“See you tomorrow, Adan. And hey—go win that Frozen Four. Would love to have signed a national champion.”
After I hung up, the room was quiet for a moment. Then Coach Brennan stood, extending his hand. “Proud of you. Detroit’s getting a hell of a player.” His grip was firm, coach-like. “Now go win us a championship.”
“Planning on it, Coach.”
My dad hugged me again, tighter this time.
Nils hung back, maintaining that professional distance we’d both gotten too good at. But when our eyes met, everything we couldn’t say in front of others passed between us. Contract signed meant I wasn’t technically a student-athlete anymore. Still his player until the season ended, but the countdown to freedom had officially begun.
“Congratulations, Adan,” he said formally. “Detroit is very lucky to have you.”
“Thank you, Coach. For everything.”
The weight of those words—everything he’d taught me, everything we’d been through, everything we’d sacrificed to reach this moment—hung in the air between us.
I wanted to say more, wanted to tell him that none of this would have happened without him, that signing this contract meant we were almost free, that in a few more days, we could stop pretending. But not here, not now, not with others watching.
The walk back to my dorm felt surreal. Word about my offers had already spread—campus gossip traveled at light speed—and I was stopped every few feet by teammates and classmates offering congratulations and asking which team I would pick. I evaded that question, not wanting to jump the gun.
Tank was already in our room when I arrived, practically vibrating with excitement. “And?”
“I’m going to Detroit.”
“Holy shit.” He hugged me so tightly, I feared he’d crack a rib. “Dude, this is insane. You’re gonna be in the NHL, living in Detroit, making bank…” He paused. “Wait, does this mean I need a new roommate?”
I laughed. “Not until after Frozen Four. Still got games to win.”
“Right, right. But holy shit, man. You did it.”
I had done it. Or would, tomorrow, when I put pen to paper. The dream I’d carried since I was five years old, skating on that outdoor rink with my dad, was about to become reality.
That night, I barely slept. Tomorrow, I’d fly on a private jet—my first time—with my parents to sign my first professional contract. I’d put on a Red Wings jersey and pose for pictures that would mark the beginning of my NHL journey.
But even as I lay there thinking about tomorrow, my mind kept drifting to what came after. Two more games. Then the season would end, Nils’s contract would be up, and we could finally, finally stop pretending.
My phone buzzed with another text.
Mom
Mijo, estoy tan orgulloso de ti. So, so proud.
Then one from McLaughlin.
McLaughlin
Car will pick you up at ninea.m. Bring your parents and anyone else you want there for your big day.
Anyone else.God, I wanted Nils there. Wanted him to see me sign the contract he’d helped make possible. But that would have to wait. Everything between us still had to wait.
Two more games.
* * *
The next morning came fast. A black town car pulled up to my dorm exactly at nine, the driver helping my parents with their one small bag. My mom had worn her best dress—the one she saved for weddings and funerals—and my dad was in the only suit he owned.
“Is this real?” my mom whispered as we settled into the leather seats.
“It’s real, Mamá.”
