I’d been at Millard for two days now, and the first hints of a routine were there. A shower, keeping in mind that it took a full minute for the water to heat up, then breakfast with an “everything bagel” with lox. Or, as we would say in Swedish: lax. Had to stay true to my roots there, though bagels weren’t exactly Swedish. Still, the combination was quite good, even if I had no idea why they’d called it an everything bagel when it was… just a bagel?
This was accompanied by copious amounts of coffee while doing a quick scan of Swedish news on my phone and checking my Google alerts, then messages. Normal morning activities for a normal person. Except normal people didn’t have to worry about their faces appearing in international tabloids.
I’d done a little exploring, and so far, I liked it here. Buffalo was nothing like Stockholm—grittier, more working-class, unpretentious in a way that was at the same time familiar and completely new.
I missed the stars, though. At night, one could barely see the stars, even on clear nights. I’d brought my smallest telescope with me, but the light pollution from the city was too strong to allow the Milky Way to show her splendor. In Sweden, even half an hour outside of Stockholm, it was dark enough to see it. Well, in the winter, anyways. In the summers, it stayed light for too long to see much.
Maybe I could do some exploring outside of Buffalo and find a darker area? The Niagara Falls were definitely on my list of things to see as well, and so was New York City.
But the good news was that nobody looked at me twice when I walked down the street. It was exactly the anonymity I’d been craving. This year was about discovering if anyone could value Nils Anders for who he was, not Prince Nils Anders Gustav Bernadotte and everything that came with the title.
I’d learned that lesson the hard way with Alexandra. Eight months of thinking I’d found my happily ever after, only to discover she’d seen me as nothing more than a ticket to a better life. The memory still stung, but it had clarified something important: I needed to know that any relationship I built was based on who I was, on my character, not what I represented. And this year in Buffalo was my chance to do that, to see if people still liked me if they had no idea who I was other than an assistant coach.
Sure, at Rideau, my teammates had known and they’d certainly given me shit about it, but everyone had respected my request to keep my identity on the down low outside the rink. It had been mentioned once or twice on some blog or local newspaper, but luckily, it had never become a big story. Hopefully, that meant I could keep my royal background a secret here in Buffalo.
I’d spent the whole day reading up on all protocols—herregud, Americans loved protocols and paperwork, not to mention all the waivers and release forms—and meeting everyone on staff. The Mavericks had a great team, and I was excited to work with them.
But mostly, I was excited to work with Adan. I’d been thinking about Tuesday’s meeting more than I should have. The way he’d challenged me, tested my knowledge, pushed back against authority in a way that should’ve been disrespectful but somehow felt honest instead. There was something magnetic about his confidence, the way he moved on the ice with such natural grace and power.
And god, I had loved besting him. I might not play for a team anymore, but I was competitive enough to still want to win. And beating a player like Adan? Nothing had ever felt sweeter, especially because he was good. Truly, exceptionally good. He had all the makings of a future star, including that cocky grin and the arrogance that radiated off him in waves.
Professional admiration, I told myself. I was excited to work with a player of his caliber.
But as I pulled on my coaching clothes—black training pants, a Millard polo shirt, sneakers—I couldn’t shake the memory of how I’d watched him skate. Not merely analyzing his technique, but appreciating the way he moved, the intensity in his posture, the unconscious confidence in every stride. I’d admired far more than his skills.
There had been moments like this before. My roommate at Rideau whose laugh had made something flutter in my chest. A fellow student in one of my coaching classes whose focused concentration had been impossibly attractive. I’d always pushed those feelings aside, told myself it was nothing but admiration for athletic ability or intellectual prowess.
But standing in my small Buffalo bathroom, brushing my teeth, it was impossible to deny what I’d been avoiding for years. I was attracted to men. Not exclusively—I’d dated several women and enjoyed it, including the sex—but definitely, undeniably attracted to men as well.
And yesterday, watching Adan Rivera dominate the ice with that combination of skill and swagger, I’d felt that familiar flutter of interest that had nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the man himself.
Oj då.This was going to be complicated.
The drive to Maverick Arena took less than ten minutes, the streets empty except for a few early commuters and the occasional jogger. I parked in the staff lot and sat for a moment, gathering my thoughts. Professional boundaries, that was the key.
The arena was quiet at six-forty-five, most of the lights still off. I used my key card to enter through the staff entrance, breathing in the familiar scent of ice and hockey equipment. This early in the morning, the building felt different. It had an air of expectance, ready for the day’s activities.
I flicked on the lights in the coaching office and pulled out my notes from the team practice I’d observed. Corner positioning, defensive awareness, and shot selection were all areas where Adan could improve his game. And I had plenty of ideas on how to help him do that.
“You’re early.”
I turned to find Adan standing in the doorway, already dressed in practice gear except for his skates. His hair was still messy from sleep, and he carried a travel mug of what I assumed was coffee.
“I wanted to review my notes.” I gestured at the papers spread across the desk. “I hope seven o’clock is not too early for you?”
“Nah, I’m always up early anyway.” He took a sip and made a face. “This stuff tastes like it was made yesterday, but it’s caffeinated, so whatever.”
I studied his profile as he looked around the office, taking in the whiteboards covered with tactical diagrams and the shelves lined with hockey manuals. He was very easy on the eyes with dark, slightly-too-long, wavy hair, a pair of chocolate brown eyes, and a slightly toned skin. Like most hockey players, he was built like a compact powerhouse with thick thighs, powerful muscles, and broad shoulders There was something appealing about seeing him in this more casual state, when he was less performative than he’d been with his teammates watching.
“Ready to get started?”
“I was born ready.”
The rink was perfectly quiet except for the hum of the ice-making equipment. Our skates echoed in the empty arena as we stepped onto the fresh ice, and I felt that familiar thrill of having an entire rink to ourselves. This was when the real work happened. No distractions, no audience, just player and coach and the infinite possibilities of improvement.
“We’ll start with corner positioning.” I set up a cone to mark our practice area. “The key is understanding that power alone won’t work against NHL-level defensemen.”
Adan nodded, already focused in that intense way I’d noticed before. When he concentrated, his whole body seemed to tune into the task at hand. “Show me.”
