Chapter 23
NILS
I stood outside Coach Brennan’s office for a full minute, rehearsing my speech one more time.
Coach, there’s something about my background I need to disclose.
I haven’t been entirely honest about who I am.
Professional, direct, apologetic. I could do this.
My hand trembled slightly as I raised it to knock. A week had passed since Adan and I had agreed to maintain professional distance, and the weight of secrets was becoming unbearable. At least this one—my identity—I could address.
I knocked and entered at his gruff, “Come in.”
Brennan looked up from his laptop, his weathered face showing mild curiosity. The office smelled like coffee and old leather from his ancient desk chair. “Nils. What can I do for you?”
“Coach, I need to tell you something.” I closed the door behind me, my palms sweating. The words I’d practiced seemed to stick in my throat. “About my identity. I haven’t been completely truthful—”
“You mean about you being Prince Nils of Sweden?”
The words hung in the air between us. I stared at him, mouth open, my carefully prepared speech evaporating like morning mist. The office suddenly felt too small, too warm. “You knew?”
Brennan leaned back in his chair with a dry smile, the leather creaking under his weight. “Son, I know how to use Google. Your name plus Sweden plus hockey pulled up some interesting results. Including your full title and some very official-looking photos.”
My legs felt weak. “How long have you known?”
“Since before I hired you. Did you really think I wouldn’t do a thorough background check on my coaching staff?” He pulled off his reading glasses, cleaning them with methodical movements. “I’ve been coaching for twenty-three years. You learn to be thorough.”
I sank into the chair across from him, struggling to process this. All the anxiety, all the careful lies, and he’d known from the beginning. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because you clearly wanted privacy, and frankly, I don’t give a damn if you’re a prince or a pauper. You’re a good coach. You’ve done wonders with Rivera’s development. Your title doesn’t change that.”
The relief was overwhelming, mixed with embarrassment at all the anxiety I’d carried unnecessarily. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. Just keep doing your job.” He studied me over his reading glasses, which he’d put back on. “I hired you because Rideau gave you a glowing recommendation and your coaching philosophy aligned with what our program needed. The fact that you’re Swedish royalty? Irrelevant to me.”
“But the media attention—”
“Would be a pain in the ass, which is why I’ve kept my mouth shut.” He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “I assume you want to keep this quiet?”
“The media attention would be disruptive.”
Brennan snorted. “That’s an understatement. Last thing we need is paparazzi at practice or reporters asking the boys about their royal coach. We’ve got games to win, and that circus would derail everything we’re building here.”
“So you’re okay with maintaining this version of the truth?”
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re Nils Anders, assistant coach. Nothing more, nothing less.” He paused, fixing me with a look that seemed to see right through me. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Is there anything else you need to tell me?”
My heart stopped. Did he know about Adan? About what we’d been to each other? The kiss in the tunnel after the game, the nights spent together, the way I looked at him when I thought no one was watching?
“No, sir.”
He held my gaze for another moment, and I forced myself not to look away, not to give anything away. Finally, he nodded. “Good. Now stop looking like you’re facing a firing squad and let’s focus on beating HIT this weekend. They’re coming in angry after their last few losses.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Coach.”
“Don’t thank me. Just keep doing what you’re doing with Rivera. Kid’s looking like a legitimate NHL prospect thanks to your work.”
I left his office feeling lighter than I had in days, but also unsettled. One secret revealed, one burden lifted. But the bigger secret—the one that mattered most—still weighed on my chest like a stone. And Brennan’s pointed question made me wonder if he suspected more than he was saying.
* * *
* * *
The arena filled steadily as game time approached. Students painted in navy and silver, locals who’d been following the Mavericks for decades, families with kids wearing Rivera jerseys. The energy was electric.
I stood behind the bench during warm-ups, clipboard in hand, watching the team run drills. My eyes found Adan automatically. They always did, no matter how hard I tried to look elsewhere. A week of careful distance hadn’t diminished the pull I felt toward him.
He was brilliant out there, skating with the kind of confidence that came from being in peak form.
Whatever pain our situation caused him, it hadn’t affected his game.
If anything, he seemed more focused, more determined, like he was pouring everything he couldn’t say into his performance on the ice.
During one drill, our eyes met across the ice. Just for a second, but I saw everything in that glance—the frustration, the longing, the determination to see this through. Then he turned away, firing a perfect shot into the upper corner of the net.
“He’s looking good,” Kevin commented beside me. “Whatever you’ve been working on with him is paying off.”
“He’s a dedicated student,” I replied, keeping my voice neutral.
“That shot accuracy is night and day from last season. And his positioning…” Kevin shook his head appreciatively. “You’ve turned him into a complete player.”
Pride swelled in my chest, but I tamped it down. “He’s done the work.”
The game started fast and physical. HIT had come to play, clearly frustrated by their losing streak and determined to make a statement. They came out hitting hard, finishing every check, trying to establish a physical presence early.
But our boys were ready. Adan scored eight minutes into the first period, a beautiful redirect off a pass from Martinez that had the crowd on its feet. He’d read the play perfectly, positioning himself where the puck would be before the HIT defense realized the danger.
I had to grip my clipboard to keep from cheering too obviously, to maintain the professional distance when every instinct wanted to celebrate his success. Kevin slapped me on the back, and I allowed myself a small smile.
The second period saw us extend the lead. Webb scored on a power play, using the shooting technique I’d drilled with the team for hours. Then Tank managed to sneak one past their goalie from the blue line, a shot that shouldn’t have gone in but did because he’d placed it perfectly.
3-0 Millard, and HIT was getting visibly frustrated.
“They’re starting to take liberties out there,” Kevin observed as a HIT player delivered a late hit on Tank, sending him hard into the boards a full second after he’d moved the puck.
“Refs need to call it tighter,” Brennan agreed, his jaw clenched. “Before someone gets hurt.”
But the refs seemed content to let them play, and as the period wound down, the hits got later, harder, more deliberate.
A slash on Martinez that went uncalled. A knee-on-knee hit on Webb that should have been a major penalty but wasn’t even a minor.
HIT scored, but that didn’t diminish their aggression.
I found myself gripping the boards, my knuckles white. This was getting dangerous.
The third period started with Adan scoring again, a gorgeous breakaway goal that showcased everything we’d worked on: speed, hands, shot selection. 4-1 Millard, and the HIT bench was seething.
“Keep your heads up out there!” Brennan shouted during a line change. “They’re headhunting!”
He wasn’t wrong. HIT had clearly decided if they couldn’t win, they’d make us pay physically. And they’d identified Adan as target number one.
Every shift, someone was taking runs at him. Late hits, slashes behind the play, little shots after the whistle. Adan gave as good as he got, finishing his checks, not backing down, but I could see the toll it was taking.
“They’re going to hurt someone,” I said, unable to keep the worry out of my voice.
“Rivera can handle himself,” Brennan replied, but I could see the concern in his eyes too. “Kid’s tougher than he looks.”
“Tough doesn’t protect against cheap shots.”
As if to prove my point, a HIT forward caught Adan with an elbow in the corner, snapping his head back. No call.
“That’s fucking bullshit!” Kevin yelled at the referee. “Call the fucking game!”
The ref skated by without acknowledging him.
With six minutes left, the inevitable happened. Adan went into the corner to dig out a loose puck, a HIT defenseman right on him. I saw it developing before it happened: the defenseman’s elbow coming up, the angle all wrong, the intent clear.
The hit was dirty: elbow high, direct to Adan’s head, intent to injure obvious to anyone watching. Adan’s head snapped back sickeningly, but he came up swinging, gloves already dropping.
“Shit,” Brennan muttered.
The HIT player was bigger, had the advantage of not being dazed from a head shot. They traded punches, the crowd on its feet, screaming. The helmets came off, and nausea swirled in my stomach. This wasn’t going to end well. Why wasn’t the ref interfering?
Adan held his own for a few seconds, landing a solid right that staggered the defenseman.
Then another HIT player jumped in, grabbing Adan from behind.
I was over the boards before conscious thought kicked in, my shoes slipping on the ice.
Kevin and the refs were right behind me, but those few seconds of Adan taking punches from two players felt like hours.
One caught him square in the nose, and I heard the sickening crack from ten feet away.
Another to his eye, snapping his head to the side.