I demonstrated the technique, emphasizing the subtle movements that created space and options. “It’s about making the defenseman commit to a choice before you reveal your intention.”
“Like poker.”
“Exactly like poker. You control the information they receive.”
He tried the drill, and I could see his natural athleticism working to integrate the new technique. His first few attempts were awkward—he was fighting against years of muscle memory—but gradually, he began to find the rhythm.
“Better.” I skated closer to adjust his stance. “But you’re still telegraphing your move with your shoulders. Try keeping them square until the last moment.”
I reached out to demonstrate, my hands settling on his shoulders to guide the positioning. The contact was brief, professional, but I was very aware of the solid muscle beneath his practice jersey, the way he held perfectly still as I made the adjustment.
“Like this?” He repeated the movement.
“Exactly.” I stepped back, hoping my voice sounded normal. “Now try it with the puck.”
The next twenty minutes flew by as we worked through variations of the drill. Adan was a quick learner, his competitive nature driving him to master each element before moving on to the next. I was genuinely impressed by his hockey intelligence. He didn’t merely memorize the technique but wanted to understand the underlying principles.
“This is sick,” he said after successfully completing a complex sequence. “I can feel how much more control I have.”
“That’s the goal. At the professional level, it’s often the mental game that separates good players from great ones.”
We moved on to defensive awareness drills, working on his positioning when he didn’t have the puck. This required even more hands-on coaching with me adjusting his stance, guiding his movement, demonstrating proper body angles. Each touch was brief and professional, but I was increasingly aware of his presence, his focus, the way he absorbed instruction with complete attention.
“You’re a good teacher,” he said during a water break, leaning against the boards. “Different from the other coaches I’ve had.”
“How so?”
“You explain the why. Most coaches tell you to do something and expect you to obey without understanding the reason or even asking for it.”
The compliment pleased me, probably more than it should have. “Understanding the theory behind it makes it easier to adapt the technique to different situations.”
“Makes sense.” He took another drink of water, throat working as he swallowed. I forced myself to look away. He put his water bottle down again. “What’s it like in Sweden? I mean, hockey-wise. Is it really different from here?”
The question was innocent enough, but this was dangerous territory for me. How much could I tell him without revealing too much and without resorting to lies? “The style is different. More emphasis on skill and strategy, less on pure physicality. And the rinks are larger, which affects the pace of play.”
He frowned. “Larger how?”
“Four meters wider. That’s, erm…” I did a quick calculation. “Roughly twelve feet, I think? It sounds small, but it makes a huge difference. In Sweden, you have more time to think, more space to develop plays. Here, everything happens faster. You have to make decisions quicker because the walls are always right there.” I gestured toward the boards. “When I first came to Canada, I kept trying to make passes that worked perfectly in Sweden but got picked off here because there wasn’t enough room.”
“Huh. So you had to change your style?”
“In some ways, yes. But it made me a better player. Learning to think faster, to see opportunities in tighter spaces.” I paused, remembering those first few weeks at Rideau when everything had felt cramped and rushed. “But it took a while to adapt.”
“And you’ve played hockey your whole life?”
I smiled automatically as I thought of my father. Born in a normal family but elevated to royalty after marrying my mom, the actual princess, he’d insisted on giving me as normal a youth as possible… and that had included hockey. He loved the game, always had. “Yes, from the time I was very young. My father was very supportive of my hockey interests.”
True enough, even if it left out the part about being trained by former Olympic coaches on the palace grounds.
“That’s cool. My parents worked their asses off to pay for my hockey.” There was pride in his voice, not self-pity. “Dad still picks up extra shifts when I need new equipment.”
The contrast between our backgrounds hit me like a physical blow. Here was someone who’d earned every opportunity through talent and family sacrifice, while I’d been handed advantages he could never imagine. “They must be very proud of you.”
“Yeah, they are. They’re still hoping for me to make the NHL, you know? Not in a pressure way, but… I’m their investment. It’s their dream too.”
The honesty in his voice made something twist in my chest. “How did you feel when you knew you weren’t gonna get drafted?”
He dragged a hand through his hair, his expression tightening. “Disappointed, obviously. But I knew it was an uphill battle against kids who were at better clubs, where they had more money to spend on private coaches.”
