The princes playbook, p.1
The Prince’s Playbook, page 1
THE PRINCE’S PLAYBOOK
NORA PHOENIX
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Thank you!
More from Nora Phoenix
About the Author
Also by Nora Phoenix
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1
NILS
Three days ago, I’d been attending a state dinner in honor of my uncle, King Alexander of Sweden, in Stockholm. Today, I was about to convince the Millard Mavericks of Buffalo, NY, that I was a regular guy and a hockey coach.
Which I was. Well, the hockey-coach part was true. I did have the experience and degree to back that up. The regular-guy part? Oj, not so much.
Over a year ago, my three best friends—all princes like me—and I had come up with this crazy idea to spend a year undercover in the States, pretending to be normal guys. Tore and Floris—from Norway and the Netherlands, respectively—were attending college in the US. Greg, fourth in line to the British throne, unfortunately had not secured permission from his uncle, the king. Yet.
Being a few years older than them, attending college as a student hadn’t been an option for me. At twenty-seven I was too old for that, hence my assistant-coaching position.
Funny enough, both Tore and Floris had ended up with a boyfriend in their first year of college. I didn’t see that happening with me, but I was eager to find out what life would be like when no one knew who I was.
The August heat engulfed me as I stepped out of my rental car, the thick and heavy humid air immediately smacking me in the face. Had I taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in Florida? ’Cause that’s what I imagined the south to feel like, not this far north. What a difference from the crisp summer temperatures in Sweden.
Maverick Arena loomed before me, its navy blue and silver exterior gleaming under the hazy Buffalo sky. The building was a far cry from the 15,000-seat arena I’d played in at Rideau University in Canada, but there was something solid and purposeful about it that filled my blood with anticipation.
The lobby was modest but well-maintained, with trophy cases lining the walls and team photos dating back decades. The Millard Mavericks’ horse mascot stared down at me from banners hanging overhead. I studied the faces in the photos: young men with determined expressions, some probably not much older than I was now. Millard College boasted four alumni who had made it to the NHL, a respectable number for a relatively small college.
“Nils?”
I turned to face the man who’d spoken. Ah, Coach Brennan. I recognized him from the Zoom interviews. He was in his fifties, his graying hair slightly mussed and his weathered face creased with what looked like a permanent squint. He wore a navy-blue polo with the Mavericks logo embroidered on the chest.
“Coach Brennan.” I extended my hand, grateful that my voice came out steady and professional. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”
His handshake was firm, calloused from years of handling hockey sticks. “Mike’s fine. How was the flight? You got in yesterday?”
Yeah, me calling him by his first name was so not going to happen.
“Quite smooth, thank you. I arrived Saturday, actually. Spent yesterday recovering from the jet lag and getting myself familiar with my apartment and surroundings. The city is… different from what I expected.” I glanced around the lobby again, taking in the unpretentious atmosphere. “Very authentic.”
Coach Brennan chuckled. “You worded that very diplomatic, but yeah, that’s Buffalo. No frills, but we get the job done. Come on, let’s head to my office. Kevin’s already waiting.”
He led me through a corridor lined with more team photos. The familiar smell of hockey gear—synthetic leather, rubber, sweat, and that indefinable scent of competition—surrounded us. My shoulders relaxed. This part, at least, was universal.
“So,” Coach Brennan said as we walked, “have you had a chance to review the game footage I sent over? Any initial thoughts on Rivera?”
The interviews had already taught me that the man didn’t waste time chitchatting. The man got right to the point, and I could appreciate that. Good thing I’d spent hours studying those clips.
Adan Rivera was a twenty-year-old junior, an extremely talented left wing forward, and I’d been hired to help him get to the next level. From what I’d seen on that footage, he had a real shot. I’d watched it over and over, replaying key moments until I could predict Adan Rivera’s movements. “His instincts in the offensive zone are excellent, but I noticed he sometimes gets caught too deep when the play transitions. We could work on his awareness when he doesn’t have the puck.”
“Exactly what we were thinking. That’s the kind of detail work that’ll get him noticed by the right scouts.” Coach Brennan paused outside a door marked Head Coach. “Fair warning, though: Adan knows you’re here specifically for him, and he’s not thrilled about it.”
My stomach tightened. “He is resistant to individual coaching?”
“Kid’s been the best player on every team he’s ever been on. Never needed extra help before. He sees it as us thinking he’s not good enough.”
“Which is the opposite of what we’re saying,” came a voice from behind the door. Coach Brennan pushed it open to reveal a man I also recognized from the Zoom calls, Kevin O’Brien, the assistant coach. Probably in his early forties, he was bald and buff, and I hadn’t seen him smile even once. “Pleasure to meet you in person.”
His handshake was as firm and professional as Coach Brennan’s had been.
“Same. I look forward to working with you,” I said.
Kevin sat down again, and Coach Brennan gestured for me to take a seat as well.
“Mike’s right, Adan’s taking this personally. He doesn’t think he needs fixing. His words,” Kevin told me.
“What did you tell him?”
“That we’re trying to get him from very good to exceptional. Not sure he bought it.”
Coach Brennan sighed. “He’s our top scorer by a significant margin. Kid’s got NHL potential, no question, and the scouts agree. He’s got the skills, but it’s the tactical stuff that’ll make or break him at the next level. It’s why he wasn’t drafted. His talent is still too raw.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “Skills without tactical discipline will only take a player so far at the professional level.”
“He’s hit a plateau,” Coach Brennan said. “Physically, he’s got everything. Speed, strength, instincts. Mentally, he’s confident. Maybe too confident. He dominates at this level, but if he wants to make it to the big league, he needs refinement. And he has two more seasons to make it happen because once he graduates college, he’s done.”
Kevin nodded. “His positioning in the corners could be better. His defensive awareness when he doesn’t have the puck. And his shot selection… Sometimes, he tries to be the hero when a pass would be smarter. He needs to see the bigger picture, develop game smarts.”
This confirmed what I’d seen of him in the footage. “But he doesn’t agree?”
Coach Brennan scratched his chin. “No, he’s pushing back. Individual coaching is new territory for him.”
“He will test you,” Kevin added. “See if you know what you’re talking about.”
A challenge, then. I’d faced plenty of those, though most of those had involved some kind of royal aspect. “I appreciate the honesty. Maybe I could resort to bribery? Would homemade Swedish meatballs win him over?”
That got a good chuckle out of both men. Ah, the benefits of royal training. I always had a joke at my disposal to diffuse sticky situations.
I got serious again. “And the rest of the team is on board with me working with him individually? I understand that in American hockey culture, there can be concerns about favoritism.”
Coach Brennan waved a dismissive hand. “The other players know Adan’s special. Hell, they’re all proud of him and want him to succeed. If we can get him to the NHL, it reflects well on the whole program. It’s been ten years since we sent a player to the pros, and Adan would be our fifth student to make it. That should take care of our enrollment numbers for the next few years.”
“Besides,” Kevin added, “you’ll be working with him outside of regular team practice. Extra sessions, focused training. It won’t interfere with team practice.”
I was genuinely excited. From what I’d seen of Adan Rivera, he was a phenomenal player and working with him would be a dream opportunity.
Coach Brennan rose. “Team practice starts in an hour. We’ll introduce you to the team, but especially to Adan.”
My pulse quickened again. “Excellent. I look forward to meeting him.”
Kevin stood, straightening his jacket. “Adan will probably have questions about yo ur background, your coaching philosophy, maybe even your playing experience.”
“I can handle his questions.”
That part, I wasn’t worried about. I had played center at Rideau University in Ottawa, being the starter for two years straight, and I’d damn well earned that position. It was the royal part of me that I was anxious to hide. If that came out, my whole experience here would be ruined.
Even at Rideau, amazing as those four years had been, people had known I was a prince. My teammates had given me shit about it for sure. Thank goodness Rideau had agreed to keep that part of my identity confidential when Millard had called to check my references.
Coach Brennan moved toward the door. “Kevin, you wanna show Nils around while I finish up some paperwork?”
“Sure thing.” Kevin gestured for me to follow him. “Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”
As we left Coach Brennan’s office, Kevin glanced at me sideways. “So, Sweden, huh? Must be a big difference from Buffalo?”
My throat tightened. These were the kinds of questions I feared. “I wanted to experience American hockey culture. It’s quite different from what I’m used to, I’ve been told. And not the same as Canadian culture.”
Kevin snorted. “Canadians live and breathe hockey. In some families, you learn to play before you can write your own name.”
“That certainly fits with what I experienced there.”
“The Rideau Ravens did well last season.”
Pride filled my chest. It had been five years since I had left, but a piece of my heart would always be there, and I kept tabs on how the team did. “I know. And Meriah Callahan got called up to the big league. Well deserved.”
“That’s what we want for Adan, too. We want him to have that shot. He wasn’t ready for the draft, but with two more seasons, we can get him ready to be recruited before he graduates.”
“I’ll do whatever I can to get him ready.”
We passed a set of double doors marked Rink Access, and Kevin pushed one open. We stepped into the arena proper, and I had to pause for a moment to take it in. The rink was regulation size, surrounded by seats that could probably hold four thousand people. The ice was pristine, marked with fresh lines and the Mavericks logo at center ice. Above us, banners hung from the rafters: conference championships, tournament appearances, retired numbers.
“Impressive facility,” I said, taking in the arena. The ice looked perfect, ready for practice to begin.
“It’s not the biggest, but it’s ours,” Kevin replied with obvious pride. “We’ve had some good years here. Some great players too.” He pointed to one of the retired number banners. “That’s Jake Morrison, class of ’15. Still holds the single-season scoring record, but Adan came close last year.”
I studied the banner, wondering if Adan would eventually join those ranks. From the footage I’d reviewed, he certainly had the talent for it.
“The team takes pride in the history,” Kevin continued, leading me around the rink. “These guys know they’re part of something bigger than themselves. Most of them, anyway.”
“And Adan?”
Kevin’s expression shifted slightly. “Adan respects the program, but he’s focused on his own future. Can’t say I blame him since he’s got legitimate NHL prospects. But sometimes, he forgets he’s still got things to learn.”
I hummed in response.
He checked his watch. “The players will start filtering in in about fifteen minutes. Most of them show up early to get ready. Adan’s usually one of the first ones here.”
That was a good sign, one he was eager. “What would be the best approach with him?”
Kevin stopped walking and turned to face me. “Honestly? Just be yourself. Don’t try to impress him with credentials. He’ll see right through that. Show him you know the game and earn his respect the old-fashioned way.”
“And if he challenges me?”
“When he challenges you,” Kevin corrected with a slight smile. “Answer his questions, but don’t let him push you around. Kid’s got a good heart, but he needs to know you’re not intimidated by him.”
Through the arena doors, voices echoed in the corridor. Players were starting to arrive.
“You ready for this?” Kevin asked.
I straightened my shoulders, falling back on the composure that had been drilled into me since childhood. “As ready as I can be.”
But as we headed back toward the lobby, my heart was beating faster than it had any right to. Three days ago, I’d been making small talk with other heads of state and fellow royalty. In a few minutes, I would meet Adan Rivera face to face. Time to see which required more diplomatic skill.
2
ADAN
I laced up my skates with the same routine I’d been doing since I was eight years old: left skate first, pull the laces tight through the middle eyelets, then the right. The locker room hummed with the familiar sounds of twenty guys getting ready for practice: the thunk of equipment hitting the floor, the scrape of skate blades on rubber mats, the endless chirping that never seemed to stop.
“Yo, Rivera!” Tank called out from his locker three down from mine. His real name was Cole Monihan, but everyone called him Tank, and that was what his jersey said as well. “You ready to meet your new babysitter?”
I shot him a look that could’ve melted the ice. “He’s not a babysitter, asshole. He’s supposed to be some kind of skills coach.”
“Same thing,” chirped Danny Martinez, our right wing. “Coaches don’t hire special help unless they think you need fixing.”
“I don’t need fixing.” The words came out sharper than I intended, but whatever. These guys knew me well enough to know when I was pissed off. “I’m leading the team in goals and assists. What exactly needs fixing?”
Tank held up his hands in mock-surrender. “Chill, dude. We’re messing with you. You know we got your back.”
I did know that. Tank had been my roommate since freshman year, and he’d seen me through everything: the homesickness, the pressure, the late-night phone calls home when my parents worried about money. He was solid, the kind of defenseman who’d throw his body in front of a slap shot without thinking twice.
“It’s bullshit,” I muttered, yanking my jersey over my head. “I’ve been playing hockey since I could walk. Never needed a personal coach before.”
And that was the truth. I’d dominated at every level: peewee league, high school, junior hockey. I’d earned this scholarship, earned my spot as the team’s leading scorer. So why the hell did they think I needed some European guy to come in and tell me how to play?
It was insulting, that’s what it was. Like they were saying all my success up to this point didn’t matter. Like I was some raw talent who didn’t understand the game.
“Maybe it’s different at this level,” suggested Marcus Webb, our captain. “NHL scouts are watching now. Different kind of pressure.”
“I can handle pressure just fine.”
I’d been handling pressure my whole life. The pressure of being the family’s hope, the kid who was supposed to make it out of our neighborhood and into something better. The pressure of justifying every dollar my parents had spent on equipment, ice time, travel teams. And now the pressure of knowing that I had two more seasons to make it happen, two more to prove I was NHL material.
But that pressure had made me stronger, made me better. It hadn’t made me need a special coach.
My parents had worked themselves to the bone for my hockey when they realized I had talent. Dad had pulled countless double shifts at the plant, and my mom cleaned houses on top of working as a waitress. They’d never complained, never made me feel guilty about it, but I knew what it cost them every time I needed new skates, every time there was a tournament out of state.
