“You’re not going anywhere. You need rest.”
“But the rules?—”
“Fuck the rules.” The vehemence in my voice surprised us both. “You’re injured. You need care. That comes before any agreement we made.”
He studied me with his good eye. “You swore. Prince Nils said fuck.”
“Prince Nils says a lot of things when he’s worried about someone he—” I caught myself. “Someone he’s responsible for.”
“Nice save.”
“Adan—”
“I know. Seven months. Professional distance. I haven’t forgotten.” He shifted, wincing. “But maybe… Maybe we could revise the rules a little.”
“Revise, how?”
“Maybe absolute distance isn’t realistic. Maybe we can be friends. Careful friends who don’t cross lines, but friends.”
I thought about the past week: the agony of avoiding him, the way practice had become both the best and worst part of my day.
“Friends,” I repeated.
“Friends who can talk sometimes. Who can help each other when one has a broken face. Who can remember they care about each other even if they can’t act on it.”
It was dangerous. Any crack in our professional distance risked everything. But looking at him, bruised and hopeful, I couldn’t maintain the wall we’d built.
“Okay. Friends.”
His face lit up as much as the swelling allowed. “Yeah?”
“Yes. But we have to be careful. No one can suspect?—”
“I know. We’ll be careful. Professional in public. But maybe… Maybe sometimes, we can talk. Like we used to.”
“I’d like that.”
Seven months still seemed like an eternity, but at least now we could face them as friends, as something more than cold professionals.
It wasn’t everything I wanted. But it was more than nothing.
24
ADAN
I couldn’t sleep. Again.
The digital clock on my nightstand glowed 2:47a.m., mocking me with another sleepless night. Across the room, Tank snored peacefully, dead to the world as usual. If there was anything that could prevent him from falling asleep the second his head hit the pillow, I hadn’t yet discovered it.
I grabbed my phone and checked the conference standings for the hundredth time. Millard Mavericks, first place. Eight wins in a row. Three games left in the regular season, then playoffs. My stats were the best they’d ever been. McLaughlin had called Coach Brennan last week to check on my progress. By every metric that mattered, my life was exactly where I wanted it to be.
Except for the Nils-shaped hole in my chest that made it hard to breathe sometimes.
Two months. Two months since he’d taken care of me after the HIT game, since we’d agreed to be “friends” while maintaining professional distance. Two months in which I’d turned twenty-one but hadn’t been able to celebrate it with the person who mattered most to me. Two months of careful boundaries and measured interactions and pretending that being in the same room without touching wasn’t slowly killing us both.
I rolled onto my side, staring at the wall where I’d taped up team photos and game schedules. In one photo from early season, I could see Nils in the background, watching me celebrate a goal. Even in a still image, I could read everything in his expression: pride, joy, and something deeper he’d gotten better at hiding.
But not good enough. Not from me.
