“That’s not my Nils,” I said quietly. “That’s Prince Whoever-the-Fuck.”
“There’s video,” Tank said, clicking on a YouTube link.
We watched Nils giving a speech in Swedish at some environmental conference. His posture was perfect, his delivery smooth and practiced. When he switched to English for the international audience, I recognized the voice but nothing else. This was a trained royal, comfortable with cameras and crowds in a way that made my chest ache.
“He looks different,” Tank observed. “Same face, but different.”
He was right. This Nils held himself differently, smiled differently, even moved differently. Every gesture was controlled, appropriate, perfect. Nothing like the man who’d laughed at his own failure to assemble furniture, who’d gotten excited about showing me stars, who’d gasped my name in the dark.
“I can’t believe he lied to me,” I said, closing the laptop because I couldn’t look anymore.
Tank was quiet for a moment. “Okay but I kinda get why he didn’t tell you.”
My head snapped up. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Hear me out, bro. Look at us right now. We’re literally staring at him like he’s a different person. Like he’s some kind of alien instead of the same dude who’s been coaching you all semester.”
“Because heisdifferent. He’s a prince!”
“But he’s not. He’s the same guy who made you a better player. Same guy who apparently made you happy enough that you’ve been sneaking around with him. None of that changed.”
“He lied?—”
“Would you have acted normal around him if you knew? Been yourself? Or would you have been weird about it?”
I wanted to argue, but the words stuck in my throat. Because I was already seeing him differently. Every memory was being rewritten with this new knowledge. Every conversation recontextualized. “That’s not the point,” I said weakly.
“Dude, if someone told me my coach was royalty, I’d be nervous as fuck. I’d probably bow and shit. But you treated him like a normal person because you thought he was one. Maybe that was exactly what he needed.”
“So I’m supposed to be fine with being lied to?”
“No, man. I’m not saying that. Being pissed makes total sense. But I’m saying, maybe it’s more complicated than him being an asshole.”
I hated that Tank had a point. Hated that his logic was worming its way into my anger, making me question my right to be furious. But the hurt was still there, sharp and deep. “He should’ve trusted me.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s had a lifetime of people being fake around him and didn’t know how to risk it.” Tank shrugged. “I’m not taking his side, but being a prince sounds like it would fuck with your ability to trust people.”
And Tank didn’t even know about Alexandra. If he did, that would only confirm his point.
“I need some sleep,” I said.
As if on cue, Tank yawned. “You and me both. It’s four in the morning, you fuck.”
* * *
I barely slept, staring at the ceiling and replaying every moment with Nils through this new lens, alternating between anger and Tank’s uncomfortable logic. The way he’d been so careful about personal information. How he’d deflected questions about his family. The perfect posture I’d attributed to good coaching training.
How had I missed it? How had I been so blind?
Sunday was torture. I checked my phone constantly, even though I’d told him not to contact me. Part of me wanted him to ignore my request, to fight for us, to do something. But the screen stayed dark.
Tank brought me food from the dining hall because I couldn’t face leaving the room. “You need to eat, man. Can’t play on an empty stomach.”
“I already told him I can’t do private practice tomorrow, but I’m thinking of skipping team practice as well.”
“You can’t do that. You skip team practice, that could get back to that scout that was interested in you.”
He was right. My personal disaster couldn’t affect my hockey career. I’d worked too hard, my parents had sacrificed too much, for me to throw it away over a broken heart. But how was I supposed to take coaching from someone I couldn’t trust?
