Page 104 of King of the Crease

A tiny boy winds up dramatically and shoots. The ball slips past my glove and into the net.

He throws his arms into the air. “GOAL!”

I clutch my chest theatrically. “Am I a cigarette, because I’m getting smoked!”

The room explodes with laughter.

I laugh too—really laugh, the sound surprising even me. It’s the first time I’ve laughed since returning to Ardenia.

And suddenly I understand something.

These children aren’t looking at me because I’m perfect. They don’t care about diplomacy or tradition or optics.

They’re happy because I showed up. Because I played.

Leadership isn’t distance. It’s presence.

Breathing hard, I pull off the mask and look around at their smiling faces.

Warmth spreads through my chest—different from hockey adrenaline, quieter but steadier.

Maybe being king isn’t about losing myself entirely, trying to contort myself into some proper version of a monarch. Maybe it’s about choosing who I am within it.

I love this country and everyone in it. I’m where I need to be. And it doesn’t matter what my sexuality is. I can be Nick and Prince Nicholas.

For the first time since returning to Ardenia, the future feels possible. Not easy. But possible.

As the game ends, a boy shuffles over and tugs my sleeve.

“You’re a good goalie,” he says seriously.

I smile.

“Thank you,” I reply. “I had an excellent coach.”

And as applause fills the room and snow falls softly beyond the windows, I realize something else too: I miss Hank with every piece of my soul.

But for the first time since leaving Sourwood, I don’t feel like I’m disappearing. Maybe I can learn how to be both things at once.

A man. And a king.

33

NICK

The palace is quiet tonight. Hushed, like the entire building is holding its breath.

I walk the familiar corridor toward my father’s private chambers, my footsteps muffled by thick carpets older than our constitution. Outside, people are gearing up for New Year’s celebrations.

I knock at the king’s door. “It’s Nicholas.”

“Come in,” he calls, his voice raspier than I remember.

He’s sitting in bed, bags under his eyes. It’s here, away from the daily pomp and circumstance that surrounds him as he moves about the castle, that I notice how the disease is slowly wearing him down. I miss the big, towering, scary king. I would love to be intimidated by him, rather than the swell of pity and sadness building in my chest.

I pause in the doorway, suddenly unsure how to step forward—not as prince, not as heir, just as a son.

“Nicholas,” he says, his voice thin but warm. “You hover like your mother used to.”