The relief was overwhelming, mixed with embarrassment at all the anxiety I’d carried unnecessarily. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. Just keep doing your job.” He studied me over his reading glasses, which he’d put back on. “I hired you because Rideau gave you a glowing recommendation and your coaching philosophy aligned with what our program needed. The fact that you’re Swedish royalty? Irrelevant to me.”
“But the media attention?—”
“Would be a pain in the ass, which is why I’ve kept my mouth shut.” He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “I assume you want to keep this quiet?”
“The media attention would be disruptive.”
Brennan snorted. “That’s an understatement. Last thing we need is paparazzi at practice or reporters asking the boys about their royal coach. We’ve got games to win, and that circus would derail everything we’re building here.”
“So you’re okay with maintaining this version of the truth?”
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re Nils Anders, assistant coach. Nothing more, nothing less.” He paused, fixing me with a look that seemed to see right through me. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Is there anything else you need to tell me?”
My heart stopped. Did he know about Adan? About what we’d been to each other? The kiss in the tunnel after the game, the nights spent together, the way I looked at him when I thought no one was watching?
“No, sir.”
He held my gaze for another moment, and I forced myself not to look away, not to give anything away. Finally, he nodded. “Good. Now stop looking like you’re facing a firing squad and let’s focus on beating HIT this weekend. They’re coming in angry after their last few losses.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Coach.”
“Don’t thank me. Just keep doing what you’re doing with Rivera. Kid’s looking like a legitimate NHL prospect thanks to your work.”
I left his office feeling lighter than I had in days, but also unsettled. One secret revealed, one burden lifted. But the bigger secret—the one that mattered most—still weighed on my chest like a stone. And Brennan’s pointed question made me wonder if he suspected more than he was saying.
* * *
* * *
The arena filled steadily as game time approached. Students painted in navy and silver, locals who’d been following the Mavericks for decades, families with kids wearing Rivera jerseys. The energy was electric.
I stood behind the bench during warm-ups, clipboard in hand, watching the team run drills. My eyes found Adan automatically. They always did, no matter how hard I tried to look elsewhere. A week of careful distance hadn’t diminished the pull I felt toward him.
He was brilliant out there, skating with the kind of confidence that came from being in peak form. Whatever pain our situation caused him, it hadn’t affected his game. If anything, he seemed more focused, more determined, like he was pouring everything he couldn’t say into his performance on the ice.
During one drill, our eyes met across the ice. Just for a second, but I saw everything in that glance—the frustration, the longing, the determination to see this through. Then he turned away, firing a perfect shot into the upper corner of the net.
“He’s looking good,” Kevin commented beside me. “Whatever you’ve been working on with him is paying off.”
“He’s a dedicated student,” I replied, keeping my voice neutral.
“That shot accuracy is night and day from last season. And his positioning…” Kevin shook his head appreciatively. “You’ve turned him into a complete player.”
Pride swelled in my chest, but I tamped it down. “He’s done the work.”
The game started fast and physical. HIT had come to play, clearly frustrated by their losing streak and determined to make a statement. They came out hitting hard, finishing every check, trying to establish a physical presence early.
But our boys were ready. Adan scored eight minutes into the first period, a beautiful redirect off a pass from Martinez that had the crowd on its feet. He’d read the play perfectly, positioning himself where the puck would be before the HIT defense realized the danger.
I had to grip my clipboard to keep from cheering too obviously, to maintain the professional distance when every instinct wanted to celebrate his success. Kevin slapped me on the back, and I allowed myself a small smile.
The second period saw us extend the lead. Webb scored on a power play, using the shooting technique I’d drilled with the team for hours. Then Tank managed to sneak one past their goalie from the blue line, a shot that shouldn’t have gone in but did because he’d placed it perfectly.
3-0 Millard, and HIT was getting visibly frustrated.
“They’re starting to take liberties out there,” Kevin observed as a HIT player delivered a late hit on Tank, sending him hard into the boards a full second after he’d moved the puck.
