The past two months had been an exercise in torture disguised as friendship. Our private sessions lasted forever and yet never long enough, the brief moments when he was allowed to touch me excruciating in how fleeting they were. But we never crossed the line, no matter how badly I wanted to kiss him.
On road trips, we sat never closer than two rows apart on the bus. Close enough that I could hear his laugh when Martinez told a joke, far enough that no one would think twice about it. I’d become an expert at looking anywhere but at him, while being hyperaware of every move he made.
Team practices were hard. Watching him coach, seeing the passion he had for the game, triggered so much want in me. He still looked for me first after every good play—a habit he couldn’t quite break—and I treasured those split-second connections before he’d catch himself and turn away.
There was one moment three weeks ago that still haunted me. We’d both reached for the same equipment bag, and our hands had touched. Just for a second, skin against skin, but it had felt like lightning. We’d jerked apart like we’d been burned, and I’d seen my own desperation reflected in his eyes before he’d mumbled an apology and walked away.
Tank stirred in his sleep, muttering something about power plays. I envied his ability to just exist without this constant ache. He knew about Nils and me, knew about the forced distance, but I don’t think he really understood how much it hurt. How could he? He’d never been in love with someone he couldn’t have.
Because that’s what this was. Love. I could admit it now, alone in the dark. I was in love with Nils Anders—not the prince, but the man who’d taught me to see hockey differently, who’d built furniture with me, who’d held my hair back when I was concussed and nauseous and who had replaced the ice packs on my face every half-hour.
Five more months. We had five more months until his contract ended, until I’d hopefully be signed with an NHL team, until we could stop pretending. Some days, it felt manageable. Other days, like tonight, it felt like a life sentence.
I must have eventually dozed off, because Tank’s alarm jolted me awake in the morning.
“Dude, you look like shit,” he observed, pulling on clothes. “Another bad night?”
“Just thinking about the next game.”
“Sure you were.” He gave me a knowing look. “Your parents still coming today?”
Right. Today’s game against Union. My parents had both managed to get time off work, a rare occurrence that meant everything to me. “Yeah. Dad switched shifts with someone.”
“Cool. Maybe your mom will finally get to meet your totally professional and not at all personally significant coach.”
“Shut up, Tank.”
But he had a point. My mom had been asking about Nils. She wanted to personally thank him for taking care of me after the HIT game, for helping me develop as a player. Normal parent stuff that felt anything but normal given our situation. She knew what had happened—my dad had told her everything, as he always did. My parents did not keep secrets from each other. Would she bring it up with him? Honestly, with my mom, you never knew.
The day passed in a blur of pre-game rituals I barely paid attention to and a team meal I picked at without appetite. By the time we were suiting up for warm-ups, my nerves were shot. Not about the game—I could play hockey in my sleep—but about having my parents here, about my mom meeting Nils, about maintaining our careful distance with even more eyes watching.
“Rivera!” Coach Brennan’s voice cut through my thoughts. “You with us?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Good. I want you focused out there. Heard we’ve got scouts from Minnesota and Boston in the building.”
My heart rate spiked. More scouts. More pressure. More reasons to keep everything professional with Nils.
The game itself was a blur of controlled chaos. Union came out physical, but we were ready for it. I scored twelve minutes into the first period, a wrist shot that found the smallest gap between the goalie’s shoulder and the post. When I skated past our bench, I caught Nils’s eye for a moment. The pride there made my chest soar.
By the third period, we were up 5-2 and cruising. I added another goal and two assists, feeling like I could do no wrong. Every pass connected, every shot had eyes, every decision felt right. This was the player Nils had helped me become: not just skilled but smart, not just talented but complete.
When the final buzzer sounded, I looked up at the stands and found my parents. My mom was on her feet, cheering wildly, while my dad clapped with that quiet pride that meant more than any shouting could. They’d sacrificed so much for me to have this opportunity. Everything I did was for them.
In the locker room, the celebration was loud but brief. We had playoffs coming up; no one wanted to get too comfortable.
“Rivera!” Coach Brennan called over the noise. “Get cleaned up quick. Scouts want to talk to you. Conference room in fifteen.”
“Yes, Coach.”
I showered and dressed in record time, trying to calm my racing heart. Three teams interested now. Three potential futures. Everything I’d worked for within reach.
The conference room was intimidating with its formal set-up. Two scouts sat at the table—one from Minnesota, one from Boston—with Coach Brennan and Nils present.
“I enjoyed tonight’s game, Adan,” the Minnesota scout, Jay Dunn, said. “That second goal showed exactly the kind of vision we’re looking for.”
“Thank you, sir.”
