1
NILS
Three days ago, I’d been attending a state dinner in honor of my uncle, King Alexander of Sweden, in Stockholm. Today, I was about to convince the Millard Mavericks of Buffalo, NY, that I was a regular guy and a hockey coach.
Which I was. Well, the hockey-coach part was true. I did have the experience and degree to back that up. The regular-guy part?Oj, not so much.
Over a year ago, my three best friends—all princes like me—and I had come up with this crazy idea to spend a year undercover in the States, pretending to be normal guys. Tore and Floris—from Norway and the Netherlands, respectively—were attending college in the US. Greg, fourth in line to the British throne, unfortunately had not secured permission from his uncle, the king. Yet.
Being a few years older than them, attending college as a student hadn’t been an option for me. At twenty-seven I was too old for that, hence my assistant-coaching position.
Funny enough, both Tore and Floris had ended up with a boyfriend in their first year of college. I didn’t see that happening with me, but I was eager to find out what life would be like when no one knew who I was.
The August heat engulfed me as I stepped out of my rental car, the thick and heavy humid air immediately smacking me in the face. Had I taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in Florida? ’Cause that’s what I imagined the south to feel like, not this far north. What a difference from the crisp summer temperatures in Sweden.
Maverick Arena loomed before me, its navy blue and silver exterior gleaming under the hazy Buffalo sky. The building was a far cry from the 15,000-seat arena I’d played in at Rideau University in Canada, but there was something solid and purposeful about it that filled my blood with anticipation.
The lobby was modest but well-maintained, with trophy cases lining the walls and team photos dating back decades. The Millard Mavericks’ horse mascot stared down at me from banners hanging overhead. I studied the faces in the photos: young men with determined expressions, some probably not much older than I was now. Millard College boasted four alumni who had made it to the NHL, a respectable number for a relatively small college.
“Nils?”
I turned to face the man who’d spoken. Ah, Coach Brennan. I recognized him from the Zoom interviews. He was in his fifties, his graying hair slightly mussed and his weathered face creased with what looked like a permanent squint. He wore a navy-blue polo with the Mavericks logo embroidered on the chest.
“Coach Brennan.” I extended my hand, grateful that my voice came out steady and professional. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”
His handshake was firm, calloused from years of handling hockey sticks. “Mike’s fine. How was the flight? You got in yesterday?”
Yeah, me calling him by his first name wassonot going to happen.
“Quite smooth, thank you. I arrived Saturday, actually. Spent yesterday recovering from the jet lag and getting myself familiar with my apartment and surroundings. The city is… different from what I expected.” I glanced around the lobby again, taking in the unpretentious atmosphere. “Very authentic.”
Coach Brennan chuckled. “You worded that very diplomatic, but yeah, that’s Buffalo. No frills, but we get the job done. Come on, let’s head to my office. Kevin’s already waiting.”
He led me through a corridor lined with more team photos. The familiar smell of hockey gear—synthetic leather, rubber, sweat, and that indefinable scent of competition—surrounded us. My shoulders relaxed. This part, at least, was universal.
“So,” Coach Brennan said as we walked, “have you had a chance to review the game footage I sent over? Any initial thoughts on Rivera?”
The interviews had already taught me that the man didn’t waste time chitchatting. The man got right to the point, and I could appreciate that. Good thing I’d spent hours studying those clips.
Adan Rivera was a twenty-year-old junior, an extremely talented left wing forward, and I’d been hired to help him get to the next level. From what I’d seen on that footage, he had a real shot. I’d watched it over and over, replaying key moments until I could predict Adan Rivera’s movements. “His instincts in the offensive zone are excellent, but I noticed he sometimes gets caught too deep when the play transitions. We could work on his awareness when he doesn’t have the puck.”
“Exactly what we were thinking. That’s the kind of detail work that’ll get him noticed by the right scouts.” Coach Brennan paused outside a door markedHead Coach. “Fair warning, though: Adan knows you’re here specifically for him, and he’s not thrilled about it.”
My stomach tightened. “He is resistant to individual coaching?”
“Kid’s been the best player on every team he’s ever been on. Never needed extra help before. He sees it as us thinking he’s not good enough.”
“Which is the opposite of what we’re saying,” came a voice from behind the door. Coach Brennan pushed it open to reveal a man I also recognized from the Zoom calls, Kevin O’Brien, the assistant coach. Probably in his early forties, he was bald and buff, and I hadn’t seen him smile even once. “Pleasure to meet you in person.”
His handshake was as firm and professional as Coach Brennan’s had been.
“Same. I look forward to working with you,” I said.
Kevin sat down again, and Coach Brennan gestured for me to take a seat as well.
“Mike’s right, Adan’s taking this personally. He doesn’t think he needs fixing. His words,” Kevin told me.
“What did you tell him?”
