Goodnight, Nils.
Me
Goodnight, Adan. Sleep well.
Neither of us would sleep well. We hadn’t in months.
Game day arrived with the kind of electric energy that only comes with championships on the line. By sheer coincidence, we were playing at home, the location for this game decided before the season had even started. The Mavericks arena was packed, standing room only, with NHL scouts visible in the premium boxes. I saw McLaughlin from Detroit, the Boston and Minnesota scouts, and at least three others I didn’t recognize.
Syracuse came out physical and fast, clearly intent on disrupting our rhythm. They’d done their homework, targeting Adan with specific defensive schemes designed to limit his space. But Adan had evolved beyond the player who could be shut down by simple defensive attention.
He was everywhere: backchecking with intensity, creating space for line mates, taking hits to make plays. When Syracuse focused on him, he found Martinez or Webb with perfect passes. When they gave him space, he made them pay.
The game was brutal, both teams trading chances, goalies standing on their heads. With five minutes left in the third, we were tied 2-2. I could feel the tension ratcheting up, overtime looming, season on the line with every shift.
Then Adan created magic.
Syracuse was changing lines, a slight miscommunication between their forwards. Adan read it before anyone else, stripping the puck from their center at our blue line. Suddenly, he was gone, accelerating through neutral ice with that explosive speed that made scouts lean forward.
One defenseman back, frantically skating to cut off the angle. Adan faked outside, then cut inside, the d-man’s skates tangling as he tried to recover. Just Adan and the goalie now, the arena on its feet, time slowing down.
He faked a shot to the glove side, and the goalie bit. My breath held in my lungs. Then Adan tucked it backhand into the wide-open net, a move so smooth, it looked effortless.
The arena exploded. His teammates mobbed him along the boards while I stood behind the bench, professional composure maintained while inside, I was screaming with pride. That goal was everything I’d taught him—the patience, the deception, the technical skill—combined with his natural talent.
We held on for the final two minutes, Syracuse desperately trying to equalize. When the buzzer sounded, when we’d officially won the conference championship, I allowed myself one moment to watch Adan celebrate with his teammates. The joy on his face was worth every moment of distance, every sleepless night, every careful boundary we’d maintained.
In the handshake line, I congratulated our players with appropriate enthusiasm. When Adan passed, our eyes met for a second.
“Beautiful goal,” I said quietly.
“Good coaching,” he replied, then moved on before either of us could say more.
The locker room was chaos with champagne—non-alcoholic for NCAA compliance, of course—music, and twenty guys who’d achieved something special and were celebrating. I stayed on the periphery, letting them have their moment while fielding congratulations from other coaches and staff.
“Coach Anders? A word?”
I turned to find McLaughlin standing in the hallway, his expression serious despite the celebration around us.
“Of course. Is everything alright?”
He glanced around, then gestured toward a quieter corner. “First, congratulations. That was an amazing game. Adan’s goal was something special.”
“Thank you. He’s developed tremendously this season.”
McLaughlin nodded, then lowered his voice. “Which is why I’m ready to make him an offer, but let’s keep that between us for a little longer. Entry-level contract, good signing bonus, real shot at making the roster next year.”
My heart leaped. “That’s wonderful news.”
“But,” McLaughlin continued, and my stomach dropped, “I need to give you a heads-up about something.”
“What kind of heads-up?”
He studied me carefully. “When we scout a player seriously, we look into everything. Including their coaches. You’ve done remarkable work with Adan, so I did some digging into your background.”
I kept my expression neutral despite my racing pulse. “I see.”
“Your Royal Highness.”
