Languages are for people who like to talk. I am not one of those people.
The strange man shoves a book into a satchel, then closes the distance between us. He moves tentatively, which I do not like, but maybe I am horribly bandaged.
My breath quickens.
Scheiße, Scheiße, Scheiße.
What happened?
“How do you feel, Florian?” he asks.
Every part of me is in pain.
“I am fine,” I say.
“Good.” He nods multiple times, and his cheeks pinken more, and he looks away.
I am glad I decided not to disappoint him.
He is not in scrubs and has not checked my vitals, so I do not think he is my nurse. He does not have a doctor’s white coat. If they really wear that. Even though I’ve played hockey for most of my life, and even though I’ve been a defenseman for a significant portion of that time, I have managed to avoidhospitals.
“Where am I?” I ask.
“The hospital.”
“In Mannheim?”
He blinks.
“Which city?” I ask.
His eyes widen. “Boston. You’re in Boston.”
Boston. Then I am in the United States.
I try to remember why I am in Boston. What does my life in Mannheim have to do with this fluorescent American room with its beeping machines and this beautiful stranger who knows my name? There is only blankness.
But I know Boston. The Blizzards play there. The Blizzards with their many gay teammates.
They drafted me, but I have been playing in Germany to develop. Someday I will play for them.
“What happened?” I ask.
“You got hit on the ice.”
“Oh.”
“You were out. Like completely out. Since yesterday!” His lips press together suddenly, like he’s been talking a lot and thinks he shouldn’t.
“Are you…” I chew my lower lip. “Who are you?”
He looks devastated, then oddly formal.
“Sorry,” I say. “My head hurts… I am not… I cannot… I do not know why…”
“I’m Mateo,” he says.
Mateo. The name is pretty, like him. It sounds familiar. He looks familiar.
