Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
Mateo
One day before
Gina and I are curled up on our couch watching the Blizzards play. They’re winning 3 to 1 against New York.
“I never thought you would become a sports fan,” Gina says.
I throw a pillow at her, then lean forward, because I don’t want to miss anything. New York is angry, their normal state, and they’ve become even more violent than normal.
I watch Florian more than I should. He’s confident and commanding on the ice. He looks exactly like a man who wouldn’t find me terrifying.
I mean, I don’t carry a hockey stick around and try to push him into the boards every chance I can.
“He’s so handsome,” Gina coos.
“Gina…”
“Oh! Your book arrived.” She hops off the couch and runs to her room.
She comes back shortly after with the book. She beams, which is annoying. Twin sisters are annoying in general, and Gina is no exception. She’s also my best friend, and I don’t know what I would do without her.
I take the book, glance at the title, and almost drop it.
“Seriously, Gina? How to Manifest Your Ideal Boyfriend in 30 Days or Less (Even If You’ve Tried Everything). That’s the title?”
“It’s what you need.”
I take the book and slip it into my work satchel. “I’ll look at it later.”
“Right. Because now you have to focus on watching Florian Richter on the ice.”
“I am watching all the players,” I say haughtily. “It’s practically my job. I’m observing if they receive any injuries.”
And that’s when it happens.
One of the New York players barrels into Florian’s back, then pushes him head-first into the boards.
I gasp.
So does Gina.
“I can’t believe that player did that!” Gina exclaims. “How could he be so violent?”
I like hockey. I do. But my heart is somewhere in my throat.
Because the thing is…
Florian isn’t moving.
He’s not moving when the New York player manages to look guilty, when that’s totally not how he ever acts, and Florian is not moving when the referee skates over in his black-and-white shirt.
Florian’s also not moving when the paramedics arrive with a stretcher, and he doesn’t move when they check that he’s breathing—oh, God, why do they have to check that?—and he’s not moving when they slide him onto the stretcher and remove him from the ice.
“He’ll be fine,” Gina promises, her voice forceful like when she promised Mom that the cancer would go away, and then when she promised Mom three years later that we would be totally okay and we would see her in heaven in eight decades.
“Yes. Totally.” I try to make my voice extra confident. My voice sounds funny, and she shoots me a worried look.
But hockey players have injuries all the time.
I know. I work on their bodies after.
I also watch a lot of hockey.
But the thing about hockey injuries is that sometimes they’re serious. And mostly when people have injuries they are able to move.
He probably has a concussion. He’s probably up and talking to the doctor and insisting on going back on the ice.
He was playing amazingly, after all.
I try not to think about the fact that concussions can lead to terrible things. Like increased risk of dementia. And the fact that some people who get hit on the head might just not—
I shake my head. No. My mind is not going there.
No way.
The mood is subdued at the arena the next morning. The security guard doesn’t flash his normal gruff smile, and everyone’s eyes are round and worried.
There’s no news. We all ask, but no one knows anything.
Axel comes for his massage appointment, but he’s less talkative than normal. I find myself telling him about the manifestation book that my sister gave me, which makes him laugh, but the sound is forced.
After he leaves, Coach stops by the massage room, even though he rarely does that.
“How is Florian?” I ask.
Coach gives the sort of lengthy sigh that means he has no good news. “He hasn’t woken up.”
My breath halts.
“But he will, right?”
“We’ll see. I informed his parents. They’re flying in from Germany.” Coach hesitates. “I’m going to visit him in the hospital before our flight to Montreal. I’ll get more information there.”
I want to tell Coach to tell Florian ‘hi’ if he wakes up, but knowing Florian, he wouldn’t respond well to that.
“Hopefully you get good news,” I say instead.
“Thank you, Mateo. I appreciate that.”
Coach leaves, his face paler than it should be, even for a man of Swedish heritage who spends most of his time in the Blizzards arena rather than capturing the few opportunities for Vitamin D gain that Boston provides.
I sigh.
He’ll be okay, I tell myself.
But I feel uncertain all morning. The players are worried and extra tense today, and I work hard to ease their tension, even though all of us know the one thing that would make them feel better is knowing that Florian has woken up.
All of them know they could have been in Florian’s position. All of them are reminded that the job they have, despite its good pay, despite its adulations, is dangerous.
There’s a chance Florian might never wake up.
I hate that chance.
Finally, Coach enters the massage room.
“Did you get any news?” I ask.
“They’re hoping he’ll wake up soon. They can’t say for sure.”
“Right.”
Coach shifts his legs, then scratches the back of his neck. He behaves in a way that he rarely behaves.
“So his parents are due to arrive this evening,” Coach says. “But I hate the thought that he might wake up and no one would be there for him.”
“Oh, yeah. That would suck.”
For some reason, Coach looks relieved.
But Coach is a parent too. In fact, Coach’s son-in-law, Dmitri Volkov, used to be a defenseman for the Blizzards, but his agent was apparently terrible at filling out paperwork and Dmitri was unfortunately deported last season.
I started a few weeks after, and I know how much he is missed.
Dmitri is now in Sweden, married to Coach’s son.
“The team is flying to Montreal today. But it would be wonderful if you could go to the hospital.”
“You don’t want me in Montreal?”
“It’s just for one night. We’re flying back after the game. I’d rather you were here with Florian.”
“Oh.”
Florian does not want to see me when he wakes up. He probably also doesn’t want to wake up alone and disoriented.
I chew my bottom lip.
“Is there a problem, Mateo?” Coach’s eyebrows move together.
He’s definitely not thinking generous things about me. I don’t like it.
“There’s no problem,” I say hastily. “I’m happy to do it. Of course! No problem at all!”
I’m totally not going to tell Coach that one of the players has a problem with me. Maybe that wouldn’t make Florian look great, but it also doesn’t make me look great.
Coach hired me to give massages to the team. Florian is wary around me. That’s all. No point making us both look bad by saying something to Coach.
At some point I’ll have to tell Coach though. Florian needs massages.
Maybe I can get some extra goodwill by going to Florian’s hospital bedside.
“Which hospital is it?” I ask.
Unsurprisingly, Florian is in the big fancy hospital in Beacon Hill.
Coach gives me the details, and after the team leaves for the airport, I take my things and go.
I haven’t been to a hospital in years, but my stomach drops straight away when I enter. I wind down the corridors until I find the right wing. Coach has already told them to expect me, and a nurse ushers me to Florian’s room. It’s a private room, which is nice. Mom would have liked it.
Florian’s face is pale, and wires extend from him. It reminds me of… Well, never mind that. His eyes are shut. He’s still unconscious.
I hate it.
Please let him be okay. Please.
I settle down on the armchair in the room. The thing about being in the hospital with someone who is unconscious is that there’s not a whole lot to do.
I open my satchel and see Gina’s manifestation book. I shake my head. I’m not going to open it.
But there’s nothing else to do, so after scrolling social media, I pull it out.
I flip through the pages, then go to the section on finding your perfect boyfriend.
It’s as ridiculous as I imagined it would be.
It’s a workbook, and I take out a pen and answer the questions, careful to put the book on my lap so none of the nurses can see just what I’m doing.
Personality: sweet
Hair color: brown
Eyes: blue
Height: tall
Accent: yes please
I shake my head. Gina is insane. At least I’ll be able to show her that I filled in everything.
Then rustling sounds from the bed.