Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
Mateo
Three weeks earlier
Florian Richter is at the end of the hallway, and my stomach does that swooping thing again.
Not, obviously, a this-is-a-super-handsome-man-in-my-presence swooping thing. Even though he is completely handsome. For those into 6’4 athletic men with golden brown hair and dark blue eyes, which is an aesthetically uninteresting desire since so many people have it.
Like me. Unfortunately.
It is so annoying to be attracted to a man who hates me.
But I do my best to pretend that I am completely unaffected by male paragons of beauty, and I put on my best bland look.
Florian hasn’t seen me yet. He’s chatting with Troy, the goalie.
Their heads are bent together over Troy’s phone.
Florian’s hair looks extra striking beside Troy’s dark curly hair.
They’re probably doing something super important like looking at footage of the team they’re going to play tonight.
He nods at whatever Troy is showing him, and he looks—
Well. He looks like a professional athlete who is excellent at his job and looks like he could model on the side. Which he does. I’ve googled him.
I raise my chin and even though I normally smile and nod when I pass players in the hallway, I hesitate.
Florian Richter is not any other player.
Florian Richter is the player who sprinted from my massage room three weeks ago. He’s since perfected the art of vanishing whenever I enter a room. He once saw me coming down an empty hallway, then ducked into the janitor’s closet.
There is absolutely no reason for him to have been in a room filled with mops and sponges and cleaning detergents. None.
I saw him do it. He saw me see him do it.
The awkwardness between us has only escalated.
I consider pretending that I left something in the massage room and need to return.
Florian pulls that move all the time. He is always seeing me, then marching in the opposite direction or engaging the closest person to him in conversation, even though Florian rarely speaks to anyone and his sudden conversation partners always look exceedingly startled.
Troy looks up as I approach. “Hi, Mateo!”
Florian’s entire body goes rigid, like a malfunctioning humanoid. His shoulders climb toward his ears, his jaw tightens, and he takes a step backward, slamming against the wall.
“Hi, Troy! Hi, Florian!” I say.
Florian tries to act like someone who has not just walked into a wall.
Troy glances between us and his brow furrows. “Florian has been doing amazing.”
“That’s great.” I give Florian my best professional smile. “Is your shoulder feeling okay?”
Florian stiffens, and I instantly regret my attempt at conversation.
“Since you were, um, pushed into the boards last game?” My fingers flutter, and I remove my phone from my pocket, like that’s the reason for all their extra energy.
Florian scowls.
Why did I bring up that he was pushed? But I watch every game.
His gaze meets mine, and he looks panicked. In the next moment, he has his normal icy expression, and I wonder if I imagined the panic after all.
“I am fine. I do not require a massage.”
“I—” I hesitate. “I didn’t mean to imply that you needed a massage.”
Troy frowns again. Troy loves massages.
“I must go. Have a nice day.” Then Florian marches away. His pace quickens and quickens, his footsteps echoing in the corridor.
“Did something happen between you two?” Troy asks.
“No.”
Which technically is true. He came for one massage, left in the middle of it like a man fleeing a torture chamber, and has avoided me ever since.
Maybe German massages are different from American massages. Maybe it’s me.
I make a note to google it when I get home tonight, but apparently, Germans have normal massages.
He shouldn’t have an issue.
I complain to Gina at dinner after she makes the mistake of asking how my day was.
The benefit of living with one’s twin is that I can complain about these things.
We sit at the too-large dining table a prior tenant put in the kitchen, one that takes up too much space and reminds us that we’re alone.
The fake daisies stuffed into a vase between us are an insufficient distraction from that fact.
“He said ‘I do not require a massage’ like I was offering him insects.” I stab my fork into my broccoli. “I was just making conversation.”
“Some people are awkward.”
“He can’t stand me.”
“Everyone likes you, Mateo. That’s nonsense.”
“Well, he’s serious and maybe—”
I don’t want to say it.
“You think he’s homophobic?”
I cut my chicken breast into smaller slices. “Not consciously perhaps. I actually don’t think he’s the type to say homophobic things in the locker room. But he looks at me like he’s repulsed or afraid or—”
Gina’s expression hardens. “That’s terrible.”
“It’s okay.” I attempt a smile. “The job is wonderful. Florian is the only negative part. It doesn’t matter.”
“Still…” She chews her bottom lip. “You know what you need?”
“What?”
“A boyfriend.”
“Like I haven’t already tried to get one.”
I don’t like being single. I’m twenty-six. It would be super cool to have someone to come home to.
“I’m tired of app dates,” I say.
“I know.” Gina’s eyes sparkle.
That is never a good sign.
“I don’t want you to set me up again.”
“I won’t,” she promises. “That didn’t go well before.”
I give her a wobbly smile.
Actually, Gina doesn’t have terrible taste in men. The last two dates she set me up with were men I would have been happy to see more of.
Unfortunately, neither of them felt the same about me.
Gina is getting a PhD in Neuroscience, and men with letters behind their name aren’t eager to date men without letters behind their name.
“I got this amazing book,” Gina says. “It’s all about manifestation.”
“That’s not a real thing, Gina.”
“It’s quantum physics. You just have to be in the right vibration and be very clear to the universe what you want.”
“Life doesn’t work that way.”
“Maybe the universe hasn’t given you a boyfriend yet because you’re telling it that you don’t deserve one.”
And then, despite all my protests, she takes out her phone and orders me a copy.