“I mean it. You’re different from other coaches I’ve had.”
“Because I’m younger?”
“Yeah, but also more patient. And you don’t act like you know everything.”
“I’m only seven years older than you.”
“Yeah, but some of the other coaches act like that’s a lifetime. Like they’ve forgotten what it’s like to be learning something new.”
We fitted another piece into place, and I could see the cabinet finally starting to take shape. Something that had seemed impossible a few hours ago was becoming real, functional, useful.
Adan tested the stability of what we’d built so far. Apparently, he was content, because he continued. “Do you ever think about what you’d be doing if you weren’t coaching?”
The question caught me off guard. In my real life, I had a very clear path laid out: royal duties, state functions, eventually taking on more responsibility within the Swedish monarchy. But that wasn’t something I could share.
“I think I might enjoy teaching, perhaps at university level. There’s something appealing about helping people understand complex concepts.”
“You’d be good at that. You have that way of breaking things down that makes sense.”
“What about you? If hockey weren’t an option, what would you want to do?”
“Honestly? I have no idea. Hockey’s been my whole life for so long, I don’t know who I am without it.” He paused in his work, looking thoughtful. “I wonder what it would be like to travel… See places that aren’t hockey rinks.”
“Where would you go?”
“Europe, maybe. I’ve never been anywhere outside North America. It seems so different from here—all that history, all those different cultures packed together.”
“It is quite different. But perhaps not as exotic as you might imagine. People are people, regardless of geography.”
“Still, it would be cool to see. Sweden, Norway, all those places.” He grinned. “Maybe you could give me a tour of your country. Show me your stars.”
The casual suggestion hit me like a physical blow. The idea of showing Adan around Sweden, of seeing my homeland through his eyes, of showing the stars to someone who was starting to matter more than he should… God, it sounded both wonderful and completely impossible.
“That would be nice,” I managed, hoping my voice sounded normal.
“There.” Adan secured the final connection on the main frame. “How’s that look?”
I stepped back to admire our work. The cabinet stood complete and stable, looking exactly like it was supposed to look, like the picture on the box, like something a competent adult might own. “Thank you. I would’ve been working on that for weeks if you hadn’t helped.”
“No problem. It was actually fun. Way better than Professor Henley’s economics lecture.”
He was sitting back on his heels, looking pleased with our accomplishment, and something about his expression—satisfied, relaxed, completely at ease in my space—made my chest tighten with a feeling I absolutely could not afford to have.
He started to gather up the leftover packaging materials. “You know, this is the most relaxed I’ve seen you since we started working together.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Usually, you’re so professional. Controlled. Like you’re always thinking three steps ahead.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“No, not bad, but this is nice. Seeing you as a regular person instead of as my coach.”
The observation was more perceptive than I’d expected, and more dangerous than he realized. Because he was right. I did feel different here, in my own space, working on something that had nothing to do with hockey or hierarchy or maintaining appropriate distance.
I felt like myself. Like Nils, not Coach Anders.
And that was exactly the problem.
