Chapter 20
ADAN
I was trying to be quiet, but I only made it three steps into our dorm room before Tank turned on the light, squinting at me.
“Dude, where the fuck were you? What happened?”
Oops, I’d forgotten the fact that I should’ve been back hours ago and had never let him know I wouldn’t be. “It’s a long story.”
I dropped my gear bag by the door and sat heavily on my bed, trying to figure out how to even start this conversation. My mind was still reeling from everything Nils had told me, from the perfect romantic night that had shattered into something I couldn’t begin to process.
Tank must’ve picked up on something, because he sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Talk to me.”
“I need you to swear to secrecy first,” I said, my voice coming out rougher than intended. “I’m serious, Tank. Nobody can know this.”
His expression shifted from concerned to alarmed. “Did you kill someone? Do we need to hide a body? Because I’m your boy, but I draw the line at federal crimes.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed. “No bodies. Just… Fuck. I don’t even know how to say this.”
“Start at the beginning. Where did you actually go?”
I took a deep breath. “I was with Nils. In a cabin in the mountains.”
Tank’s eyebrows shot up. “Coach Anders? Like with him with him?”
“Yeah.” There was no point hiding that part now. “We’ve been… something. I don’t even know what to call it. But that’s not the important part.”
“Pretty sure that’s a really important part, but okay.”
Maybe from his perspective, it was. “So I’m bi. Whatever.”
“Yeah, the bi part wasn’t what caught my attention. How about the fact that he’s your coach?”
I waved his words away. “He’s only seven years older.”
“Still your coach, but continue.”
“He lied to me. About who he is.” I ran my hands through my hair, still struggling to make the words come out. “His name isn’t Nils Anders. Well, it is, but that’s not his full name.”
“Okay?” Tank looked confused. “So he has a middle name?”
“He has a title.” I met Tank’s eyes. “He’s a fucking prince. Like, an actual prince of Sweden.”
The silence that followed was almost comical. Tank’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. “He’s a what?”
“Sixth in line to the Swedish throne. His Royal Highness Prince Whatever the Fuck of Sweden.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I wish I was.”
“No, seriously, this is a joke. You’re pranking me.”
“Tank, I couldn’t make this up if I tried. He’s been lying since day one. Came here to live as a ‘normal person’ for a year. And I’m the idiot who fell for it.”
Tank’s expression cycled through the same disbelief I’d felt. “Holy fuck. You’re serious. Coach Anders is a prince.”
“Prince Nils Anders Gustav Bernadotte, Duke of something I can’t pronounce.”
“Jesus Christ.” Tank grabbed his laptop. “We need to google this shit right now.”
We hunched over his computer, typing in Prince Nils Sweden with fingers that felt numb. The results loaded instantly, and there he was. My Nils, except not mine at all.
The first image showed him in a military dress uniform, medals across his chest, standing next to other members of the Swedish royal family. He looked regal, untouchable, nothing like the man I’d helped build IKEA furniture on his living-room floor.
“Holy shit,” Tank breathed. “Look at all these medals. Is that a sword?”
I clicked through more images, each one making my stomach twist tighter.
Nils at Nobel Prize ceremonies in white tie and tails.
Nils shaking hands with world leaders. Nils christening a ship, cutting ribbons at hospital openings, speaking at charity galas with the kind of confident authority that came from a lifetime of public service.
“Your Nils is something else,” Tank said, still in shock.
“That’s not my Nils,” I said quietly. “That’s Prince Whoever-the-Fuck.”
“There’s video,” Tank said, clicking on a YouTube link.
We watched Nils giving a speech in Swedish at some environmental conference.
His posture was perfect, his delivery smooth and practiced.
When he switched to English for the international audience, I recognized the voice but nothing else.
This was a trained royal, comfortable with cameras and crowds in a way that made my chest ache.
“He looks different,” Tank observed. “Same face, but different.”
He was right. This Nils held himself differently, smiled differently, even moved differently.
Every gesture was controlled, appropriate, perfect.
Nothing like the man who’d laughed at his own failure to assemble furniture, who’d gotten excited about showing me stars, who’d gasped my name in the dark.
“I can’t believe he lied to me,” I said, closing the laptop because I couldn’t look anymore.
Tank was quiet for a moment. “Okay but I kinda get why he didn’t tell you.”
My head snapped up. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Hear me out, bro. Look at us right now. We’re literally staring at him like he’s a different person. Like he’s some kind of alien instead of the same dude who’s been coaching you all semester.”
“Because he is different. He’s a prince!”
“But he’s not. He’s the same guy who made you a better player. Same guy who apparently made you happy enough that you’ve been sneaking around with him. None of that changed.”
“He lied—”
“Would you have acted normal around him if you knew? Been yourself? Or would you have been weird about it?”
I wanted to argue, but the words stuck in my throat. Because I was already seeing him differently. Every memory was being rewritten with this new knowledge. Every conversation recontextualized. “That’s not the point,” I said weakly.
“Dude, if someone told me my coach was royalty, I’d be nervous as fuck. I’d probably bow and shit. But you treated him like a normal person because you thought he was one. Maybe that was exactly what he needed.”
“So I’m supposed to be fine with being lied to?”
“No, man. I’m not saying that. Being pissed makes total sense. But I’m saying, maybe it’s more complicated than him being an asshole.”
I hated that Tank had a point. Hated that his logic was worming its way into my anger, making me question my right to be furious. But the hurt was still there, sharp and deep. “He should’ve trusted me.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s had a lifetime of people being fake around him and didn’t know how to risk it.” Tank shrugged. “I’m not taking his side, but being a prince sounds like it would fuck with your ability to trust people.”
And Tank didn’t even know about Alexandra. If he did, that would only confirm his point.
“I need some sleep,” I said.
As if on cue, Tank yawned. “You and me both. It’s four in the morning, you fuck.”
* * *
I barely slept, staring at the ceiling and replaying every moment with Nils through this new lens, alternating between anger and Tank’s uncomfortable logic.
The way he’d been so careful about personal information.
How he’d deflected questions about his family.
The perfect posture I’d attributed to good coaching training.
How had I missed it? How had I been so blind?
Sunday was torture. I checked my phone constantly, even though I’d told him not to contact me. Part of me wanted him to ignore my request, to fight for us, to do something. But the screen stayed dark.
Tank brought me food from the dining hall because I couldn’t face leaving the room. “You need to eat, man. Can’t play on an empty stomach.”
“I already told him I can’t do private practice tomorrow, but I’m thinking of skipping team practice as well.”
“You can’t do that. You skip team practice, that could get back to that scout that was interested in you.”
He was right. My personal disaster couldn’t affect my hockey career. I’d worked too hard, my parents had sacrificed too much, for me to throw it away over a broken heart. But how was I supposed to take coaching from someone I couldn’t trust?
Monday morning came too fast and not fast enough.
I woke up at the usual time, only to realize there was no private practice, so I’d stayed in bed, unable to fall asleep again.
I arrived at the arena exactly on time for team practice, not a minute early like usual.
My game face was firmly in place—I’d played through injuries, family stress, academic pressure.
I could play through this. At least it wasn’t private coaching where he and I would be alone.
Nils was already on the ice when I entered, and the sight of him made my throat tight. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes visible even from across the rink. Good. At least I wasn’t the only one suffering.
Warm-ups proceeded normally. I fell into the familiar rhythm of skating, trying to ignore Nils’s presence behind the bench. But when we moved into drills that required coach interaction, he approached me with visible caution.
“Adan,” he said quietly, professionally. “Your left shoulder is dropping when you release. It’s affecting your accuracy.”
He reached to correct my position, and I saw him hesitate, waiting to see if I’d pull away.
I forced myself to stay still, to let him adjust my stance like he’d done a hundred times before.
But his familiar touch burned now, knowing these were the same hands that had signed royal documents, shaken hands with presidents and prime ministers.
“Better,” he said, stepping back quickly. “Try again.”
The correction was perfect. Of course it was. Prince or not, he was still an excellent coach. My body responded to his instruction even as my heart was breaking, muscle memory taking over where emotion wanted to interfere.
I caught his expression when he thought I wasn’t looking. Beyond tired: devastated. Like I’d been the one to betray him instead of the other way around. Part of me was viciously glad to see him suffering. Another part wanted to comfort him, and I hated myself for that weakness.
“You two okay?” Webb asked during a water break. “Seems tense over there.”
“Yeah, just tired,” I lied. “Long weekend.”