But that won’t happen.
This is not the murky world of nightmares. This is the bright world of reality, where water smells like citrus, and everything is light.
Coach waves at me in the hallway. “Having a good day?”
“Yes.”
“We’re about to go onto the ice. You can watch from the stands. Maybe you’ll remember something!”
I flinch. I need to tell him I remember. But then I’ll have to admit that I made up my relationship with Mateo and I don’t want to do it. I am selfish. I don’t want to see confusion on Coach’s face, on my teammates’ faces.
“That sounds good,” I say instead, and I follow him to the ice. I sit on one of the plastic seats where non-athletes sit. I lay my hands on my knees and keep my breath steady. I will not give in to the urge to hyperventilate.
I want to lift weights and concentrate only on the burn of every muscle. I watch my teammates practice in a way I’m not allowed to.
Some of them helpfully reintroduce themselves to me. Everyone is pleasant, straight out of an etiquette book.
But are they upset I got injured? Are they resentful I’m getting paid while watching them?
How could I have been so careless?
A few look at me with sympathy, and I don’t know if it’s because of my injury or if they can see the panic in my eyes.
I press myself against the seat and square my jaw.
Hockey sticks slam against the pucks, and Troy dives this way and that. My hands tense. I want to be gripping a hockey stick. I want to be flying across the ice.
I remember when I met Mateo for the first time. I liked him at once. I liked the way he looked, and I liked the way he filled my awkwardness and silence with words. And when he touched me…
Mein Gott, Iliked that too much.
Dummkopf.
But he knows all that now. He knows my subconscious was crazy about him.
I am so embarrassed.
I got on my dream team, and met my dream man, and everything is ruined.
My pulse struggles.
I do not have the best boyfriend in theworld.
I am alone.
Mateo
The team is practicing on the ice, and I sit in the massage therapy room by myself. I go over notes from their physical therapists, but I already know their information.
My mind can only think about Florian.
He remembered.
Fuck.
I slide onto the floor and bury my face in my hands. The massage table and the chairs where Florian and I sat loom above me. They should belong to someone more professional, someone who manages to avoid making a brain-damaged client think they are dating.
Florian was pale and polite and I’m pretty sure, completely devastated.
