Tank must’ve picked up on something, because he sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Talk to me.”
“I need you to swear to secrecy first,” I said, my voice coming out rougher than intended. “I’m serious, Tank. Nobody can know this.”
His expression shifted from concerned to alarmed. “Did you kill someone? Do we need to hide a body? Because I’m your boy, but I draw the line at federal crimes.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed. “No bodies. Just… Fuck. I don’t even know how to say this.”
“Start at the beginning. Where did you actually go?”
I took a deep breath. “I was with Nils. In a cabin in the mountains.”
Tank’s eyebrows shot up. “Coach Anders? Likewith himwith him?”
“Yeah.” There was no point hiding that part now. “We’ve been… something. I don’t even know what to call it. But that’s not the important part.”
“Pretty sure that’s a really important part, but okay.”
Maybe from his perspective, it was. “So I’m bi. Whatever.”
“Yeah, the bi part wasn’t what caught my attention. How about the fact that he’s your coach?”
I waved his words away. “He’s only seven years older.”
“Still your coach, but continue.”
“He lied to me. About who he is.” I ran my hands through my hair, still struggling to make the words come out. “His name isn’t Nils Anders. Well, it is, but that’s not his full name.”
“Okay?” Tank looked confused. “So he has a middle name?”
“He has a title.” I met Tank’s eyes. “He’s a fucking prince. Like, an actual prince of Sweden.”
The silence that followed was almost comical. Tank’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. “He’s awhat?”
“Sixth in line to the Swedish throne. His Royal Highness Prince Whatever the Fuck of Sweden.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I wish I was.”
“No, seriously, this is a joke. You’re pranking me.”
“Tank, I couldn’t make this up if I tried. He’s been lying since day one. Came here to live as a ‘normal person’ for a year. And I’m the idiot who fell for it.”
Tank’s expression cycled through the same disbelief I’d felt. “Holy fuck. You’re serious. Coach Anders is a prince.”
“Prince Nils Anders Gustav Bernadotte, Duke of something I can’t pronounce.”
“Jesus Christ.” Tank grabbed his laptop. “We need to google this shit right now.”
We hunched over his computer, typing inPrince Nils Swedenwith fingers that felt numb. The results loaded instantly, and there he was. My Nils, except not mine at all.
The first image showed him in a military dress uniform, medals across his chest, standing next to other members of the Swedish royal family. He looked regal, untouchable, nothing like the man I’d helped build IKEA furniture on his living-room floor.
“Holy shit,” Tank breathed. “Look at all these medals. Is that a sword?”
I clicked through more images, each one making my stomach twist tighter. Nils at Nobel Prize ceremonies in white tie and tails. Nils shaking hands with world leaders. Nils christening a ship, cutting ribbons at hospital openings, speaking at charity galas with the kind of confident authority that came from a lifetime of public service.
“Your Nils is something else,” Tank said, still in shock.
