Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
Mateo
Six weeks earlier
The man in the doorway is a giant. The Boston Blizzards is filled with them. Florian Richter, 24, defenseman, clearly belongs in the height-endowed category.
“Hi there.” I flash him a bright smile and wait for him to flash his.
Which he doesn’t do.
Well.
That’s fine.
Mine was wide enough for both of us. I dart my gaze up to him. Florian Richter is quiet and still, like he’s doing a risk management analysis of the room. He’s tall with light brown hair, the kind with red in it, and dark blue eyes, as if he was hired from a modeling agency.
It’s fine.
Handsome men, no problem.
They need massages too.
My heart does some sort of bubbling thing, as if it’s gotten to the excellent part of a Nora Ephron movie or someone is wearing a regency tailcoat and top hat.
Florian’s shirt isn’t wet, Darcy-style, which is a relief, but the tightness of his Blizzards t-shirt is excessive.
But then the man does have lots of perfectly formed muscles that the manufacturer of the t-shirt doesn’t seem to have given sufficient consideration to.
We’re both staring.
“You’re my two o’clock,” I say finally.
“I am here for a two pm appointment, yes.”
“I’m Mateo,” I say. “The massage therapist.” My voice comes out too loud, and Florian’s eyes widen.
He nods.
Well, that’s efficient.
Who needs to say actual sentences? You can just go around nodding and grunting and save way more time.
He looks at me warily, and that’s…
Okay, that’s not great.
That’s the look of a man who does not want to lie down and get a massage.
“Come in.” I gesture to the massage table, and he draws back slightly.
Okay, he’s not my future best friend. I don’t need to go shopping for friendship bracelets.
That’s fine.
I don’t look for future best friends in my hockey clients, even though the Blizzards is a wonderful place to work. I travel with the team often, since sore muscles are something that happens both after home and away games, and they’ve been more welcoming than I ever would have imagined.
“So this is the massage room!” I say brightly when he finally enters, as if I think if I smile enough that he will also smile.
Instead, he looks vaguely alarmed, and I suspect I look vaguely crazy.
“You’re new to the team,” I say.
He’s wearing sweats, though he has the formality of a person wearing a tuxedo.
“Yes.”
“And from Germany! That’s super cool.”
He turns his dark blue eyes on me. “You know Germany?”
“Well, no…” I don’t think the occasional World War 2 documentary counts.
“But you like Germany?”
“Um—”
He sighs. “Never mind. You are an American. Very enthusiastic.”
“Is that what they’re saying about us?”
He smiles, and I grin back, startled. I like his smile, but I’ll probably scare him away if I mention it. Maybe the best thing to do is pretend I never saw it.
I try to think about what I know about Germany, then I beam. “Germany has pretzels! And beer!”
“You like beer?”
“I’m more of a cocktail person,” I admit. “Sweeter, you know. If I’m going to drink something, I prefer it to be sweet. Sour bubbles are not as nice. Unless you’re one of those people who really like sour bubbles. And there’s always so much! How do you get any conversation in?”
“I think you have just explained why Germans like beer.”
“The sourness?”
“Something to do while avoiding conversation.”
I stiffen.
He stiffens.
My eyes widen—I think.
His eyes definitely widen.
“Not that—” He swallows hard. “Not that I do not like your conversation.”
“Undress,” I say.
His eyes round, and I gesture to the massage table, as if he’s forgotten why exactly he is in my massage room. My skin heats, like this is another type of scenario where I’m telling a man to undress.
But to be honest, those scenarios happen far less than I would like.
Hook-up culture isn’t my thing, and a boyfriend hasn’t happened yet.
Maybe one day.
“Most athletes just come here already undressed,” I tell him. “You can leave your clothes in the locker room.”
His cheeks redden, like he’s done something wrong.
“Or undress here,” I say brightly.
“All the way?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Leave your underwear on. And I’ll cover your lower half with a towel too. Except when I’m working on the area.”
He looks mildly terrified.
Shit.
Do they not give massages to hockey players in Germany?
Or it’s me.
Everyone on this team has been so wonderful, and no one has cared that I’m gay.
But I’m pretty sure he does care.
“Welcome to the massage room!” I gesture at the stone walls and eucalyptus.
“It is nice.” He cuts me off before I can launch into the merits of eucalyptus.
“Lie down,” I say.
Florian eyes the massage table. His body is tense, his muscles tight where they shouldn’t be.
“I give excellent massages,” I assure him.
Florian shoots me another alarmed look.
He approaches the table with trepidation, then he flings himself onto the massage table, putting his face in the little cradle.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, his voice muffled. “I am okay.”
“Do you like the Blizzards? Do you like Boston?”
“It is so, so.”
“Well, give it more time. You’ll love it! Have you been to the North End yet? And the harbor is amazing. A lot of the guys live in Seaport. What about you?”
“I live in a hotel.”
“Oh. Well, hotels are nice!”
“Yes. I will not always live in a hotel.”
“That makes sense.”
“It is satisfactory for now.”
I come close to him, and he closes his eyes.
Huh.
Okay, he’s definitely acting strangely. But then he’s a defenseman, and maybe strong and silent is his thing, like he’s pretending to be a 1990s Colin Firth on ice, and not the 2010s version who wears bright clothes and sings on a Grecian island.
I was bound to meet someone at the Blizzards I don’t get along with. That’s only math. And probability. All the things that they taught in that mandatory statistics course until I was certain I was way more interested in massage therapy than anything else, and I quit before I got my degree.
The massage room is amazingly awesome. It looks like a spa, which maybe is what happens when the owner of the team is Japanese and remodels the entire arena. The stone walls are a tasteful gray, and eucalyptus leaves are everywhere.
“I’ll start with your back,” I say.
He tenses, and I grimace. He’s not supposed to look more uncomfortable than when he entered the room.
I touch his back, and his body tenses more.
Huh.
“You must miss Germany,” I say. “I’ve never been, but I heard it has castles. That’s so cool.”
“Some castles,” he says.
“Well, we don’t have those. Though who knows, maybe in a thousand years, fancy houses will be referred to as castles!”
“Maybe.”
I continue my massage. I work my thumbs along his spine and press into the knots between his shoulder blades. His skin is warm under the oil.
His back is tense, his shoulder blades are tense, his neck is tense. I frown. He hasn’t been injured recently.
“Have you had a massage before?” I ask.
“Yes.” He shifts his hips. His back seems even tenser than before, and his breathing becomes shallow and uneven.
“Try to relax,” I murmur.
His breath catches.
I do not attempt conversation. I continue to massage him, to try to ease his rigidity, but I am helpless.
“Time to flip over,” I say finally. “I’ll do your chest and arms.”
Florian goes rigid. More rigid than he already is, which is definitely an athletic feat.
“I am fine,” he says into the face cradle. “I do not need… I have to go to practice!”
He leaps up and hurries away from me. He grabs his shirt and sweatpants without turning around, keeping his back to me the entire time. He slides his sweatpants on, clutches his t-shirt in front of him, then exits.
That was… okay, that wasn’t great.
I sigh.
But the thing I hate most about it is that I’m certain that Florian did not need to go to practice. I know the practice schedule.
No, he ran away.
I sigh. Was it the eyeshadow?
Florian
I keep my pace quick until I am in the showers. I turn the water knob to the coldest setting.
Dummkopf.
I press my forehead against the tile and try to breathe. The water beats down on my shoulders—the shoulders Mateo was just touching, his hands warm and competent and utterly unbearable.
I was becoming aroused.
On my first day. In my first session. With the massage therapist who has an upturned nose and dark eyes and hair that is a bit too long and who talked about castles like they were the most interesting topic in the world.
Du bist ein Idiot.
I wanted to come out here. This team has Finn Carrington and Noah Fitzpatrick and Luke Hawthorne and Jason Larvik and Axel Knight and Enzo Bellanti and Evan McAllister and Vinnie DiCosta.
But the way I wanted to come out was discreetly, after I established myself and feel confident that I will not be traded away. It is not after I get a hard-on on my first day from the massage therapist.
I pretend that I didn’t see him look upset.
God, he probably thinks I’m…
I shake my head.
No, he is probably not thinking about me at all.
Most people do not. My agent thinks about me ten minutes before he calls me.
I am overthinking things. It is fine.
I am a Blizzard, and I should celebrate that.
But my shoulders are heavy like I did disappoint him.
I finish my shower then leave the arena.
The city is excessively beautiful. Rows of imposing townhouses with lavish flourishes surround me. Glass skyscrapers soar behind them, a pale blue that matches the sky. Someone has hung flower baskets from each streetlamp. I should be admiring them. I shouldn’t still think about Mateo.
I am overthinking. He has almost certainly forgotten me.
My phone rings.
Annika.
I answer it.
“How’s my favorite brother?” My sister’s voice is bright. Clearly, she did not just embarrass herself.
“I am fine, Annika.”
“You are always fine.”
“There is no war in Boston.”
“Just like there was no war in Mannheim?”
I nod, then remember she can’t see me. “Yes.”
She sighs. “Florian, are you happy?”
I think about how I fled from Mateo. I think about how my body got confused by any attention, and how I embarrassed myself.
I think about the long stretches of day and night when I am alone, with nothing to do but to exercise and watch videos of opposing team members to prepare for confronting them.
“I am happy,” I say.
I hate lying to my sister.