“This isn’t about hockey.”
Something flickered across his expression: surprise, maybe, or concern. “Then what?—”
“Can I come in? Please?”
He hesitated, glancing past me like he was checking to see if anyone was watching. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate?—”
“Nils.” The use of his first name instead of ‘Coach’ got his attention. “Please. Five minutes.”
He looked at me for a long moment, clearly struggling with whatever internal debate was happening in his head. Finally, he stepped aside. “Five minutes.”
I followed him into his living room, neat and tidy as always.
“Would you like some coffee? Water?” he asked, falling back on politeness like it was armor.
“I don’t want coffee.”
“Then what do you want, Adan?”
I turned to face him, and the careful distance he was maintaining between us felt deliberate. Like he was trying to keep me at arm’s length both physically and emotionally. “I want you to answer a question.”
“What question?”
My heart was pounding so hard, I was surprised he couldn’t hear it. This was it. The moment where I either got the answer I was hoping for or made everything infinitely more complicated. “Are you attracted to me?”
The question hung in the air between us like a live wire. Nils went completely still, his face cycling through shock, panic, and something that might’ve been fear. “That’s… That’s not an appropriate question for you to ask.”
“I’m not asking if it’s appropriate. I’m asking if it’s true.”
“Adan—”
“Because I’m attracted to you,” I said, the words rushing out before I could stop them. “And I think it’s mutual, and I need to know if I’m right.”
His face had gone pale, and he was looking at me like I’d detonated a bomb in his living room. Which, I guess, I had. “You don’t understand the implications of what you’re saying.”
“I understand that you’re not answering my question.”
“Because I can’t answer that question. Because even discussing it crosses professional boundaries that exist for very good reasons.”
“Fuck professional boundaries,” I said, taking a step closer to him. “I’m not asking you as my coach. I’m asking you as someone I brought soup when he was sick and let me help build furniture with him and talked to me on the bus for hours. I’m asking you as the guy you spent a whole day with on Volunteer Day, talking and having fun.”
“Those were mistakes.” His voice sounded strained. “I should’ve maintained better boundaries from the beginning.”
“Were they mistakes? Really?”
“Yes. Because they led to this conversation, which should not be happening.”
I studied his face, looking for any sign that he was lying. But Nils was too honest, too fundamentally decent to be good at deception. And what I saw there wasn’t rejection or disgust.
It was fear.
“You’re scared.”
“Of course I’m scared. Do you have any idea what would happen if anyone found out about this conversation? About what you’re suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m asking a simple question. Are you attracted to me? Yes or no?”
“It’s not that simple?—”
