The conversation was making me uncomfortable, partly because they were asking questions I didn’t have good answers for, and partly because talking about my attraction to Adan—even without naming him—made it feel more real than I’d been prepared for.
“Can we talk about something else?” I asked. “Like how I’m apparently incapable of assembling Swedish furniture despite being Swedish?”
“Nice deflection,” Tore said with a knowing smile. “But fine, we’ll drop it. For now.”
“Thank you.”
“But Nils?” Floris added. “We’re proud of you for being honest with yourself. And with us. That takes courage.”
“And if you change your mind about not acting on it,” Tore said, “we’re here to talk you through it.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
We spent the next hour catching up on less complicated topics—Greg’s upcoming state visit to France, Floris’s classes, Tore’s soccer season—while I made minimal progress on the KALLAX unit. By the time we ended the call, I had managed to assemble exactly four panels into something that might generously be called the beginning of a shelf.
After they signed off, the house felt oddly quiet. I sat on the floor surrounded by the remaining pieces, thinking about what I’d revealed and what it meant.
I was bisexual. I’d said it out loud, made it real, acknowledged what I’d been avoiding for years. And it felt right. Like a piece of myself I’d been denying had finally been allowed to exist.
But saying it and acting on it were two very different things.
I picked up two more panels and tried to figure out how they connected, but I couldn’t stop thinking about my next session with Adan. I’d told my friends I wouldn’t act on my attraction to him, and I’d meant it. But sitting there in my IKEA-furnished living room, holding Swedish furniture pieces I couldn’t seem to fit together, I wondered if avoiding my feelings would prove as complicated as assembling this damn shelving unit.
And just as likely to leave me with a mess I didn’t know how to clean up.
10
ADAN
The locker room was electric with post-game energy, twenty guys high on adrenaline and victory. We’d dominated Syracuse. Four goals in the third period had turned a close game into a blowout, and everyone was riding that high that came from playing hockey the right way.
“Rivera!” Tank shouted over the music someone had cranked up on their phone. “That goal in the second period was fucking beautiful!”
“Which one?” I grinned as I unlaced my skates—the amazing, epic skates Nils had lent to me that were making more of a difference than I had ever expected them to. He’d been right. I was faster on them, did feel more secure in sharp and sudden movements.
I’d scored twice tonight, both goals coming from techniques Nils had drilled into me. The shot selection and the positioning were becoming automatic now.
“The wraparound! Dude came out of nowhere with that move.”
“Just saw the opening and took it.”
Martinez was already half-dressed, pulling his jersey over his head. “That’s what I’m talking about! Rivera’s finally playing like he’s got a brain instead of trying to bulldoze everyone.”
“Hey, fuck you too, Martinez.”
“I’m serious, man. You’re seeing the ice different now. Making plays I didn’t know you had in you.”
The compliment hit me the right way. It was true. The game felt different now. Clearer. Like I understood something fundamental that had been missing before.
Webb was sitting on the bench next to me, pulling off his pads. “Speaking of playing smart, did you see that pass you made to Evans in the third? Kid was so surprised to get a clean feed, he almost missed the net.”
“‘Almost’ being the key word,” Evans called out from across the room. “I buried that shit!”
Tank snorted. “Barely. You looked like you were gonna pass out from shock when the puck hit your tape.”
The usual post-game chirping filled the room as everyone started the familiar routine of getting out of their gear. Sweaty jerseys hitting the floor, pads being tossed into equipment bags, guys moving around in various states of undress as they prepared for showers.
I pulled my jersey off and started working on my shoulder pads, my mind already drifting to the bus ride home. Another two-hour trip, another chance to maybe sit with Nils and talk about something other than hockey.
