Page 11 of On the Edge

“Yes,” he replies, nodding. “I apologize if I am in your way.”

He scoots his chair into the table, making room for me to walk behind him and leave.

“We have to get together this weekend for an assignment,” I remind him. “I’m not planning on wasting my entire weekend on this shit, so let’s schedule something and get it over with.”

“Certainly. I have two hockey games this weekend. Saturday, the bus leaves at three. Sunday it is here, but I will be going to the rink earlier. Perhaps we could meet in the morning?”

Annoyed that I have to plan my weekend around something as idiotic as a sporting event, I hold my hand out to him.

“Give me your phone.”

He does. His background is the standard home screen that comes programmed on all iPhones, and I don’t see a single app that I could make fun of him for. Maybe hockey guys don’t need dating apps to get laid. He could probably walk across campus and pick up women without even trying. I create a contact and shoot a text message over to myself sothat I have his number. When I hand his phone back to him, he smiles.

“Saturday or Sunday? Pick one,” I demand.

“Saturday will perhaps work best, if you are agreeable.” He does that weird nodding thing and reaches for the red apple he brought. Like he does after every class, he holds it out to me. Like I do every time, I ignore his outstretched hand and stand up.

“Saturday is fine. I’ll text you.”

With that, I slide past him and walk out the door without looking back. If he wants to pretend to be the nicest man alive, fine. Doesn’t mean I have to fall for the act.

5

Henri

My morningwith Atlas was a disaster. I hadn’t been so foolish to hope that he’d be in a better mood on a Saturday, but he seemed particularly acidic today. Usually, I’d take the responsibility for things moving slowly—I know my English isn’t perfect, and I still get tripped up over simple things—but not even I can pretend that I was the problem today. If Atlas and I are to spend an entire semester working together, something will have to change.

The thing is, I am certain that we could get along if he would allow it. He is prickly and rude, yes, but he’s also very sharp-witted. Every now and then I get a peek of his dry sense of humor, and I like it. I must also admit that I think he’s rather handsome, even despite the bad attitude. I’m certain the real Atlas behind the walls is worth knowing, as long as I can get past the Atlas guarding the gate.

Feeling uncommonly down, I don’t bother trying to work on any homework on the team bus. Instead, I stare out thewindow and listen as my teammates laugh and joke around me. Beside me, Max occasionally jostles my arm when the bus lurches.

“Sorry,” he apologizes after a particularly violent jolt that sends him crashing into my shoulder.

“That is no problem,” I tell him, smiling. “Will Luke be coming to the game?”

“Not tonight. His car is a piece of crap, so it’s better he just watches from home. Wouldn’t want him to get stranded.” Max smiles and I return it easily.

I play well in the game, able to compartmentalize and focus on the task at hand and not my tumultuous morning. Max—as though spurred on by the knowledge that this is his last year before he joins the NHL—bags five points with two goals and three assists. Nate, too, plays an incredible game and I tell him so when we are waiting to file back onto the bus afterward. He claps a hand on my upper back, smiling wide at the praise.

“Thanks, Vas! You too, buddy,” he says, before boarding the bus and finding a seat.

I follow him, taking the spot next to Max as I always do. He looks at me, eyes shining in the dim lighting of the bus. I am suddenly incredibly tired—exhausted from playing sixty minutes of hockey after an equally exhausting sixty minutes spent with Atlas this morning. Max jostles me with his elbow.

“You good?”

“Yes. Merely tired.” Max nods in agreement. “Also, I have a communications partner who is difficult. He is not fond of me.”

“Really?” He raises his eyebrows. “Huh. Are you sure? I can’t imagine anyone not liking you.”

“You are very kind, but I am sure. He is not shy abouttelling me. I am wondering if perhapsheis the communication assignment. If one can speak to Atlas effectively, they shall pass the class.”

Max chuckles, turning to face me in his seat. “That bad, huh? Worse than Carter?”

“Carter is easy,” I say, waving a hand. “Carter is like…he is like a rose. Thorns, yes, but also a flower. Atlas is only the thorns.”

“Oh my god, did you just say Carter is like a flower?”

“It’s a metaphor,” I explain. Max laughs delightedly.

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