I finish my shower then leave the arena.
The city is excessively beautiful. Rows of imposing townhouses with lavish flourishes surround me. Glass skyscrapers soar behind them, a pale blue that matches the sky. Someone has hung flower baskets from each streetlamp. I should be admiring them. I shouldn’t still think about Mateo.
I am overthinking. He has almost certainly forgotten me.
My phone rings.
Annika.
I answer it.
“How’s my favorite brother?” My sister’s voice is bright. Clearly, she did not just embarrass herself.
“I am fine, Annika.”
“You are always fine.”
“There is no war in Boston.”
“Just like there was no war in Mannheim?”
I nod, then remember she can’t see me. “Yes.”
She sighs. “Florian, are you happy?”
I think about how I fled from Mateo. I think about how my body got confused by any attention, and how I embarrassed myself. I think about the long stretches of day and night when I am alone, with nothing to do but to exercise and watch videos of opposing team members to prepare for confronting them.
“I am happy,” I say.
I hate lying to my sister.
CHAPTER
THREE
Mateo
Three weeks earlier
Florian Richter is at the end of the hallway, and my stomach does that swooping thing again.
Not, obviously, a this-is-a-super-handsome-man-in-my-presence swooping thing. Even though he is completely handsome. For those into 6’4 athletic men with golden brown hair and dark blue eyes, which is an aesthetically uninteresting desire since so many people have it.
Like me. Unfortunately.
It is so annoying to be attracted to a man who hates me.
But I do my best to pretend that I am completely unaffected by male paragons of beauty, and I put on my best bland look.
Florian hasn’t seen me yet. He’s chatting with Troy, the goalie. Their heads are bent together over Troy’s phone. Florian’s hair looks extra striking beside Troy’s dark curly hair.They’re probably doing something super important like looking at footage of the team they’re going to play tonight. He nods at whatever Troy is showing him, and he looks?—
Well. He looks like a professional athlete who is excellent at his job and looks like he could model on the side. Which he does. I’ve googled him.
I raise my chin and even though I normally smile and nod when I pass players in the hallway, I hesitate.
Florian Richter is not any other player.
Florian Richter is the player who sprinted from my massage room three weeks ago. He’s since perfected the art of vanishing whenever I enter a room. He once saw me coming down an empty hallway, then ducked into the janitor’s closet.
