Chapter 35
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
Florian
I blink. I must have misheard. “I am a Blizzard. I have been planning on playing for the Blizzards for years. They chose me. And I have been playing well.” Except… That is a lie. I allowed myself to get hit. “Are they angry I got hit?”
“It’s not personal, Florian. It never is.”
They probably tell all agents to say that. They probably learn that in agent training school. Maybe he’s reading from a handbook now: How to Always Act Like You Care about Your Players.
“They’re getting their old defenseman back. Dmitri Volkov. His appeal to return to the US was approved, and…”
Oh.
My shoulders sag. “He was with the team first.”
“Yes.”
I’ve heard about Dmitri Volkov. It’s not every day an athlete is deported. He married Coach’s son, and though the news reported that the marriage was fraudulent, Oskar moved with him to Sweden.
I know the team members FaceTime them both regularly. I know they said Dmitri’s deportation was unfair.
That must have been why my teammates were acting strangely. Maybe that’s why Coach suggested I accompany Mateo on away games.
I thought the team was perfect.
But maybe they thought I would be replaced soon, they were just waiting for the final official word, and they wanted to give me a nice time like a dog they know is going to be put down.
“I’m sorry, Florian. This sucks. But it’s not that bad. Nashville, uh—”
“Has vitamin D.”
“That’s right! You haven’t seen how cold it gets in the winter in Boston. This is good news.”
“Yes,” I say, even though Nashville isn’t ranked well.
I do not want to move to Nashville. I like Boston. Boston is my home.
I never imagined myself in Tennessee. I am a winter sports person, and Nashville is not a winter sports place.
Nashville is a place for football and cheerleaders and cowboy hats. It is a place where people ride bulls for sport. It is not a place I ever imagined I might be.
It is hot and humid and un-Boston-like.
But I am a hockey player. Sometimes we get traded.
I cannot simply find another job in Boston for another hockey team. The Blizzards is the only NHL team in New England.
And I want to be in Boston.
Mateo is in Boston.
I will miss him so much.
How can I simply move to a different region of the US? How many states will there be between us? How many miles?
Since I joined the Blizzards, I have never even played Nashville. What will I encounter?
But Mateo is not my real boyfriend. How can I miss someone who only pretends to love me?
“Thank you for telling me,” I tell Chase. “It is not pleasant to give someone news they do not want to hear.”
A sigh sounds on the other side.
“You can be upset, Florian,” Chase says. “God, I sound like my wife. But I know you were settling in… well.”
“That is good,” I say. “Because I am sad.”
“Right. Emotions are—uh—good.” Chase says the line with the enthusiasm of someone who is skeptical that emotions are better expressed than kept in.
I share his doubts.
“You do not need to comfort me,” I tell Chase. “I need to pack. And—” I hesitate. I also need to tell my teammates.
How many of them already knew? They knew Dmitri.
I was telling them I was happy to be here. I was promising to play harder than ever when I recovered.
They probably knew.
I am embarrassed. But mostly I am sad.
I tell Chase goodbye. I am not interested in exchanging platitudes with almost strangers.
I go to the massage room, but the door is closed and calming music which does not calm me comes through the door. Mateo is giving a massage.
I stare at the door.
I am not going to interrupt my fake boyfriend’s work.
I wait outside the door until Jason slips out. His skin reddens when he sees me, and he doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Did you—?”
“I got the news,” I say. “I am to be traded to Nashville.”
“I’m sorry,” Jason says.
I nod, because he probably is sorry in his way.
He looks at me awkwardly, and I hate it.
I’ve never belonged here. Not really.
The game is about to begin, and I leave the arena. I want to escape the throngs of happy people. I am no longer a Blizzard. I need to pack.
I exit the building, and icy Massachusetts wind beats against me.
Mateo
Jason has left the massage room, and I pick up my phone when a news alert flashes across the screen.
“Dmitri Volkov to replace Florian Richter as Blizzards’ Defenseman.”
I stare at the words on the screen.
No. No, no, no.
I leave the massage room. Where is Florian?
I hurry through the hallway. Jason is entering the locker room, and he turns to me. His cheeks redden.
“You knew,” I say.
“I’m sorry. Dmitri’s application was approved.”
I inhale. I am not going to be angry at Jason. I am not.
Jason funded the lawyer working to get Dmitri back into the country. If I weren’t so close to Florian, I would be happy for Dmitri. He is Coach’s son-in-law, he played for the Blizzards for years, and everyone loves him.
“I need to find Florian,” I say instead.
“He went outside.”
“Outside the arena?”
“Yes.” The red splotches on his cheeks do not disappear.
“Fuck.” And then I run forward.
“He’s going to Nashville!” Jason calls out. “Coach found him a place!”
I don’t turn around.
I push my hands against the emergency exit and hurry into the cold Boston wind. I see Florian at once. I also see the reporters pointing cameras at him.