This couldn’t continue. The awareness, the tension, the way my body responded to his presence despite every rational thought in my head… It was going to destroy my ability to function as his coach. I needed to find a way to compartmentalize, to separate my professional responsibilities from the feelings that had been acknowledged but could never be acted upon again.
But as practice continued and I watched Adan execute drill after drill with growing confidence and skill, I couldn’t shake the memory of how right it had felt to kiss him. How natural it had seemed in that moment to close the distance between us, to give in to the attraction that had been building for months.
And if he kissed me again, I wasn’t sure I’d have the strength to pull away. The realization should’ve terrified me. Instead, as I watched him score a perfect goal during the final drill of practice, it only made me want him more.
Practice ended with the usual routine of equipment cleanup, a brief team meeting, and players heading off to classes or study hall. I busied myself with organizing pylons and gathering pucks, anything to avoid the moment when Adan might approach me for individual feedback or casual conversation.
But as the arena emptied and I was left alone with my thoughts, I couldn’t escape the truth that had been building since last night’s kiss.
I wanted him. This went beyond mere physical attraction. It was something deeper and more dangerous. Something close to needing him,cravinghim. Something that made the thought of maintaining appropriate distance feel like torture.
And I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do about it.
14
ADAN
A week had passed. Seven days since I’d kissed Nils in his living room, since he’d kissed me back like he’d been thinking about it as much as I had, since everything between us had changed in the space of a few seconds.
Seven days of him acting like it had never happened.
Seven days of him keeping his distance—painfully so.
Seven days of me wondering if I’d made a mistake by telling him, if I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
I slammed my locker shut harder than necessary, the metallic clang echoing through the mostly empty space. Most of the team had already left after practice, but I’d stayed behind to work on drills that should have been getting easier, not harder.
“You okay?” Tank asked from across the room, pulling his street clothes out of his locker. “You’ve been in a shit mood all week.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been playing like garbage, and that’s not like you.”
He wasn’t wrong. My positioning had been off, my shot selection questionable, my timing completely fucked. All the technical improvements I’d made over the past two months seemed to be evaporating, and I knew exactly why.
Nils had stopped coaching me. Really coaching me.
Oh, he still showed up to our sessions, still called out instructions from across the ice, still went through the motions of individual training. But the hands-on corrections, the physical adjustments that had been making such a difference in my game—all of that had disappeared.
He wouldn’t touch me. Wouldn’t even get close enough to demonstrate proper technique the way he used to. Instead, he’d stand ten feet away and describe what I was doing wrong, leaving me to figure out the corrections on my own.
“Maybe you should talk to Coach,” Tank suggested, sitting down to tie his shoes. “Your individual coaching doesn’t seem to be working as well as it was.”
“It’s fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “Just working through some technical adjustments.”
“If you say so. But you might want to figure it out soon. We’ve got Syracuse next weekend, and they’re gonna be gunning for us after what happened last time.”
Tank left, and I sat alone in the locker room trying to process the fury that had been building all week. It wasn’t just the coaching—though that was bad enough. It was the way Nils looked through me during team practices, the careful distance he maintained whenever we were in the same space, the complete absence of the easy friendship we’d been building.
I’d lost him. Not merely as whatever we might’ve been to each other, but as the coach who’d been helping me become a better player. The person who’d made me believe I could actually make it to the NHL.
And that was unacceptable.
By the time I reached my dorm room, I’d made a decision. I couldn’t keep going like this, pretending everything was normal while my game fell apart and Nils acted like I was any other player on the roster.
“Going somewhere?” Tank asked as I grabbed my jacket.
“Out.”
