32. Nick
NICK
After being a good little royal for my entire life and rarely attracting controversy, I’ve now become a magnet for drama.
First, I got drunk and kissed a man on camera.
Then, I interrupt my father’s meeting to yell about abdicating the throne, the news of which promptly leaked.
Technically, one cannot abdicate the throne before he becomes king, but rather renounce my rights to succession, so I can’t even have a dramatic outburst correctly.
The day after Christmas, I released a statement on my plans. Typing each word hurt more than the last. Agnes wept when she read it.
Is this what my mother would want? Is this what I want? Again, I couldn’t help feel that I was doing something because I was supposed to, and not because I wanted to.
Rejecting one’s birthright is a very confusing proposition.
To formally codify my plans requires an act of parliament, which is in recess until early January. I spent the days after Christmas hiding away in my wing of the castle. Father and I haven’t spoken, only exchanged head nods of acknowledgment in the rare times we pass each other.
My so-called “friends” haven’t reached out now that I won’t have any power in a week’s time. The only friend who’s called has been Millie. She offered to host me in Sourwood in case I wanted to come back once I’m a private citizen. Maybe you could reconnect with an old friend, she suggested.
Hank texted me, asking how I was doing, if I wanted to talk.
As much as I would love to see Hank, I burned that bridge so thoroughly, the fire department is still trying to put out the flames.
Hank has a son and friends and a business.
And I’m apparently a fucked-up mess. Soon to be broke, unemployed, with zero job skills, forever a global cautionary tale. He doesn’t need that in his life.
By New Year’s Eve, I am desperate to get out of the castle.
I sneak through a quieter entrance, away from the lingering paparazzi, and wander the streets.
I wear a hat and sunglasses to avoid suspicion.
I marvel at full stores and restaurants, my fellow Ardenians.
They are truly great people and don’t deserve to have a laughingstock as a leader.
I find myself walking to a familiar place. Saint Brigid’s Children’s Hospital. Mother and I used to come here to deliver presents during the holidays. Snow has begun to fall—soft flakes drifting past the car windows.
I go inside, not sure if I’m moving my legs or I’m possessed by the kind spirit of my late mother. Some of the nurses turn my way as they recognize me. I’m still the prince, so they don’t stop me from coming in.
A little girl curtsies dramatically when I approach.
“Your Highness,” she says solemnly.
I bow back just as dramatically. “Your Majesty.”
She giggles, and for the first time all day, something inside me loosens.
I visit rooms. I kneel beside beds and listen to stories about school and pets and favorite cartoons. One boy asks if I really live in a castle.
“I’m afraid so,” I tell him. “Very drafty. Terrible heating.”
He laughs like I’ve told the greatest joke in the world.
Still, the sadness lingers beneath everything—like a bruise I can’t stop pressing.
Until I hear it. A puck striking plastic boards.
My head turns instinctively.
Down the corridor, through an open doorway, comes the unmistakable scrape of sneakers and shouting voices. I drift toward the sound.
Inside an empty physical therapy room, a group of kids have set up a makeshift rink. Foam barriers mark boundaries. Two tiny nets sit at opposite ends. Nurses lean against the wall watching as children in hospital gowns chase a bright orange ball with miniature sticks.
One kid notices me first.
His eyes go wide. “It’s the prince!”
The game halts immediately.
I raise my hands. “Please don’t stop on my account.”
A boy holding a goalie mask squints at me. “Do you play?”
I hesitate.
Images flash—Summers Rink lights, Hank’s voice shouting encouragement, the feeling of pads against my legs.
“Used to,” I admit.
They exchange excited looks.
“Be our goalie!” someone shouts.
Before protocol can stop me, I shrug off my jacket and roll up my sleeves.
A nurse hands me the plastic mask. “Your Highness,” she says nervously.
“Just Nick. For today.”
The mask is too small. The pads barely strap around my legs. Perfect.
I step into the net.
“Alright,” I say, crouching instinctively. “Show me what you’ve got.”
The first shot comes slow and wobbly. I block it easily, tapping the ball aside, yet make a very dramatic save. (Sometimes, drama is good.)
Cheers erupt like we’re in a packed arena.
A girl with a shaved head slaps the puck to the goal. I fall into a butterfly drop without thinking—knees down, stick flat—and laughter bursts out of me when I actually make the save.
She comes back around the next round and slings the ball to the top corner of the net. I throw my hand out but am a second late.
“Is there a teller around? Because that shot was money in the bank!” I give her a high-five.
We go on like that, the kids giving me a serious workout. I don’t have to let them win; they’re doing it all on their own. I’m sweating through my shirt, gasping for breath, leg muscles sore. It’s fabulous. For ten glorious minutes, I forget everything.
No cameras. No crown. No expectations.
Just movement. Instinct. Joy.
A tiny boy winds up dramatically and shoots. The ball slips past my glove and into the net.
He throws his arms into the air. “GOAL!”
I clutch my chest theatrically. “Am I a cigarette, because I’m getting smoked!”
The room explodes with laughter.
I laugh too—really laugh, the sound surprising even me. It’s the first time I’ve laughed since returning to Ardenia.
And suddenly I understand something.
These children aren’t looking at me because I’m perfect. They don’t care about diplomacy or tradition or optics.
They’re happy because I showed up. Because I played.
Leadership isn’t distance. It’s presence.
Breathing hard, I pull off the mask and look around at their smiling faces.
Warmth spreads through my chest—different from hockey adrenaline, quieter but steadier.
Maybe being king isn’t about losing myself entirely, trying to contort myself into some proper version of a monarch. Maybe it’s about choosing who I am within it.
I love this country and everyone in it. I’m where I need to be. And it doesn’t matter what my sexuality is. I can be Nick and Prince Nicholas.
For the first time since returning to Ardenia, the future feels possible. Not easy. But possible.
As the game ends, a boy shuffles over and tugs my sleeve.
“You’re a good goalie,” he says seriously.
I smile.
“Thank you,” I reply. “I had an excellent coach.”
And as applause fills the room and snow falls softly beyond the windows, I realize something else too: I miss Hank with every piece of my soul.
But for the first time since leaving Sourwood, I don’t feel like I’m disappearing. Maybe I can learn how to be both things at once.
A man. And a king.