The rest was details.
13
NILS
I hadn’t slept.
Every time I’d closed my eyes, I’d felt Adan’s lips against mine, tasted the lingering hint of mint from his gum, remembered the way his hands had fisted in my sweater when I’d kissed him back. The memory played on an endless loop: the shock of his mouth on mine, the split second where I could’ve pushed him away, the moment I’d given in completely and kissed him like I’d been wanting to for weeks.
I’d made coffee at four in the morning and sat at my kitchen table, staring out the window at the dark Buffalo streets and trying to convince myself that what had happened was a mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment that couldn’t be repeated.
But even as I told myself that, I could still feel the echo of his touch, the way his stubble had scraped against my skin, the soft sound he’d made when I’d deepened the kiss for a moment before reality had crashed back in.
By the time my alarm went off at six, I’d already been dressed and ready for an hour, my coaching notebook open to today’s practice plan. We had an extra team session today instead of my one-on-one with Adan. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, so instead, I focused on preparing the drills. Power play systems. Defensive zone coverage. Penalty kill formations. Technical, measurable, completely professional objectives that had nothing to do with the way Adan’s eyes had looked when he’d pulled away from me.
It couldn’t happen again. Whatever had passed between us last night, whatever feelings had been acknowledged, it had to end there. Adan was my student, my responsibility, and I would not allow my personal desires to compromise his hockey career or my professional integrity.
The resolution felt solid as I drove to the arena, as I used my key card to enter through the staff entrance, as I set up equipment for morning practice. I was Coach Anders. Adan was a player under my instruction. Everything else was irrelevant.
That resolution lasted right up until Adan walked into the arena.
He was early, as always, his gear bag slung over his shoulder and his helmet tucked under his arm. But when he saw me setting up pylons for the first drill, he paused. That cocky grin split his face wide open, and the memory of last night’s kiss hit me like a physical blow.
“Morning, Coach,” he said, and then he actually winked at me. The bastard winked at me. Granted, no one else was there, but still. He couldn’t do that. He shouldn’t do that.
I quickly looked away, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach. “Good morning.”
I didn’t trust myself to look at him again. Instead, I focused on my clipboard, on the drill diagrams I’d reviewed a dozen times already.
But I was aware of him with every cell in my body. The way he moved across the ice during warm-ups, the sound of his skates cutting through the morning silence, the way he smiled when everything went his way.
Don’t look at his mouth. Don’t think about how he tasted. Don’t remember the way he’d pressed closer when you’d kissed him back.
Herregud, I was so fucked.
The rest of the team filtered in over the next fifteen minutes, their voices and laughter filling the arena with the familiar energy of morning practice. I tried to lose myself in the routine of coaching: calling out instructions, setting up drills, focusing on technical improvements that had nothing to do with the way my pulse quickened every time Adan skated past.
“Alright, boys,” Coach Brennan called out as the team gathered around center ice. “We’re going to work on power play positioning today. Coach O’Brien, you want to take the first unit through the set-up?”
Kevin nodded and started organizing the players while I was observing. My attention kept drifting to Adan despite my best efforts. He was focused on the drill, asking questions about timing and positioning, but I caught him glancing at me more than once. Brief looks that lasted a second too long, that carried the weight of everything we weren’t saying.
When it came time to demonstrate proper screen positioning in front of the net, I found myself in the familiar situation of needing to provide hands-on instruction. It was standard coaching protocol: adjusting a player’s stance, correcting their positioning, ensuring they understood the technique through physical guidance.
But when I approached Webb to show him the proper way to establish position without interfering with the goalie, I was hyperaware of the fact that Adan was watching from ten feet away.
“You want to be here,” I said, placing my hands on Webb’s shoulders to guide him into position. “Close enough to screen the goalie’s vision, but not so close that you’re interfering with his movement.”
Webb nodded, adjusting his stance. “Like this?”
“Exactly.”
It was the kind of routine interaction I’d had thousands of times as a coach. Professional, instructional, completely appropriate. But I was acutely aware of Adan’s gaze, of the memory of how different it had felt to touch him, to have his body respond to mine in ways that had nothing to do with hockey.
When the drill moved on and I needed to correct Adan’s positioning, I called out instructions from a distance instead of skating over to provide physical guidance.
“Adan, you’re standing too far from the net,” I said. “Move in another two feet.”
He adjusted his position, then looked at me expectantly. Normally, I would’ve skated over to fine-tune his stance, to ensure he understood exactly what I was looking for. Instead, I nodded approval from across the ice.
