“Better. That’s the proper distance.”
But it wasn’t better. His positioning was still slightly off, his stance not quite optimal for the screen we were trying to establish. And he knew it, judging by the confused expression that crossed his face when I didn’t provide the detailed correction he was expecting.
I couldn’t touch him. The realization hit me with uncomfortable clarity as practice continued. Every time a drill required physical guidance, every moment where I would normally adjust his form or demonstrate proper technique, I maintained my distance. Not because I didn’t trust myself professionally, but because I didn’t trust my body’s response to the contact.
The memory of last night’s kiss had awakened something in me that couldn’t be easily suppressed. How the hell was I going to continue coaching him when every touch was torture? What was I going to do?
“Nils?”
I looked up to find Coach Brennan approaching, his expression serious in a way that made my stomach drop to my skates.
“Could I speak with you for a moment?”
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. He knew. Somehow, he’d found out about last night, about the completely inappropriate conversation I’d had with one of my players, about the kiss that had crossed every professional boundary I was supposed to maintain.
“Of course,” I said, hoping my voice sounded steadier than I felt.
We skated toward the boards, away from the players who were continuing their drill under Kevin’s supervision. My mind was racing through possible explanations, damage-control strategies, ways to minimize the fallout that was about to destroy everything I’d built here.
“I wanted to talk to you about the Albany game this weekend,” Coach Brennan said when we were out of earshot.
I blinked. “The Albany game?”
“I’m thinking about adjusting our line combinations. Rivera’s been playing well with Martinez and Webb, but I want to try him with some different line mates. See if we can create more offensive opportunities.”
Relief flooded through me so suddenly, I felt dizzy. He wasn’t asking about inappropriate relationships or professional misconduct. He was talking about hockey. Normal, everyday coaching decisions that had nothing to do with the guilt that was eating me alive.
“That makes sense,” I managed. “Adan’s hockey sense has improved significantly. He might be able to elevate less experienced players.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. You’ve done excellent work with him, by the way. The individual coaching has made a real difference in his game.”
The compliment should’ve felt good. Instead, it twisted the sharp knife of guilt deeper in my chest. If Coach Brennan knew what I’d done, how I’d allowed personal feelings to compromise my professional judgment, he wouldn’t be praising my coaching.
“Thank you. He’s been very receptive to instruction.”
“And loaning him your skates was certainly going above and beyond.”
I waved his praise away. “I bought them in my last year at Rideau and barely got to use them since I got injured. They’re way too expensive to waste on coaching, so I’m glad he can use them.”
“Well, it’s to your credit. Anyway, can you work with him on some line chemistry drills this week? Get him used to playing with different combinations?”
“Of course.”
“Great. I’ll let you get back to practice.”
Coach Brennan skated away, leaving me standing at the boards, trying to process the conversation. He had no idea. No suspicion whatsoever that anything inappropriate had happened between his assistant coach and one of his players. The paranoia, the guilt, the certainty that I’d been found out, it was all in my head.
I was projecting my own shame onto innocent interactions, seeing consequences that didn’t exist because I couldn’t stop replaying what had happened in my apartment last night.
When I returned to the drill, Adan was waiting with the rest of the team for further instruction from Kevin. He looked at me with those dark eyes that had been so close to mine mere hours ago, and I had to fight the urge to look away.
“Alright,” Kevin called out. “Let’s run the power play one more time. Focus on timing and positioning.”
The drill resumed, but my attention kept drifting to Adan despite my best efforts. The way he moved on the ice, confident and powerful and completely in his element. The way his mouth looked when he called out to his teammates. The memory of how those lips had felt against mine, soft and warm and more perfect than I’d ever imagined.
He caught me watching him and held my gaze for a moment. There was something in his expression that looked like a question, or maybe a challenge. Something that suggested he was thinking about last night too, that he wasn’t planning to pretend it had never happened.
I looked away first, focusing on my clipboard with desperate intensity.
