Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
Mateo
A nurse ducks her head inside the room. “You have visitors, Florian.”
Florian gives me a look that says ‘help.’
Well, that makes sense. If he can’t remember who I am, he probably won’t remember who his visitors are.
“The team is in Canada,” I say. “Maybe you made some friends in Boston.”
He doesn’t look less alarmed.
I press my lips together. Social skills aren’t his thing.
Whenever I see him, he blurts excuses about how he absolutely can’t have a massage with me. How his back feels amazing, and those minutes in which I massaged him and personally felt and assessed the tightness of each muscle, have been preventing him from needing more massages.
Even after long games.
Even after long games where he’s fallen to the ice.
Even after long games where he’s fallen to the ice and gotten hit by someone else’s stick.
“Florian!” An alto voice sails through the room with much the same strength as Florian is prone to sending pucks, and a middle-aged woman in a flowered dress and the kind of auburn hair that is the product of a serious commitment to the furthering of hairdressing establishments, walks into the room.
Behind her is a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket and a young, blond woman.
“Do they know?” Florian asks me, his voice desperate.
“Know what?”
The woman towers above us. “Du bist wach.”
“Ja, Mama,” Florian says.
Mama.
I can figure out what that means.
I smile, happy his family is here.
Florian’s mother embraces him, uttering a slew of fast German.
Evidently, Florian does not get his coldness from his mother’s side.
I eye the two other people in the room: Florian’s father and a young woman who I hope is not his girlfriend.
She’s pretty, in that blond curls and bright blue eyes manner, the sort of woman who could get pulled aside by someone who wants to sculpt cake decorations for weddings and want someone who emanates perfect and beautiful and a worthy ancestor of the next twenty generations of descendants.
But then Florian looks like he could get pulled aside by a cake decorator looking for a similar paragon of masculinity too.
She’s probably his sister.
I have a sister. Sisters are something people have.
“Hi,” I say.
Florian’s father looks immediately anxious, but he straightens. “Hello.”
“Mama, du musst lassen uns hallo zu sagen,” the younger woman says.
Florian’s mother steps aside, and there’s a whole lot more German.
I assume it’s German.
I’ve never been to Europe, and they could be speaking Danish or Polish for all I know.
“I’m Mateo,” I say.
The other family members stare at me. I suppose it’s a relief to know not everyone immediately assumes I’m Florian’s boyfriend, that that assumption lies solely with Florian, and that I haven’t fallen through one of those space/time continuums that you vaguely hear about when watching various science fiction films when there’s absolutely nothing else on TV, but that has never become relevant until now.
Three impossibly tall Germans stare at me.
“Hello,” hopefully-not-Florian’s-girlfriend says to me.
Not that there’s a reason she shouldn’t be Florian’s girlfriend. I’m personally all for people matching up. Two people in the journey of life and all that.
Except… something curdles in my chest.
Still, it would make things easier if she were his girlfriend. Florian might be reminded that he’s not supposed to be squeezing my hand and looking deep into my eyes and having major heart incidents that involve beeping machines when I try to dissuade him otherwise.
“Who are you?” she asks me.
Right.
Was I supposed to leave the room and leave them by themselves? So they can continue to do their rapid-fire chatter?
Do they know Florian has amnesia? Did someone tell them on their way in?
But they look far too happy. But then Florian would remember them. He just doesn’t remember his US life.
Even if for some strange reason Florian had not run away when he saw me, if he’d stayed for the massage, if he’d asked me out on a date instead, and told me that he wanted to discover Boston with me, that there was no one else he wanted to be by his side, even then, Florian would have forgotten me.
There is no scenario in which Florian remembers me.
Not after what that New York player did to him.
My hands tighten, and I feel another spurt of rage that Florian was hit.
Amnesia. He has a serious head injury.
And though the doctor seems confident that he’ll remember everything eventually, he wasn’t absolutely certain, because those aren’t the type of things that people normally come into the hospital for.
A hospital is a place for injuries and illness, but even the doctor, in all his expertise, after all his courses in hallowed institutions—and yes, I know which ones, because I know precisely how particular Bostonians are about the acquisition of Latin phrases after their names, the kind that is abbreviated as A.B.
instead of B.A., because that is cooler, and that is the Latin way, and even though the Roman Empire collapsed 1500 years ago, it is still going strong on New England registrars.
I hope he’ll be okay.
I hope it so much.
Florian asked me before his family arrived whether they knew, and it must have been about us. He knows there is a reason for us not to be together, even in his foggy, damaged mind.
A part of him knows.
Because we are not.
“I work for the Blizzards,” I explain.
Florian frowns.
“We at the Blizzards are very happy to see that he is awake,” I say, imparting my best formality, even though I’ve never been to a board meeting in my life.
“Oh.” His mother blinks. “Thank you for checking on him.”
She turns back to Florian, obviously correctly deducing that I am of little relevance to her happiness, merely a man who should have slipped out of a hospital room two minutes ago, a faux-pas that is inconvenient, but unworthy of remark.
I stand, my cheeks hot.
Florian’s face darkens.
“It was nice meeting you all,” I say, backing away, even though technically speaking I don’t know if I’m addressing Florian’s sister or his maybe girlfriend.
“Mateo,” Florian says.
“Uh-huh?”
“Come here.”
I approach him. Of course I do. Even if my body is warm and prickly, and I feel three pairs of eyes scrutinize me. Are they tracking my eyeliner? The blush? The laminated brows and the hair that I carefully pomade each morning?
I’m not un-strong, a massage therapist needs to be strong to be helpful, but I’m shorter than the other players, and shorter, I realize, than everyone in this room.
Florian reaches for my hand.
“We don’t need to—”
And then he grasps it. His fingers tangle with mine, as if he’s trying to remember their feel.
He inhales sharply, and he’s, well, he’s staring at his family.
Who are currently staring at us.
And our joined hands.
From their very shocked expressions, they did not expect this.
If some part of me thought that maybe Florian was gay, that he just hadn’t shared it with the Blizzards, because he’s new, that reason evaporates.
I can say for certain that his family definitely did not expect Florian to hold hands with me.
“Florian?” his mother asks.
Matching pink circles appear on his cheeks. He shoots me a helpless look, and I hate it.
The beep-beep-beep of his heart monitor starts to go up again.
He looks at me, confused. Maybe he’s wondering if I’m not actually his boyfriend, if I’m simply some guy he doesn’t remember.
Sparkling eyeshadow does not a memorable man make.
“We are together,” I lie, because at this moment, that is what Florian wants.
Florian burrows himself into his pillow in a contented manner, and I know I’ve made the right decision.
“Oh,” his mother says.
Then his sister smiles. “This explains so much.”
“It does?” his mother asks.
“It does,” his father says. “Welcome to the family.”
My eyes dart to him.
I was not expecting that.
But suddenly three very tall Germans are embracing me, and the only reason a fourth very tall German isn’t embracing me too is because he’s lying on his hospital bed, still hooked to multiple machines.
Family?
I’m thankful no one has hooked my heart to a heart monitor, because the sound would not be relaxing now.
“Well…” I say.
“You’ve been keeping a secret,” his mother tells Florian.
Florian looks down.
“But we are happy if you are happy,” his mother says, and I’m thankful she’s speaking in English for my benefit.
“I am happy,” Florian says.
My heart tightens, and I wonder what this moment would be like if it were real, and I wonder what Florian will tell me once he remembers.
If he remembers.
Hopefully, he will.
“Give him some space,” the for-sure-can’t-be-his-girlfriend says.
I wish I could ask her name, but that’s probably the sort of information boyfriends know already.
Florian’s mother and father loosen their grip on me.
“You could have told us,” Florian’s father tells him.
“We did wonder,” Florian’s sister—I think—says.
“The important thing is that Mateo loves you,” Florian’s mother adds. “I want my baby to be loved.”
Florian stiffens.
Maybe he’s thinking about the fact that at no time in the hospital did I tell him I loved him.
In fact, I did my best to tell him that we weren’t a couple.
His face reddens, and he takes a shallow breath, as if a deeper one would be too much work, and I hate it.
“Of course, I love him,” I say quickly.
Florian looks delighted. “I love you too.”
I shake my head and press my lips together to hide my smile.
That knock on his head was definitely super strong. I say a quick prayer for forgiveness from future Florian.
I ruffle Florian’s hair, and he purrs and pushes his head against my fingers.
“You are adorable,” his mother says.
“I am happy for you,” his father says.
I turn to his sister. Her look is odd. “Florian only joined the Blizzards six weeks ago.”
“Time works differently when you know,” I hear myself say.
Florian’s mother clasps her hands to her chest, so maybe it’s fine.
His sister doesn’t move at all.