No one.
Maybe I don’t remember being in Boston, but I remember the rest of my life.
The years of pretending that I was too focused on hockey to date, alternatively implying to people that I hooked up on away games or that I was demisexual or something.
No one told me they loved me.
Not my teammates who aggressively announced their adoration for women, openly passing around dirty magazineson busses and playing poker amongst themselves with equally salacious playing cards.
And even then, even when they enthusiastically announced their desires for everything I didn’t want, didn’t have, I would have to restrain my gaze from wandering to forbidden torsos and chests and arms in the locker rooms. I had to train my view on my own hands lacing my skates, had to make excuses to keep from drinking, lest I find myself staring too long at someone and thinking maybe, maybe, maybe, and leaned in too close and destroyed my hockey career and friendship group all in one tipsy go.
But somehow, I did something right after all.
Somehow, I found a man who pats my hair and tells me I’m amazing. I stare at this beautiful man in front of me.
“How did you meet?” Annika asks Mateo. “Florian never mentioned you.”
Mateo winces, and I squeeze his hand.
“I am sorry,” I tell him. “I should have told my sister about you.”
“It’s fine, Florian.”
“I apologize,” I say. “I hope you can forgive me.”
He looks alarmed, and his eyes flicker to the heart monitor.
But then he cups my cheeks with his fingers. “You did nothing wrong, Florian.”
I beam under his praise, and joy rushes through my body like when the sky is lighting up with fireworks and everyone is holding sparklers and telling one another how much they mean to each other.
“I love you,” I say.
His jaw drops, then he smiles. “I-I love you too, Florian.”
I turn to my family.
My mother’s eyes have gone misty. “I didn’t know you were gay.”
“You were not supposed to know. It was a secret.”
She nods, but her eyes remain sad, and I suppose it is sad.
“I am braver with Mateo,” I tell her, and a strange look passes over Mateo’s face.
I squeeze his hand more tightly, and he does not let go.
“I’m glad to see you so happy,” my father says. “Boston was a good move for you.”
I nod, because he’s correct.
“How is your head?” my father asks.
“It will improve.”
“Soon you’ll have no pain,” Mateo says.
I smile at him. “And then I’ll remember you!”
