching: calling out instructions, setting up drills, focusing on technical improvements that had nothing to do with the way my pulse quickened every time Adan skated past.
“Alright, boys,” Coach Brennan called out as the team gathered around center ice. “We’re going to work on power play positioning today. Coach O’Brien, you want to take the first unit through the set-up?”
Kevin nodded and started organizing the players while I was observing.
My attention kept drifting to Adan despite my best efforts.
He was focused on the drill, asking questions about timing and positioning, but I caught him glancing at me more than once.
Brief looks that lasted a second too long, that carried the weight of everything we weren’t saying.
When it came time to demonstrate proper screen positioning in front of the net, I found myself in the familiar situation of needing to provide hands-on instruction.
It was standard coaching protocol: adjusting a player’s stance, correcting their positioning, ensuring they understood the technique through physical guidance.
But when I approached Webb to show him the proper way to establish position without interfering with the goalie, I was hyperaware of the fact that Adan was watching from ten feet away.
“You want to be here,” I said, placing my hands on Webb’s shoulders to guide him into position. “Close enough to screen the goalie’s vision, but not so close that you’re interfering with his movement.”
Webb nodded, adjusting his stance. “Like this?”
“Exactly.”
It was the kind of routine interaction I’d had thousands of times as a coach.
Professional, instructional, completely appropriate.
But I was acutely aware of Adan’s gaze, of the memory of how different it had felt to touch him, to have his body respond to mine in ways that had nothing to do with hockey.
When the drill moved on and I needed to correct Adan’s positioning, I called out instructions from a distance instead of skating over to provide physical guidance.
“Adan, you’re standing too far from the net,” I said. “Move in another two feet.”
He adjusted his position, then looked at me expectantly. Normally, I would’ve skated over to fine-tune his stance, to ensure he understood exactly what I was looking for. Instead, I nodded approval from across the ice.
“Better. That’s the proper distance.”
But it wasn’t better. His positioning was still slightly off, his stance not quite optimal for the screen we were trying to establish. And he knew it, judging by the confused expression that crossed his face when I didn’t provide the detailed correction he was expecting.
I couldn’t touch him. The realization hit me with uncomfortable clarity as practice continued.
Every time a drill required physical guidance, every moment where I would normally adjust his form or demonstrate proper technique, I maintained my distance.
Not because I didn’t trust myself professionally, but because I didn’t trust my body’s response to the contact.
The memory of last night’s kiss had awakened something in me that couldn’t be easily suppressed. How the hell was I going to continue coaching him when every touch was torture? What was I going to do?
“Nils?”
I looked up to find Coach Brennan approaching, his expression serious in a way that made my stomach drop to my skates.
“Could I speak with you for a moment?”
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. He knew. Somehow, he’d found out about last night, about the completely inappropriate conversation I’d had with one of my players, about the kiss that had crossed every professional boundary I was supposed to maintain.
“Of course,” I said, hoping my voice sounded steadier than I felt.
We skated toward the boards, away from the players who were continuing their drill under Kevin’s supervision. My mind was racing through possible explanations, damage-control strategies, ways to minimize the fallout that was about to destroy everything I’d built here.
“I wanted to talk to you about the Albany game this weekend,” Coach Brennan said when we were out of earshot.
I blinked. “The Albany game?”
“I’m thinking about adjusting our line combinations. Rivera’s been playing well with Martinez and Webb, but I want to try him with some different line mates. See if we can create more offensive opportunities.”
Relief flooded through me so suddenly, I felt dizzy. He wasn’t asking about inappropriate relationships or professional misconduct. He was talking about hockey. Normal, everyday coaching decisions that had nothing to do with the guilt that was eating me alive.
“That makes sense,” I managed. “Adan’s hockey sense has improved significantly. He might be able to elevate less experienced players.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. You’ve done excellent work with him, by the way. The individual coaching has made a real difference in his game.”
The compliment should’ve felt good. Instead, it twisted the sharp knife of guilt deeper in my chest. If Coach Brennan knew what I’d done, how I’d allowed personal feelings to compromise my professional judgment, he wouldn’t be praising my coaching.
“Thank you. He’s been very receptive to instruction.”
“And loaning him your skates was certainly going above and beyond.”
I waved his praise away. “I bought them in my last year at Rideau and barely got to use them since I got injured. They’re way too expensive to waste on coaching, so I’m glad he can use them.”
“Well, it’s to your credit. Anyway, can you work with him on some line chemistry drills this week? Get him used to playing with different combinations?”
“Of course.”
“Great. I’ll let you get back to practice.”
Coach Brennan skated away, leaving me standing at the boards, trying to process the conversation.
He had no idea. No suspicion whatsoever that anything inappropriate had happened between his assistant coach and one of his players.
The paranoia, the guilt, the certainty that I’d been found out, it was all in my head.
I was projecting my own shame onto innocent interactions, seeing consequences that didn’t exist because I couldn’t stop replaying what had happened in my apartment last night.
When I returned to the drill, Adan was waiting with the rest of the team for further instruction from Kevin. He looked at me with those dark eyes that had been so close to mine mere hours ago, and I had to fight the urge to look away.
“Alright,” Kevin called out. “Let’s run the power play one more time. Focus on timing and positioning.”
The drill resumed, but my attention kept drifting to Adan despite my best efforts.
The way he moved on the ice, confident and powerful and completely in his element.
The way his mouth looked when he called out to his teammates.
The memory of how those lips had felt against mine, soft and warm and more perfect than I’d ever imagined.
He caught me watching him and held my gaze for a moment. There was something in his expression that looked like a question, or maybe a challenge. Something that suggested he was thinking about last night too, that he wasn’t planning to pretend it had never happened.
I looked away first, focusing on my clipboard with desperate intensity.
This couldn’t continue. The awareness, the tension, the way my body responded to his presence despite every rational thought in my head…
It was going to destroy my ability to function as his coach.
I needed to find a way to compartmentalize, to separate my professional responsibilities from the feelings that had been acknowledged but could never be acted upon again.
But as practice continued and I watched Adan execute drill after drill with growing confidence and skill, I couldn’t shake the memory of how right it had felt to kiss him.
How natural it had seemed in that moment to close the distance between us, to give in to the attraction that had been building for months.
And if he kissed me again, I wasn’t sure I’d have the strength to pull away. The realization should’ve terrified me. Instead, as I watched him score a perfect goal during the final drill of practice, it only made me want him more.
Practice ended with the usual routine of equipment cleanup, a brief team meeting, and players heading off to classes or study hall. I busied myself with organizing pylons and gathering pucks, anything to avoid the moment when Adan might approach me for individual feedback or casual conversation.
But as the arena emptied and I was left alone with my thoughts, I couldn’t escape the truth that had been building since last night’s kiss.
I wanted him. This went beyond mere physical attraction. It was something deeper and more dangerous. Something close to needing him, craving him. Something that made the thought of maintaining appropriate distance feel like torture.
And I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do about it.