Rule #6: Never Announce You’re Dating the Massage Therapist (Hockey Rules #6)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

Florian

Beep. Beep. Beep.

A mechanical tone sounds in the background like a stalled video game, which is worrisome: I do not play video games.

Normally, my alarm plays Bach, because waking up the brain in a gentle manner provides optimal performance for the rest of the day, and every day is a day for optimal performance.

My sheets are stiff and cold, and everything smells terrible, like someone has poured a strong cleaning solution around me, the kind that leaves permanent marks on surroundings if not diluted with the appropriate measurements. Shoes squeak in the distance, and muffled voices sound.

The beep-beep-beep is irritating, and even though every muscle aches—not an unusual occurrence for me—I flick my eyes open.

Wo bin ich?

Fluorescent lights stare down from the white ceiling. An ominous machine pings beside me. Wires trail from my hands.

Schei?e.

I’m in a hospital.

That is… not good.

I immediately miss my own bedroom with its ornate crown molding which does not say hockey, but which does say Mannheim. I miss my weighted blanket. I miss the fur texture of the cover of my hot water bottle and the light streaming through the large bay windows.

Hospitals mean injuries: broken legs, broken wrists. The feared concussion.

I lift my torso, ignoring the furious pain that blasts through every limb.

A dark-haired man with warm olive-toned skin sits in a chair.

His curly hair pokes up in all directions, like one of the angels in paintings my mother used to drag me to see during our yearly European tour when she tried to cram as much culture in me as possible between school close and the beginning of hockey camp.

The man’s eyes are closed, and his hands are clasped together.

His expression is so earnest, so sincere that something in my chest loosens, like someone has stuck my heart in one of those soapy rainbow bubbles that children blow, the kind that float toward the sky in shapes that should not be possible.

“Wer bist du?” I ask.

The man’s eyes dart open, then he jumps up. His cheeks turn pink, which is—

Pretty. He’s pretty.

Aubergine eyeshadow sparkles, and his dark lashes are extra thick, like he’s used mascara.

My lips part.

Large, worried dark eyes stare at me. His brows are sculpted, every hair perfect, and he watches me with such intensity that something inside me melts. He smells warm and sweet. Like vanilla? Or brown sugar? My Oma would know.

“You’re awake!” he exclaims.

Why is he speaking in English? North American English? The kind with strong Rs. The kind it takes crossing an ocean to hear.

Am I in the US? Canada? I look around.

Why do hospitals not have signs declaring which country you’re in?

“I am awake. Yes,” I say.

English was never my favorite subject in school. I preferred mathematics, chemistry, physics. Subjects with correct answers that do not involve making small talk with one’s classmates.

Languages are for people who like to talk. I am not one of those people.

The strange man shoves a book into a satchel, then closes the distance between us. He moves tentatively, which I do not like, but maybe I am horribly bandaged.

My breath quickens.

Schei?e, Schei?e, Schei?e.

What happened?

“How do you feel, Florian?” he asks.

Every part of me is in pain.

“I am fine,” I say.

“Good.” He nods multiple times, and his cheeks pinken more, and he looks away.

I am glad I decided not to disappoint him.

He is not in scrubs and has not checked my vitals, so I do not think he is my nurse.

He does not have a doctor’s white coat. If they really wear that.

Even though I’ve played hockey for most of my life, and even though I’ve been a defenseman for a significant portion of that time, I have managed to avoid hospitals.

“Where am I?” I ask.

“The hospital.”

“In Mannheim?”

He blinks.

“Which city?” I ask.

His eyes widen. “Boston. You’re in Boston.”

Boston. Then I am in the United States.

I try to remember why I am in Boston. What does my life in Mannheim have to do with this fluorescent American room with its beeping machines and this beautiful stranger who knows my name? There is only blankness.

But I know Boston. The Blizzards play there. The Blizzards with their many gay teammates.

They drafted me, but I have been playing in Germany to develop. Someday I will play for them.

“What happened?” I ask.

“You got hit on the ice.”

“Oh.”

“You were out. Like completely out. Since yesterday!” His lips press together suddenly, like he’s been talking a lot and thinks he shouldn’t.

“Are you…” I chew my lower lip. “Who are you?”

He looks devastated, then oddly formal.

“Sorry,” I say. “My head hurts… I am not… I cannot… I do not know why…”

“I’m Mateo,” he says.

Mateo. The name is pretty, like him. It sounds familiar. He looks familiar.

I glance at him. I linger on his pretty eyes with their eyeshadow and mascara.

I like him.

“I am hurt?” My voice sounds more anxious than I want it to be.

I hate the way my tone goes up at the end, like I’m a student who hasn’t done his homework in middle school and has to confess to everyone that I’m still not getting the hang of this reading thing, even though everyone else has moved on to thicker books.

“You’re going to be fine,” he says, more confidently than I expect. “No broken bones.”

I smile at him, even though moving my lip muscles makes my head ache.

But I won’t contradict him.

He studies me. “You truly didn’t know you’re in Boston?”

I inhale. I try to think. Why would I be in Boston? Why would I be in America?

“I mean, that’s normal. You hockey guys travel all the time. In fact, the team is in Montreal now.”

“Mannheim is playing Montreal?”

His dark brown lashes fly up, then he steps back. “I’m going to speak with the nurse.”

“But—”

“I’ll be back.”

“Promise?”

He looks startled, but then nods, his tenor voice soft. “I promise, Florian.”

Mateo hurries away, and I miss him immediately. Who is he to me?

Why is a dazzling man by my bedside in the US?

My head spins and aches, and nausea rises as my vision dims.

A slender man with red curly hair wearing a white coat enters the room. Mateo trails after him, his face somber.

“You’re awake. Good.” The white-coated man approaches me. A lanyard hangs from his neck. “You gave everyone a scare.”

“I am sorry.”

“My name is Dr. Davis,” he says.

I wait for him to tell me what’s wrong with me.

Mateo chews on his lower lip. “Florian seems… confused.”

“Well, that’s normal after a knock to the head.” Dr. Davis turns to me. “Let me assess you.”

He asks me questions.

I tell him what year it is, what day it is, then my name and birthday.

I am Florian Richter. I was born on the third of January and am twenty-four years old.

“And what team do you play for?” Dr. Davis asks.

“Mannheim.”

Dr. Davis and Mateo exchange glances. I do not like it.

“Is that a German team?” Mateo asks.

“Yes.”

Mateo and Dr. Davis exchange another look.

“Florian,” Dr. Davis says carefully. “You play for the Boston Blizzards.”

“You have for nearly two months,” Mateo adds.

I stare at them.

“You might have some amnesia,” Dr. Davis says. “Memory loss. It should be temporary, but—”

“I play for Boston?”

“Yes.”

“In America?”

“Yes.”

Das ist nicht moglich. It is impossible.

But the doctor is nodding, and Mateo is nodding, and I am in this American hospital with these men with American accents, so perhaps it is possible.

How can I not remember?

Mateo steps closer. His expression is worried—so worried—and I do not understand why a stranger would look at me like that. Who is he?

I try to remember. I do.

Mateo texts something on his phone. “I’m just letting Coach know you’re awake.”

“Coach knows about you?”

He looks confused, then nods.

Mein Gott.

My stomach drops.

Mateo must be my boyfriend. No wonder he is in my hospital room. No wonder he is concerned that I do not remember him.

And he knows my coach.

My coach knows.

About me. About everything I’ve tried to hide.

I think of every time I trained my eyes on the floor in locker rooms. Every time I smiled and told people I was just focused on hockey, and no, I didn’t have a girlfriend, not yet, not right now.

But I told people. I told my coach.

Oh, God.

I look at Mateo. At his worried eyes and his trembling hands and the way he was waiting for me to wake up.

I’m out.

I am no longer in hiding. I am no longer worried about what it means to be a gay man on the ice.

Something loosens in my chest, and my shoulders expand.

I am free.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I did not mean to forget you.”

He smiles, and it is beautiful. Warmth expands through me, and I stare at his pretty pink cheeks and his dark eyes.

“I know,” he says.

I smile happily back.

“You’ll have someone to take care of you?” Dr. Davis asks.

“Yes.” I reach for Mateo’s hand. His fingers tremble slightly in my grip, or perhaps I am the one trembling. “My boyfriend is here.”

Mateo’s mouth opens, then closes. His cheeks flush darker.

“Um,” he says.

“It is all going to be fine,” I tell him. I want him to stop looking so alarmed. I want to make this better, even though I do not remember how. “You will take care of me, and I will remember, and everything will be fine.”

“I—”

My eyelids are heavy. Mateo’s hand is warm in mine.

“Everything will be fine,” I say again.

Mateo’s hand starts to slip out of mine, and I tighten my grip. A startled chuckle escapes him, then he squeezes my hand. My eyes flutter shut, and I am definitely smiling.