Dr. Davis and Mateo exchange glances. I do not like it.
“Is that a German team?” Mateo asks.
“Yes.”
Mateo and Dr. Davis exchange another look.
“Florian,” Dr. Davis says carefully. “You play for the Boston Blizzards.”
“You have for nearly two months,” Mateo adds.
I stare at them.
“You might have some amnesia,” Dr. Davis says. “Memory loss. It should be temporary, but?—”
“I play for Boston?”
“Yes.”
“In America?”
“Yes.”
Das ist nicht möglich.It is impossible.
But the doctor is nodding, and Mateo is nodding, and I am in this American hospital with these men with American accents, so perhaps it is possible.
How can I not remember?
Mateo steps closer. His expression is worried—so worried—and I do not understand why a stranger would look at me like that. Who is he?
I try to remember. I do.
Mateo texts something on his phone. “I’m just letting Coach know you’re awake.”
“Coach knows about you?”
He looks confused, then nods.
Mein Gott.
My stomach drops.
Mateo must be my boyfriend. No wonder he is in my hospital room. No wonder he is concerned that I do not remember him.
And he knows my coach.
My coach knows.
About me. About everything I’ve tried to hide.
I think of every time I trained my eyes on the floor in locker rooms. Every time I smiled and told people I was just focused on hockey, and no, I didn’t have a girlfriend, not yet, not right now.
But I told people. I told my coach.
Oh, God.
I look at Mateo. At his worried eyes and his trembling hands and the way he was waiting for me to wake up.
