Chapter 20
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Mateo
Florian looks like he’s about to faint. His face goes white, then green.
“Is something wrong?” I rush to his side. “Have a seat.”
He flinches.
Normally, he would lean into me and let me guide him to a chair.
Now, he scrutinizes me like he’s evaluating a video of a new team before playing against them for the first time. I am a stranger who can harm him.
Who already did harm him.
Shit.
“You remember,” I say as softly as I can.
He stares at me. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“It’s okay,” I tell him.
He doesn’t move.
Obviously.
It’s not okay.
Of course it’s not okay.
I’m not his boyfriend, even though I pretended to be. God, maybe he’s straight. What if he’s straight?
Don’t people sometimes wake up and start speaking a foreign language or something? What if this was similar? What if he wasn’t a repressed gay man who mistook the man at his bedside for his boyfriend? What if he is actually the homophobe I initially thought he was?
I inhale. Is he going to yell at me? Will the whole team come rushing? The entire admin staff? Will everyone know?
But I deserve that. I lied to him. I lied to him over and over and over.
His fingers tremble, and I go to the door and lock it.
“I didn’t know what to do,” I tell him. “I’m so sorry.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. “You are not my boyfriend.”
Florian used to run from me. We were never even friendly acquaintances. We were something worse than strangers, because he avoided me.
Boyfriends aren’t like that.
Boyfriends want to spend time with you.
“No,” I say finally. “I’m not.”
He sucks in a deep breath of air, and his face is the color I used to see in my mother before she would faint.
My eyes sting, and I blink furiously before I make this situation even more awkward.
How could I have let this happen?
How could I have not figured out some way to avoid all of this?
He was brain damaged. And I lied to him all the time.
His knuckles whiten around the back of a chair handle. I go to the water dispenser and get him a glass of water. The lemon-and-cucumber water seems overly cheerful, the bright scent unwelcome, and he frowns when I hand him the glass.
“It’s all fine,” I say.
He winces. “No, it is not.”
“Will you sit down?” I ask.
He hesitates.
“Please?”
He sits down in the chair. I shouldn’t feel a sense of relief. Maybe I don’t want him to collapse and hurt his head all over again.
I slide into the chair opposite him.
A ridiculous vase filled with eucalyptus is between us.
“What do you remember?” I ask.
“I remember this room,” he says miserably. “I remember running away.” He looks at me. “We weren’t together. Why were you at my bedside?”
The air is chillier, like my first winter in Worcester. I knew Florian wouldn’t have wanted me at the hospital. I should have told Coach that.
“Coach asked me to go to the hospital,” I say. “Your parents were not in Boston yet, and the team wanted someone there in case you woke up alone.”
“I thought—”
“I know,” I say quickly. “And it made complete sense. It did.”
He places his fingers on the table, like he’s trying to keep them from trembling. “I am so embarrassed.”
“You shouldn’t be, Florian. Not at all. It was a completely rational thing to think in a completely irrational situation. You didn’t even know which country you were in!”
“No.”
“I need to apologize to you,” I say. “I am so, so sorry, that I couldn’t find the words to explain that we weren’t together. I’m so sorry. You must hate me.”
He looks startled.
“I tried to tell you,” I say, “and the heart monitor went crazy… And then your family showed up and—”
“And I was already telling them.” He winces.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeat.
“And then I told the paparazzi and my team and—”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat.
“We slept in the same bed,” he says. “God. No wonder you wanted to sleep on the couch. And we kissed!” His face twists.
My fingers itch. I want to smooth every line on his face, I want to replace fear and horror with calm.
But Florian is not a body that I can massage until his pain eases away. There is no one or two-hour regimen that will fix the damage I caused. I can apologize, but that won’t change the situation that he’s in.
“Everyone has heard those stories of people who wake up and think they’re someone else,” I say.
“Like a crazy person.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Like someone who thinks he’s Ludwig II.”
I blink, and his smile softens. “You don’t know who that is.”
I shake my head, then Florian stiffens. “People called him crazy. He built nice castles.”
“You had a bad knock to your head,” I say. “Do you want me to explain to everyone?”
“It is my mistake. You have been exceedingly helpful.”
“Overly helpful.”
He gives a small smile. “Perhaps.”
“I got you to smile.”
He smiles back at me. “A tiny smile.”
“Yes.”
He shakes his head, and his eyes turn sad. “I was so happy.”
“I know,” I say.
“And now everyone will know I don’t have you as my boyfriend.”