Chapter 23 #2
“Get the fuck off him!” I roared, grabbing the second HIT player and hauling him backward with strength I didn’t know I possessed.
By the time we separated everyone, Adan was swaying on his skates, blood streaming from his nose, his left eye already swelling shut. He was trying to stay upright, but I could see him struggling.
“Get him off the ice,” Coach Brennan barked.
I guided Adan toward the tunnel, my arm around his waist, trying to support him without seeming too familiar.
But professionalism was the last thing on my mind.
Up close, the damage was worse. Definitely a broken nose, blood still flowing freely.
His left eye was swelling rapidly, and he was holding his jaw in a way that made my stomach clench.
“Hurts,” he mumbled through the blood.
“I know. You’re doing great. Just lean on me.”
“Can’t see… Everything’s fuzzy…”
“That’s okay. I’ve got you. Trust me.”
The training room was chaos. Our team doctor took one look and shook his head grimly. “He needs X-rays. Possible facial fractures, definite concussion from that elbow. Get him to Buffalo General. Now.”
“I’ll call an ambulance,” Kevin said, already reaching for his phone.
“Are your parents here?” I asked Adan.
“No… Mom was sick and Dad didn’t want to leave her home alone.”
I had to lean in to understand him because he was slurring his words so bad. “I’ll call them,” I said.
“If his parents aren’t here, someone needs to come with him,” Coach Brennan said. His eyes landed on me. “Nils, go with him. Keep me updated.”
I tried not to show how relieved I was he’d picked me, how the thought of Adan going to the hospital without me was unbearable. “Of course.”
“Coach Anders comes with me?” Adan asked through swollen lips, his voice small and vulnerable in a way that broke my heart.
“Yeah, kid. He’ll stay with you.”
The ambulance arrived quickly, EMTs efficient and professional as they loaded Adan onto a gurney. I climbed in beside him, fighting every instinct that wanted to hold his hand.
The ride was torture. I sat on my hands to keep from reaching for him, from smoothing his hair back or offering physical comfort. The EMTs had given him something for pain, but he kept making small sounds that tore at my heart.
“Hurts,” he said again, eyes finding mine through the swelling.
“I know. We’re almost there.”
“Scared.” His words were getting more slurred, and I could see the EMT frowning, checking his pupils again.
“Of what?”
He blinked slowly, the pain medication and head injury making him foggy. “Not being able to play.”
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. “Let’s not think about that now, okay?”
At the hospital, they whisked Adan away for X-rays while I handled paperwork. The Millard app had his parents’ phone numbers as his emergency contact, and I steeled myself for the phone call.
“Mr. Rivera? This is Coach Anders from Millard. Adan’s been injured in the game tonight…”
“What happened? Is he okay?” The panic in his father’s voice was sharp.
“He’s at Buffalo General getting checked out. There was a fight during the game. He took some hits to the face.”
“A fight? How bad?”
“Broken nose, possible jaw injury, and most likely a concussion. He’s awake and talking, but they want to do X-rays to be sure.”
I heard rapid Spanish in the background. That had to be his mother. Mr. Rivera translated quickly, then came back on the line. “I’m leaving now. It will take me thirty minutes to get there. You’ll stay with him?”
“Of course.”
The wait was interminable. They’d put Adan in a curtained-off area in the ER, and I’d convinced them to let me sit with him.
He dozed fitfully, face swollen and bruised but somehow still beautiful to me.
The harsh hospital lights made the bruising look worse, purple and black spreading across his cheekbone.
When no one was looking, I allowed myself one moment of weakness—reaching out to brush his hair back from his forehead, letting my fingers linger for just a second. His hair was matted with dried blood, and I had to fight the urge to ask for a cloth to clean it.
He stirred, eyes opening slightly. “Nils?”
“I’m here.”
“Good. Don’t leave.”
“I won’t.”
“Missed you,” he mumbled, still clearly affected by the medication. “Stupid seven months. Stupid rules.”
“Shh. Just rest.”
“Your hands feel nice. Always so gentle.”
I pulled my hand back, glancing around to make sure no one had heard. “The medicine is making you loopy.”
“Maybe. Still true, though.”
The doctor finally returned with results, a young woman who looked exhausted.
“The good news is that your jaw isn’t broken, just severely bruised.
Your nose is fractured but should heal cleanly.
The bad news is that you’re definitely concussed.
Grade 2, possibly Grade 3. You’ll need to follow protocol, which means no play for at least a week, possibly two. ”
Adan groaned. “Scouts could be watching those games.”
“Scouts understand injuries,” I said firmly. “Your health comes first. You’re no good to anyone with a brain injury. Can he go home?” I asked.
“Once we’re sure he’s stable. Someone will need to stay with him for the next twenty-four hours. Watch for signs of increased confusion, vomiting, severe headache. Standard concussion protocol.”
I nodded. “We’ll make sure.”
Most likely, his parents would want to take him home. That was at least the benefit for him of being local. The alternative was Tank, but I didn’t feel comfortable letting him take that medical responsibility.
“Your father is on his way,” I told him once the doctor had left again.
“He’s gonna be pissed…”
Adan was correct in his assessment. When he arrived, Mr. Rivera first hugged his son carefully, then checked out his injuries. Once he was satisfied Adan would live, he turned to me. “Where the fuck were the refs when this shit went down?”
“Dad…” Adan protested weakly, but I held up my hand.
“They weren’t doing their jobs, and I can assure you that Coach Brennan has already lodged a formal complaint. This was absolutely unacceptable, and both HIT players and their coaches should receive an official reprimand.”
That seemed to take away some of Mr. Rivera’s anger.
“Nils almost fought them,” Adan then said.
His father’s eyes met mine, clearly picking up on the use of my first name rather than Coach Anders. “Is that so?”
My cheeks heated. “I was rather desperate to get those players off him. I may have used some colorful language too.”
Mr. Rivera studied me for a moment more, then patted my shoulder. “Good.” He turned to Adan. “Do you want to come home?”
Adan hesitated. “You know how Mom gets when I’m injured.”
“Yes, your mother will worry even more than she already does.” He turned to me again. “Adan’s mom has a big, soft heart, and she has a hard time seeing her son hurt.”
But he did need to stay with someone and not a student. Every rational part of me screamed to not even consider it. But he was hurt, vulnerable, and needing comfort I desperately wanted to provide.
“If you’re okay with it, he can stay at my place tonight,” I said quietly. “I live close to campus. I’ll follow the concussion protocol, make sure he’s okay.”
Mr. Rivera’s eyes drilled into mine, and for a moment, it hit me that Adan had his father’s eyes—though a little less intimidating. He seemed to see what he wanted on my face or in my eyes and gave me a curt nod. “That would be appreciated.”
They discharged him an hour later with pain medication, care instructions, and strict orders to rest. “I’ll drive you,” Mr. Rivera said, which I appreciated since we would’ve had to take an Uber otherwise.
I gave him my address, which he put in his phone for directions.
The drive to my apartment was quiet except for Adan’s occasional groans when we hit bumps.
When we were in front of my entrance, Mr. Rivera shut off the engine and helped Adan get out.
He gave Adan another careful hug. “Get some sleep, Puck.”
“Love you, Dad.”
“Love you too.” He turned to me. “Please call if anything changes. Anything at all. I’ll have my phone on.”
“I will.”
Adan and I slowly made our way inside, where I opened my front door.
“Thank you,” Adan said as we walked into my apartment. “For fighting for me on the ice.”
“I didn’t actually fight anyone,” I pointed out, guiding him to the couch.
“You wanted to. I could see it. Prince Nils was ready to throw down. It was hot.”
“You’re concussed.”
“Still have eyes. Well, one eye.”
I arranged him on the couch with pillows propping him up, ice packs for his face, water within reach. He looked small and vulnerable, nothing like the fierce competitor who’d taken on two players mere hours ago.
“Here…” I adjusted an ice pack against his jaw. “That better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Always,” I said without thinking, then caught myself. “I mean, it’s my job.”
“Liar.” But he said it softly, without heat. “Seven months is a long time, Nils.”
“I know.”
“I miss you. Miss talking to you. Miss being near you without all this careful distance.”
“Adan…”
“I know, I know. Professional distance. But I’m concussed and on pain meds, so I get a pass.” He reached out, fingers brushing my hand where it rested on the couch. “Stay close tonight? Don’t leave me alone?”
“I won’t leave.”
He fell asleep quickly after that, medications pulling him under.
I sat in the chair across from him, watching him breathe, counting the bruises that were darkening on his face.
The rage I felt toward those HIT players was primitive, violent in a way that shocked me.
If I’d been a player instead of a coach, I would have fought them myself. Royal training be damned.
My phone buzzed. First Brennan wanted updates, then Tank asked about Adan, and the team group chat celebrated the win despite the ugly ending. We’d won 5-2, but it felt hollow with Adan injured. I answered what I had to, then silenced my phone. Nothing mattered except the man sleeping on my couch.
The concussion protocol required waking him every two hours, checking his pupils, asking basic questions. Each time, he was a little more coherent, a little less confused.
“Still here?” he asked during the 2 a.m. check.
“Still here.”
“Good. Best nurse ever. Very handsome nurse.”
“Go back to sleep, Adan.”
“Okay. But only ’cause you asked nicely.”
By morning, the swelling had peaked. His face was a mess of purple and black, his left eye completely shut, his nose clearly broken. But he was alert, pupils responding normally, able to answer all the orientation questions.
“How do I look?” he asked, trying to see himself in his phone camera.
“Like you fought two guys at once.”
“Did I win?”
“No.”
“Damn. Street cred ruined.”
I made him toast and tea, light foods that wouldn’t upset his stomach. He ate slowly, jaw still painful, but managed to keep it down.
“I should go,” he said eventually. “Sun’s up. Don’t want anyone to see me leaving.”
“You’re not going anywhere. You need rest.”
“But the rules—”
“Fuck the rules.” The vehemence in my voice surprised us both. “You’re injured. You need care. That comes before any agreement we made.”
He studied me with his good eye. “You swore. Prince Nils said fuck.”
“Prince Nils says a lot of things when he’s worried about someone he—” I caught myself. “Someone he’s responsible for.”
“Nice save.”
“Adan—”
“I know. Seven months. Professional distance. I haven’t forgotten.” He shifted, wincing. “But maybe… Maybe we could revise the rules a little.”
“Revise, how?”
“Maybe absolute distance isn’t realistic. Maybe we can be friends. Careful friends who don’t cross lines, but friends.”
I thought about the past week: the agony of avoiding him, the way practice had become both the best and worst part of my day.
“Friends,” I repeated.
“Friends who can talk sometimes. Who can help each other when one has a broken face. Who can remember they care about each other even if they can’t act on it.”
It was dangerous. Any crack in our professional distance risked everything. But looking at him, bruised and hopeful, I couldn’t maintain the wall we’d built.
“Okay. Friends.”
His face lit up as much as the swelling allowed. “Yeah?”
“Yes. But we have to be careful. No one can suspect—”
“I know. We’ll be careful. Professional in public. But maybe… Maybe sometimes, we can talk. Like we used to.”
“I’d like that.”
Seven months still seemed like an eternity, but at least now we could face them as friends, as something more than cold professionals.
It wasn’t everything I wanted. But it was more than nothing.