“And you think we can do that? Just turn it off?” I thought about practice this morning, how aware I’d been of every movement he made, how his hand correcting my form had sent electricity through me despite my anger.
Nils gently shook his head. “But we have to try. Because the alternative is risking everything, and that’s unacceptable.”
He was right. I hated everything about this, but he was right. “At least it’ll give me some time to cool off,” I said in a lame attempt at humor.
He laughed obediently, but in his eyes, I saw the pain I felt reflected. It didn’t make it easier, but it did make the ache a little less sharp. “So professional contact only,” I said softly. “No coming over to your house anymore.”
“No. And no sitting with me on the bus.”
Fuck, this was gonna suck. “What if… What if I don’t make it to the NHL this year? I’ll have one more year of college left.”
“I won’t renew my contract,” he said without a second of hesitation. “I’ll coach you on a personal basis if needed, but I won’t sign on for another year. I can’t.”
His voice broke a little at the end, proving how much this was affecting him.
“Okay,” I said, but it came out a whisper.
We both rose. One look at him and I was in his arms, hugging him as tightly as if I never wanted to let him go… which wasn’t far from the truth. Our cheeks were pressed together, and I squeezed my eyes shut, not even surprised when they grew moist.
“These seven months will feel like forever,” I whispered.
“They will.” He let go and finally, I did too. He cupped both my cheeks in his hands and met my eyes before pressing the softest of kisses on my lips. “I need you to know—what I wrote in that letter, about loving you? That won’t change. Not in seven months, not in seven years.”
My throat tight, I couldn’t respond. Instead, I left, closing the door on him and everything I wanted but couldn’t have.
23
NILS
I stood outside Coach Brennan’s office for a full minute, rehearsing my speech one more time.
Coach, there’s something about my background I need to disclose.
I haven’t been entirely honest about who I am.
Professional, direct, apologetic. I could do this.
My hand trembled slightly as I raised it to knock. A week had passed since Adan and I had agreed to maintain professional distance, and the weight of secrets was becoming unbearable. At least this one—my identity—I could address.
I knocked and entered at his gruff, “Come in.”
Brennan looked up from his laptop, his weathered face showing mild curiosity. The office smelled like coffee and old leather from his ancient desk chair. “Nils. What can I do for you?”
“Coach, I need to tell you something.” I closed the door behind me, my palms sweating. The words I’d practiced seemed to stick in my throat. “About my identity. I haven’t been completely truthful?—”
“You mean about you being Prince Nils of Sweden?”
The words hung in the air between us. I stared at him, mouth open, my carefully prepared speech evaporating like morning mist. The office suddenly felt too small, too warm. “You knew?”
Brennan leaned back in his chair with a dry smile, the leather creaking under his weight. “Son, I know how to use Google. Your name plus Sweden plus hockey pulled up some interesting results. Including your full title and some very official-looking photos.”
My legs felt weak. “How long have you known?”
“Since before I hired you. Did you really think I wouldn’t do a thorough background check on my coaching staff?” He pulled off his reading glasses, cleaning them with methodical movements. “I’ve been coaching for twenty-three years. You learn to be thorough.”
I sank into the chair across from him, struggling to process this. All the anxiety, all the careful lies, and he’d known from the beginning. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because you clearly wanted privacy, and frankly, I don’t give a damn if you’re a prince or a pauper. You’re a good coach. You’ve done wonders with Rivera’s development. Your title doesn’t change that.”
