His smile widened, and for the first time in a week, he looked like the Nils I’d been getting to know: relaxed, genuine, present in the moment instead of constantly calculating potential consequences.
“What happens tomorrow?” he asked.
“Tomorrow, we go back to being coach and player. You teach me hockey, I try to learn from you, and we both try to figure out how to make this work.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then we’ll deal with that when we get there. But I’m not willing to give up without trying.”
He studied my face for a long moment, and I could see him weighing options, calculating risks, trying to find a path forward that didn’t end in disaster for both of us.
“Okay,” he said finally.
“Okay?”
“Okay. We try to make this work.”
The relief that flooded through me was overwhelming. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. This might be the worst decision either of us has ever made.”
“Or it might be the best.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I usually am.”
That earned me another smile, and as I finally stepped back to give him some space, I felt lighter than I had in a week. We hadn’t solved everything—we probably hadn’t solved anything, really—but we’d at least acknowledged that running away from the problem wasn’t working.
And for now, that felt like enough.
15
NILS
The arena was pulsing with the kind of energy that only came from a big win against a conference rival. We’d beaten Syracuse four to one, and Adan had been absolutely spectacular with two goals and two assists. And more importantly, every technique we’d been practicing in our one-on-one coaching sessions had shown up in game conditions.
The game had been a masterclass in everything we’d been working on. From the opening face-off, Adan had played with the confidence and precision that had been missing during our week of forced distance.
His first goal had come in the opening period, a perfect example of the corner positioning we’d drilled endlessly. Instead of trying to power through the defenseman like he would have done months ago, he’d used the angle to create space, made the d-man commit, then slipped a quick pass to himself off the back boards before burying the shot in the top corner. Textbook execution of technique that had taken weeks to refine.
The second goal was even better; a display of the hockey intelligence that separated good players from great ones. He’d read the play developing before anyone else on the ice, anticipating where the puck would be instead of chasing where it was. When the opportunity came, he was already in perfect position to redirect a pass from Martinez past a sprawling goalie.
But it was the goals he didn’t take that impressed me most. Three separate occasions where the old Adan would have forced a shot, and instead, he’d made the smart play of passing to a teammate in better position, creating scoring chances for others instead of padding his own statistics.
Between the technical improvements and the tactical awareness, Adan was playing the most complete hockey I’d ever seen from him. Every correction we’d made, every adjustment we’d worked on, every moment of hands-on instruction was showing up in game conditions. Of course the skates made a small difference too, but most of it was him.
This was what we could accomplish when we worked together properly. This was why I couldn’t retreat again, no matter how complicated things became between us personally.
I stood near the tunnel watching the celebration on the ice, trying to process the mixture of pride and relief flooding my system. After the disaster of the previous week, when my guilt and fear had nearly destroyed both our professional relationship and Adan’s performance, seeing him play like this felt like vindication.
We’d found our rhythm again. The hands-on coaching, the technical corrections, and the comfortable dynamic that had been developing before everything had gotten complicated were all back, and the results spoke for themselves.
“Hell of a performance.”
I turned to find a man in his fifties approaching, wearing a suit that screamed professional scout. He had the weathered look of someone who’d spent decades around hockey rinks, evaluating talent and projecting futures.
“Joe McLaughlin,” he said, extending his hand. “Detroit Red Wings.”
