I blinked. Holy shit. “That’s… That’s a lot.” It was too much. I couldn’t ask my parents for that much money for skates, and god knew I didn’t have the time to get a job myself. But if they could increase my chances of getting into the NHL… “What size do you wear?”
“What size?” Nils frowned, but then understanding hit. “Forty-three. Oh wait, that’s European size. That’s… about an 9.5 US, I think. Maybe a 10?”
“I’m a size 9.5.”
“You want to try them?”
Thank god he didn’t make me ask. “Can I? Just to see if they’d make a difference for me.”
“It’ll take you a few hours of training to get used to them.”
“So I’ll practice extra.”
He took a deep breath, then nodded. “Yes, you can borrow them.”
I put my brush down, then took his from his hand as well and put it on the tray.
“What are you… Mfph…”
I hugged him tightly, wrapping my arms around him and holding on. “Thank you.”
He awkwardly patted my back, not really hugging me back. “You’re welcome.”
I squeezed him for a second more, then let go. “I’m serious. This means a lot to me.”
“You can thank me in your first victory speech after winning the Stanley cup with your team.”
A rush of pure joy barreled through me. “You believe in me that much?”
“I do, Adan. You have what it takes… and I will do whatever I can to help you get there.”
Jesus, I wanted to hug him again, but that was probably pushing it, considering he’d already been uncomfortable with that first hug. “Thank you.”
“It’s my job.”
“Pretty sure that letting me borrow your skates is not part of your job description.”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “An omission for sure.”
We worked in comfortable silence for a while, the room gradually transforming from institutional beige to something that felt more like home. A few of the center’s kids wandered through occasionally, some offering to help, others curious about what we were doing.
“You guys are from the college?” asked a girl who looked about sixteen, settling onto one of the covered couches to watch us work.
“Yeah, Millard College hockey team,” I said. “I’m Adan, this is Coach Anders.”
“Nils,” Nils corrected me. “You can call me Nils.”
If she could, I could too, right? Deep down, I knew it didn’t work that way, but I pushed that thought down.
“Cool. I’m Maya. Thanks for doing this. The old paint was pretty depressing.”
“No problem. This your regular hang-out spot?”
“Pretty much. It’s better than home, most days.” She said it matter-of-factly, without self-pity, but something in her tone suggested there was a story there.
“How long has the center been around?” Nils asked.
“Like, five years? Sarah started it when she realized how many queer kids didn’t have anywhere safe to go. Lots of us got kicked out or couldn’t deal with family drama.”
