I turn my screen off and flip it over. I glance at Florian.
And he’s… He’s glancing right at me.
“Hi…” he says.
My body flutters automatically, and I hate it. I hate that my body thinks this is real, and that my nerve endings are jumping up enthusiastically.
Hockey players are practically the pinnacle of male perfection.There was a reason why Luke Hawthorne, the assistant captain, was asked to be the Mr. Right of the showSeeking Mr. Right, just as there was a reason that that show was the most broadcast show inSeeking Mr. Righthistory.
Hockey players are supposed to go out with models. Evan McAllister, the captain, used to be married to a South American supermodel. Now he’s married to one of the defensemen, though it’s not like Vinnie DiCosta isn’t special in his own right.
No. This is all wrong, and at some point, Florian will regret every enthusiastic thing he told the paparazzi when high on drugs.
“Are you okay?” Florian stretches his hand to me, then tangles our hands together.
The driver’s eyes widen in the mirror.
“I’m fine,” I tell Florian.
“You looked sad,” he says.
Florian can’t remember we’re not together, but he can notice the flicker of each of my micro expressions and know exactly what they mean.
I want to confide in him, but I remember how upset he was when I tried to tell him we weren’t together.
The car stops, and I’m grateful that the awkwardness will end soon.
His family will stay with Florian. They’ll probably want to take care of him without me. I don’t want to intrude on a family moment.
His family remove their luggage.
“So there’s room for us here?” his father asks.
“Oh, yes,” I say.
Florian swings an arm around me, and I gasp. People on the sidewalk look at him in surprise.
Are these Florian’s neighbors? Will he hate me extra much when he realizes that not only are we not a couple, but that his neighborsknow he’s gay?
Florian’s large blue eyes turn melancholy, and he strokes my cheek. “Don’t be sad, Mateo. I will be fine. I promise.”
“I know. I’m supposed to comfort you.”
His face goes mischievous. “I beat you to it.”
“You are a professional sportsman.”
He gives a modest shrug. “I am excellent at winning.”
I snort. “You have a sense of humor.”
He blinks, and it occurs to me that maybe that’s something his boyfriend would already know about him.
“Do you remember this building?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“It’s fine,” I say.
