Chapter 25
NILS
The game footage flickered on my laptop screen, but I wasn’t watching the plays anymore. I was watching him.
Adan, flying down the ice with that combination of speed and grace that was pure poetry in motion. Adan, celebrating with his teammates after another perfect shot. Adan, glancing toward the bench where I stood, that split-second connection we allowed ourselves before looking away.
Four months since we’d agreed to be friends. Four months and a week since that night in the cabin, where everything had gone to hell. Four long, torturous months that seemed to last like a lifetime. And yet somehow, impossibly, I loved him more now than I had then.
The rational part of my brain had expected the feelings to fade with distance.
That forced separation would act like a cold shower on an inappropriate attraction.
Instead, watching Adan from afar, seeing him grow and succeed without being able to touch him, had crystallized my feelings into something permanent and undeniable.
I closed the laptop and walked to my window, staring out at the March snow still clinging to Buffalo’s streets.
Tomorrow, we’d play Syracuse for the conference championship.
Win, and we’d advance to the title game.
Win that, and it was on to the Frozen Four.
Everything the team had worked for within reach.
My phone buzzed with a text.
Floris
How are you holding up?
I’d been getting variations of that question from all three of my friends for months now. They knew about Adan, knew about our forced distance, knew I was slowly going insane from want.
Me
I’m fine.
Floris
Liar. When do you see him next?
Me
Two hours. Practice.
Floris
And when do you get to actually BE with him?
Me
Three more months.
Floris
You’re both idiots.
Maybe we were. But we were idiots who were protecting Adan’s future, and that made it worth it.
The past months had been filled with moments that nearly broke my resolve.
Valentine’s Day had been particularly brutal.
Adan had shown up to practice with a box of chocolates “for the team,” making a big show of distributing them in the locker room.
But there’d been one left on my desk when I’d returned to the coaches’ office: a single piece of dark chocolate with a note that just said:
Still counting days. – A
I’d eaten it alone in my office and then sat there for twenty minutes trying to compose myself.
Then there was the away game in Detroit where Adan had gotten food poisoning.
He’d been violently ill on the bus, and I’d had to physically restrain myself from going to him.
Tank had handled it, held his head while he was sick, but every instinct in me had screamed to comfort him myself.
Instead, I’d sat three rows away, hands clenched, listening to him suffer.
The worst moment had come during a film review session.
We’d been alone in the video room, going over power play formations, when he’d leaned close to point something out on the screen.
For a moment, I’d felt his breath on my neck, smelled that familiar combination of his shampoo and something uniquely him.
“I miss you,” he’d whispered, so quietly, I almost thought I’d imagined it. Then he’d straightened up and walked out, leaving me sitting there trying to remember how to breathe.
We maintained a text thread that was technically professional: discussing training schedules, reviewing game footage, coordinating practice times. But there was subtext in every message, a second conversation happening beneath the surface.
Adan
Review tomorrow at 7?
Me
Of course. Same room as always.
Adan
Looking forward to it.
Three innocent sentences that meant I need to see you, I’ll be there, and. I’m counting the hours.
My phone buzzed again. This time, it was from him.
Adan
Can’t sleep. Big game tomorrow.
I checked the time: nearly midnight. He should be resting.
Me
You need sleep. You know the plays.
Adan
Not worried about the plays.
Me
Then what?
A long pause before his response.
Adan
Three more months feels like forever.
I stared at the words, my heart aching for him. I started typing responses and deleted them all. Finally, I wrote:
Me
I know. But you’re so close to everything you’ve worked for.
Adan
Yeah. Doesn’t make it easier.
Me
No. It doesn’t.
Adan
Goodnight, Nils.
Me
Goodnight, Adan. Sleep well.
Neither of us would sleep well. We hadn’t in months.
Game day arrived with the kind of electric energy that only comes with championships on the line.
By sheer coincidence, we were playing at home, the location for this game decided before the season had even started.
The Mavericks arena was packed, standing room only, with NHL scouts visible in the premium boxes.
I saw McLaughlin from Detroit, the Boston and Minnesota scouts, and at least three others I didn’t recognize.
Syracuse came out physical and fast, clearly intent on disrupting our rhythm. They’d done their homework, targeting Adan with specific defensive schemes designed to limit his space. But Adan had evolved beyond the player who could be shut down by simple defensive attention.
He was everywhere: backchecking with intensity, creating space for line mates, taking hits to make plays. When Syracuse focused on him, he found Martinez or Webb with perfect passes. When they gave him space, he made them pay.
The game was brutal, both teams trading chances, goalies standing on their heads. With five minutes left in the third, we were tied 2-2. I could feel the tension ratcheting up, overtime looming, season on the line with every shift.
Then Adan created magic.
Syracuse was changing lines, a slight miscommunication between their forwards. Adan read it before anyone else, stripping the puck from their center at our blue line. Suddenly, he was gone, accelerating through neutral ice with that explosive speed that made scouts lean forward.
One defenseman back, frantically skating to cut off the angle. Adan faked outside, then cut inside, the d-man’s skates tangling as he tried to recover. Just Adan and the goalie now, the arena on its feet, time slowing down.
He faked a shot to the glove side, and the goalie bit. My breath held in my lungs. Then Adan tucked it backhand into the wide-open net, a move so smooth, it looked effortless.
The arena exploded. His teammates mobbed him along the boards while I stood behind the bench, professional composure maintained while inside, I was screaming with pride. That goal was everything I’d taught him—the patience, the deception, the technical skill—combined with his natural talent.
We held on for the final two minutes, Syracuse desperately trying to equalize.
When the buzzer sounded, when we’d officially won the conference championship, I allowed myself one moment to watch Adan celebrate with his teammates.
The joy on his face was worth every moment of distance, every sleepless night, every careful boundary we’d maintained.
In the handshake line, I congratulated our players with appropriate enthusiasm. When Adan passed, our eyes met for a second.
“Beautiful goal,” I said quietly.
“Good coaching,” he replied, then moved on before either of us could say more.
The locker room was chaos with champagne—non-alcoholic for NCAA compliance, of course—music, and twenty guys who’d achieved something special and were celebrating. I stayed on the periphery, letting them have their moment while fielding congratulations from other coaches and staff.
“Coach Anders? A word?”
I turned to find McLaughlin standing in the hallway, his expression serious despite the celebration around us.
“Of course. Is everything alright?”
He glanced around, then gestured toward a quieter corner. “First, congratulations. That was an amazing game. Adan’s goal was something special.”
“Thank you. He’s developed tremendously this season.”
McLaughlin nodded, then lowered his voice. “Which is why I’m ready to make him an offer, but let’s keep that between us for a little longer. Entry-level contract, good signing bonus, real shot at making the roster next year.”
My heart leaped. “That’s wonderful news.”
“But,” McLaughlin continued, and my stomach dropped, “I need to give you a heads-up about something.”
“What kind of heads-up?”
He studied me carefully. “When we scout a player seriously, we look into everything. Including their coaches. You’ve done remarkable work with Adan, so I did some digging into your background.”
I kept my expression neutral despite my racing pulse. “I see.”
“Your Royal Highness.”
The words hung between us. Part relief that the secret was out, part dread about what came next.
“You know,” I said simply.
“I do. And look, I don’t care if you’re a prince or a janitor. Clearly, you’re a hell of a coach. But this is going to come out. Media loves a story like this, and with Adan about to sign, with your team in the championships…” He shrugged. “Thought you should know it’s coming.”
“I appreciate the warning.”
“What Adan’s achieved this season is remarkable. Kid’s got a bright future. Would be a shame if the story became about his coach being royalty instead of his talent.”
He was right. Once this broke, every article about Adan would mention the prince who coached him. Every analysis of his development would include speculation about our relationship, about what role my background played.
“Thank you. I’ll handle it.”
McLaughlin nodded. “Good luck in the championship. I’ll be in touch.”
After he left, I stood in the hallway listening to the celebration continue.
Three more months, we’d said. Three more months of hiding, of careful distance, of protecting Adan’s future.
But McLaughlin was right. The story was coming, whether I wanted it or not.
And when it broke, it would overshadow everything: Adan’s achievements, the team’s championship run, all of it.
Unless I controlled it first.