Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Mateo
Florian is woozy. He’s acting like he just finished chugging a keg.
It is upsettingly endearing. It makes things happen to my heart that I don’t want to examine.
This is all pretend. At some point he’ll remember that we are absolutely not together and that he never had a desire to be with me.
But he is gay.
I had no idea.
The nurse pushes Florian through the hospital.
I walk beside him, since apparently he wants to make sure that I am always there.
He doesn’t know I’m someone he used to avoid at the Blizzards arena, that when we ran into the hallway, his face would go red, and he would head into whatever the nearest room was immediately: the locker room; the gym; the coach’s office; the doctor’s office.
Anywhere where I wasn’t was the place he immediately wanted to be.
At some point he will realize this, and he will hate me.
I will explain… and I hope he will forgive me.
But for now, I want to be the best fake boyfriend to amnesiac Florian I can be. I want to do everything I can to make him calm, to help him heal, to help him never think that I wouldn’t possibly know I was incredibly lucky if this were real.
We hurry through the hospital. His family drags suitcases behind them.
I was only supposed to check on Florian.
That was it.
I certainly didn’t plan on… this.
But it’s fine.
Daniela, who works for the Blizzards, sent Florian’s address and apartment number to me. I already have his keys and phone—two things Daniela thought he might want when he wakes up.
Florian’s family will come with me to Florian’s place, and I’ll do my best to pretend I’ve totally been there before.
The nurse stops Florian at the large glass doors, and I help Florian out of the wheelchair.
For someone who didn’t tell his parents he was gay and never introduced them to a significant other, Florian is very affectionate.
He takes my hand as we exit the hospital, and I hate that my heart does a funny little jump like this means something. Our hands remain joined when yellow bursts around us.
Paparazzi surround us. They point cameras at us.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I start to slide my hand from Florian’s, but he only grips it harder.
Of course there are paparazzi.
Why didn’t I consider that?
But then I’m not a celebrity.
Florian is.
If Florian were dating someone, it wouldn’t be his team’s massage therapist he met at work. He would date someone special. Someone who would think about paparazzi beforehand.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“Florian! How are your injuries?” one person shouts.
“Okay,” Florian says.
“Are you going to be able to play again?”
He tenses.
“The doctor indicated he would,” I say.
“And who are you?” one paparazzo asks me.
“No comment.”
“He’s my boyfriend,” Florian says.
The paparazzi look delighted.
The cameras flash brighter. My stomach drops to somewhere below the wheelchair.
Shit.
I should have anticipated this. Florian just outed himself, and given his behavior since arriving at the Blizzards, he absolutely didn’t want to do this.
But how can I explain things now?
“He’s going to take me home and look after me,” Florian says. “I’ll be healed and playing back with the Blizzards soon.”
Where is that rideshare I ordered? Thankfully, Daniela gave me Florian’s address when I asked for it, and more fortunately, she didn’t ask why I didn’t want to ask Florian the question.
The rideshare SUV finally pulls up, and I usher Florian into the car.
His father, mother, and sister load their luggage into the trunk, then follow us inside.
I am surrounded by Germans.
Florian glances at me, then squeezes my hand.
The SUV zooms forward, taking us to a place I’ve never been to.
Florian gazes up at the skyscrapers in awe, like he’s just arrived in Boston, which I suppose in a way he has.
His family murmurs in the seat behind us. I wonder if his sister is saying she thinks Florian and I are not a couple.
Will they confront me? What would Florian do if that were to happen?
The point of all of this was to make things less traumatic for him, but there is no way to unravel this without hurting him more.
My phone pings.
GINA: Why did the hockey player you hate just tell reporters that you two are together? Have you been holding out on me????
MATEO: It’s complicated.
GINA: OMG! You’re sleeping with him!!!! You bad, bad boy!
MATEO: That’s not what ‘it’s complicated’ means!
GINA: Come on. Everyone knows that means you’re sleeping together.
MATEO: Well, this is actually complicated. Let’s talk later. We’re going to his apartment now.
GINA: OMG!!!
I turn my screen off and flip it over. I glance at Florian.
And he’s… He’s glancing right at me.
“Hi…” he says.
My body flutters automatically, and I hate it. I hate that my body thinks this is real, and that my nerve endings are jumping up enthusiastically.
Hockey players are practically the pinnacle of male perfection. There was a reason why Luke Hawthorne, the assistant captain, was asked to be the Mr. Right of the show Seeking Mr. Right, just as there was a reason that that show was the most broadcast show in Seeking Mr. Right history.
Hockey players are supposed to go out with models. Evan McAllister, the captain, used to be married to a South American supermodel. Now he’s married to one of the defensemen, though it’s not like Vinnie DiCosta isn’t special in his own right.
No. This is all wrong, and at some point, Florian will regret every enthusiastic thing he told the paparazzi when high on drugs.
“Are you okay?” Florian stretches his hand to me, then tangles our hands together.
The driver’s eyes widen in the mirror.
“I’m fine,” I tell Florian.
“You looked sad,” he says.
Florian can’t remember we’re not together, but he can notice the flicker of each of my micro expressions and know exactly what they mean.
I want to confide in him, but I remember how upset he was when I tried to tell him we weren’t together.
The car stops, and I’m grateful that the awkwardness will end soon.
His family will stay with Florian. They’ll probably want to take care of him without me. I don’t want to intrude on a family moment.
His family remove their luggage.
“So there’s room for us here?” his father asks.
“Oh, yes,” I say.
Florian swings an arm around me, and I gasp. People on the sidewalk look at him in surprise.
Are these Florian’s neighbors? Will he hate me extra much when he realizes that not only are we not a couple, but that his neighbors know he’s gay?
Florian’s large blue eyes turn melancholy, and he strokes my cheek. “Don’t be sad, Mateo. I will be fine. I promise.”
“I know. I’m supposed to comfort you.”
His face goes mischievous. “I beat you to it.”
“You are a professional sportsman.”
He gives a modest shrug. “I am excellent at winning.”
I snort. “You have a sense of humor.”
He blinks, and it occurs to me that maybe that’s something his boyfriend would already know about him.
“Do you remember this building?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“It’s fine,” I say.
He nods, and I hate that I made him feel uncertain.
“It will probably take a few days, the doctor said.”
He smiles. “And then I will remember you!”
“Uh-huh.” I try to nod, but my heart is sinking to the glossy marble floor.
Florian lives in Seaport, like most of his teammates.
I told him about Seaport when we first met—well, the time we had any sort of conversation, since after that, encounters between us seemed to involve him giving me awkward waves and then rushing away from me as fast as he could, as if my presence was some part of his fitness protocol.
“What are you thinking?” Florian asks.
I hesitate. I won’t tell him that he’s going to hate me when he remembers, and that I’m pondering precisely how much hatred he will feel.
“I told you about Seaport when we first met,” I say instead. “I was wondering if that impacted your decision to move here.”
He shrugs. “It probably did.”
My eyes dart this way and that. Where is the elevator? If I’m supposed to be Florian’s boyfriend, I must have been here before.
Thankfully, I find it, and I lead him and his family there.
His family’s footsteps sound behind us.
The elevator is on the small side, at least for five people, four of them giants, and three suitcases. I squeeze beside Florian, and he pulls me in front of him, draping his arms over me, so my back is against his chest.
My heart does its racing thing again as if this is real.
I’m relieved when the elevator stops, and it’s time for us to exit.
The hallway looks absolutely nothing like the third story walk up in Somerville that I share with my sister, the one that is not on the T, so I need to take a bus whenever I want to go to Boston.
That place has painted floorboards to hide the poor floors, and the style is shabby and not the least bit chic.
It’s fine. I love Boston. And Somerville is cool too.
But this is a different way to live. This is the way to live if you’re a top NHL player, where you help fill arenas.
Florian and I are still holding hands which is pleasant. It feels right, even though it shouldn’t. His thumb moves over my hand, as if he wants to remind me of his presence.
He doesn’t have to worry.
I open the door with the key that the arena gave me from his locker, then we’re inside.
“Welcome back,” I say.
Florian steps into the apartment. He looks around slowly at furniture he doesn’t remember buying and a life he doesn’t remember having.
“It’s nice,” Florian says finally, like a guest complimenting a stranger’s home.
His sister catches my eye, and I look away quickly, hoping she can’t tell that my nerves are zinging this way and that, and it’s all I can do to stay upright.