Page 19 of On the Edge

“I still don’t like you,” I tell him, even though I have to force the words. It’s hard to hate someone who fed you, and took care of you when you were sick. Crumpling up the empty paper bag, I drop it into the trash can. Finishing off the water, I toss that in as well. “I’ll hit on anyone and anything when I’m drunk. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I understand.”

Feeling like I’ve had about as much of this as I can take, I stand up. Immediately, Henri follows suit and raises his arm as though to catch me were I to fall. Biting back the inclination to slap his hand away, I glare at him until he drops it. He looks away as I shakily pull my pants on. Even so, I angle my hips away to try and hide how difficult it is for me to get the button done.

“I shall give you a ride home,” he says once I turn back around and meet his eyes.

“I’m fine.” I’m not, but I’ll be damned if I ask him for more help. Relying on people is a good way to be let down.

He frowns, but doesn’t argue. Silently, he slides my cellphone and wallet toward me from where they were resting on his desk. I’m surprised when my phone lights up as I touch it, assuming that it would have died. When I check the battery, it shows 100%. Henri must have charged it. Tucking everything away in my pockets—and trying to ignore the churning in my stomach that has less to do with alcohol and more to do with Henri—I take a step toward the door.

“Thanks again,” I mumble, trying to look anywhere in the room but at him. My eyes catch on the trash can.Fuck. “Uhm…do you want me to take care of that?”

I point at it, but Henri is already shaking his head without even looking to where I’m indicating.

“No, that is fine. Are you sure I cannot give you a ride?”

“Positive,” I say firmly, turning for the door. “See you in class.”

7

Henri

If I wonderedwhether Atlas would be friendlier after his drunken call for help, I do not have to wonder long. Classes the following weeks have followed much the same pattern as they usually did, with me desperately trying to make conversation and Atlas desperately trying to avoid it. He seems embarrassed about what happened, or perhaps just my part in it, shooting wary glances at me out of the corners of his eyes as though waiting for me to bring it up. I only hope, at the very least, that he learned a lesson and won’t go back to that house; also, that he reconsiders his choice of friends.

Swinging my legs idly from where I’m seated on the trainer’s table, I look up at the clock hanging above the door. Barely three minutes have passed since Coach Mackenzie sent me in here to be checked out, but I’m already impatient to be done. There’s no reason to think I won’t be cleared to play in our game, but the longer I sit here alone, the more I worry about what they might say. I might not be the mostdynamic player on the ice, but I love it and I’m in my last two seasons—I want to make the most of the time I have left.

Aaron, our head athletic trainer, opens the door and steps inside with a smile. Straightening my spine, I smile back.

“Good afternoon, Aaron,” I greet him, ignoring the way my stomach flutters with nerves. He’s asked me multiple times to not use an honorific, and to call him by his given name. Even so, I hate doing it. I was raised to always use the proper deference when speaking to anyone in a position of respect.

“Hey, Vasel, how are you doing?” He straddles a wheeled chair and scoots it over to where I’m sitting on the raised bed.

“I am well. How are you?”

He smiles, reaching a hand out and tapping my knee.

“I’m good, but we’re not here to talk about me. How’s that knee been feeling at practice? Nico said you might have tweaked it?”

“Oh, it has been fine. No issues.” I pause, realizing that every athlete who has ever been injured probably says those very same words. “I promise. I would not lie to you, Aaron.”

Standing, he chuckles. “What’s crazy is I actually believe you when you say that. Lie flat for me, let’s take a look.”

He slides a bolster under my knees as I comply. Resting my hands on my abdomen, I try to relax as he gently manipulates my left knee. After checking the range of motion on the left, he moves to the right and does the same. When he asks if something hurts, I tell him no. It hasn’t bothered me all summer, and I was cleared by my surgeon back in Germany to play. But I understand why Coach Mackenzie wants to be sure, and I appreciate the concern. Only my brother has shown more concern than Coach Mackenzie has.

“Range of motion is excellent,” Aaron says, raising hisvoice above the mutter he was using to talk to himself. “You must have been diligent with your physical therapy over the summer.”

“Yes, sir. Aaron,” I correct immediately. “My mother is a cardiologist in Germany, and I know how important it is to follow all instructions your doctor may give you.”

“Does it hurt when I do this?” he asks, pushing my bent leg slowly back toward my chest and watching my face carefully. I shake my head and he nods, satisfied. Changing his grip so his hand is wrapped around my ankle and the other is pressing on the inside of my thigh, he changes the angle and tries a different rotation. “How about now? I’m going to press here, and I want you to push back—don’t let me move you.”

We spend ten minutes on the table before he’s satisfied with that. He then has me work through a series of basic strength exercises so he can watch me move. By the time he’s content, I’ve had a thorough warm-up and am feeling more than ready to take the ice with my teammates. Aaron bends over a folder on his desk, scribbling notes, before straightening and clapping a hand on my shoulder.

“All right, Vasel, I’ll talk to Nico. You’re good to go, for now. But any discomfort—any at all—and you say something, okay?”

“Yes,” I agree, nodding. “I will. You have my word.”

“Have fun tonight,” he says, waving me out the door. “I’ll find Nico and let him know you’ve got the green light.”

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