I glance at him. I linger on his pretty eyes with their eyeshadow and mascara.
I like him.
“I am hurt?” My voice sounds more anxious than I want it to be. I hate the way my tone goes up at the end, like I’m a student who hasn’t done his homework in middle school and has to confess to everyone that I’m still not getting the hangof this reading thing, even though everyone else has moved on to thicker books.
“You’re going to be fine,” he says, more confidently than I expect. “No broken bones.”
I smile at him, even though moving my lip muscles makes my head ache.
But I won’t contradict him.
He studies me. “You truly didn’t know you’re in Boston?”
I inhale. I try to think. Why would I be in Boston? Why would I be in America?
“I mean, that’s normal. You hockey guys travel all the time. In fact, the team is in Montreal now.”
“Mannheim is playing Montreal?”
His dark brown lashes fly up, then he steps back. “I’m going to speak with the nurse.”
“But—”
“I’ll be back.”
“Promise?”
He looks startled, but then nods, his tenor voice soft. “I promise, Florian.”
Mateo hurries away, and I miss him immediately. Who is he to me?
Why is a dazzling man by my bedside in the US?
My head spins and aches, and nausea rises as my vision dims.
A slender man with red curly hair wearing a white coat enters the room. Mateo trails after him, his face somber.
“You’re awake. Good.” The white-coated man approaches me. A lanyard hangs from his neck. “You gave everyone a scare.”
“I am sorry.”
“My name is Dr. Davis,” he says.
I wait for him to tell me what’s wrong with me.
Mateo chews on his lower lip. “Florianseems… confused.”
“Well, that’s normal after a knock to the head.” Dr. Davis turns to me. “Let me assess you.”
He asks me questions.
I tell him what year it is, what day it is, then my name and birthday.
I am Florian Richter. I was born on the third of January and am twenty-four years old.
“And what team do you play for?” Dr. Davis asks.
“Mannheim.”
