He took his position and went through the drill, but something was clearly off. His timing was slightly delayed, his shots less precise than I’d come to expect. These were techniques he’d mastered weeks ago, yet he was struggling with the execution.
“Let’s try that again. Remember, you want to pick your spot before you release the puck.”
“Right. Pick the spot.”
His second attempt was better, but still not up to his usual standard. I skated closer to observe his form more carefully. “Your shoulders are tense. That’s affecting your follow-through. Here, let me?—”
I moved to adjust his positioning, placing my hands on his shoulders the way I had dozens of times before. The moment I made contact, he went rigid, his entire body tensing under my touch.
“Like this?” he asked, his voice sounding strained.
I could feel the tension in his muscles, the way he seemed to be holding his breath. This was completely different from the relaxed comfort we’d developed during previous sessions.
“Yes.” I stepped back. “That’s better.”
But it wasn’t better. Something was wrong, and I was clearly the problem.
Had he picked up on my attraction, on my feelings for him? Had those somehow made him uncomfortable in ways I hadn’t realized? The thought made my stomach turn with professional guilt and personal disappointment.
“Let’s move on to defensive positioning.” I skated toward the next drill set-up to create some distance between us. “We’ll work on reading the forecheck.”
“Okay.”
The rest of the session continued in the same awkward vein. Adan going through the motions competently but without his usual engagement, me providing instruction while trying to figure out where I’d gone wrong. Every technique that required physical demonstration was met with the same tension, the same careful distance.
By the time we reached our final drill, I was convinced that I’d crossed some line without realizing it. Maybe the bus ride conversation had been too personal. Maybe he’d sensed something in my demeanor that had revealed feelings I’d been trying to keep hidden. Maybe he was trying to send a clear signal he wanted us to be professional.
“That’s good work today,” I said as we finished up, though it had been far from good work. “See you at practice?”
“Yeah, sure. Practice.”
He gathered his gear quickly, more quickly than usual, avoiding the casual post-session conversation that had become our routine. No questions about technique, no discussion of how the drills might apply to game situations, no easy banter about anything beyond hockey.
“Adan,” I said as he headed toward the exit.
He stopped and turned back, but still wouldn’t quite meet my eyes. “Yeah?”
I wanted to ask if everything was alright, if I’d done something to make him uncomfortable, if there was a way to fix whatever had changed between us. But those questions felt too personal, too much like exactly the kind of boundary-crossing that had probably created this problem in the first place.
“Have a good day,” I said instead.
“You too, Coach.”
After he left, I stood alone on the ice for several minutes, replaying every moment of the session and trying to identify where things had gone wrong. The easy camaraderie we’d built over the past month had disappeared completely, replaced by an awkward formality that felt worse than our very first session together.
I gathered the equipment and headed back to the coaching office, my mind churning with possibilities. Had someone said something to him about our growing friendship? Had he received feedback from other coaches or players about the appropriateness of our relationship? Had he simply reflected over the weekend and decided that maintaining professional distance was the smarter choice?
Or had I somehow revealed my feelings in ways that made him uncomfortable?
The last possibility was the most troubling. If Adan had sensed my attraction and was pulling back because of it, then I’d failed in the most fundamental way possible as his coach. I’d allowed my personal feelings to interfere with my professional responsibilities, creating an environment where my student felt unsafe or uncomfortable.
I sat at my desk and opened my laptop, staring at the blank screen while trying to figure out how to handle this situation. The obvious solution was to request that Coach Brennan reassign Adan’s individual coaching to Kevin or bring in someone else entirely. It would be disappointing professionally—I genuinely enjoyed working with Adan and believed I could continue to help him improve—but if my presence was making him uncomfortable, then stepping aside was the ethical choice.
The thought of not working with him anymore, of going back to purely professional interactions during team practices, made something ache in my chest. But that reaction was exactly the problem. I was more invested in this coaching relationship than I should be, more personally affected by his success and his company than was appropriate.
I opened a new document and began typing a carefully worded email to Coach Brennan, requesting a meeting to discuss Adan’s individual coaching arrangement. I didn’t need to explain all the details—just that I thought it might be beneficial for Adan to work with a different coach for the remainder of the season.
But as I started the second paragraph, I hesitated. One awkward session didn’t necessarily mean anything significant had changed. Maybe Adan was distracted by schoolwork, or tired from the weekend, or dealing with some personal issue that had nothing to do with me. Maybe I was projecting my own guilt and confusion onto his behavior.
