Page 2 of On the Edge

“Indeed. Do you have plans for next summer?”

“I usually go home to Germany, sir.” He threads his fingers together and I’m once again distracted by his hands.

“You live in the dorms, correct?” He waits for me to nod before continuing. “You’d have to vacate during the summer, obviously, but if you were hired for that internship, there would be other housing available to you.”

I glance back down at the paper. Where did it say anything about housing? My gaze catches on something I missed the first time.

“It is paid, sir?”

“Yes. Not a lot, and certainly not enough to live on, but you’ll get something. This is the first year they’re doing it. I know the director of the program, and he’d be the one you’d be reporting directly to.”

“Oh, I see. Sam Jameson is the husband to Troy Nichols, correct?” I stare at the name, embarrassed to have missed it the first time. Everyone who plays hockey for SCU knows who Sam Jameson is.

“Correct. If you applied and got the position, you’d be welcome to stay with me over the summer. Me and Anthony, that is.”

My head snaps up in surprise. “What?”

“You’d need a place to stay and we have plenty of room. Or, I imagine Carter would have a bed for you as well, if you’d be more comfortable.” Coach smiles when he sees my baffled expression. “It’s an incredible opportunity, Vas. I’ll write you a letter of recommendation if you choose to apply, and God knows I’ve got enough connections there to pull a few strings in your favor.”

“I…” Words fail me for a moment, as I flounder for something to say. “There are perhaps others who are better suited.”

Coach sighs. “I’d have to disagree. You are exactly the sort of young man they are looking for: hardworking, respectful, intelligent.”

“Sometimes I struggle with English, sir. I am still learning.”

I don’t want to admit that I strugglea lotwith English; that four years of going to school here and immersing myself have helped, but I still feel barely above proficient. I don’t want to admit how hard it is for me to read. I’m acommunications student, but communicating is really quite hard.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” he tells me firmly. “And you could think of this job as a learning opportunity in more ways than one. I wouldn’t put you in a situation I didn’t think you could excel in.”

I sit up straighter, clutching the piece of paper. I want to apply, but I know better than to make a decision in haste.

“May I have a day to think about it, sir?”

“Of course. You can come to me with any questions. Also, I admit that I’m unsure of how this would work with your visa.”

“Yes, Coach, thank you. I will talk to my brother.” I stand, folding the paper carefully and sliding it into my pocket. I glance at my phone as I do, noting the time and feeling a prickle of discomfort. My entire schedule will be off for the rest of the day. “Was there anything else you might need me for?”

“No, Vas. Sorry to take over your morning—have a good workout. Careful with that knee, okay?”

“Yes, sir. I will put on my brace before I start.”

He waves me out of his office and I hasten for the locker room. I will have to cut my workout down to the bare bones, but perhaps if there aren’t too many homework assignments tonight, I could stay late and finish the gym session after practice. Slightly mollified by this thought, I change quickly, making sure to put the internship information on the shelf where it won’t get damaged. I leave my headphones off, knowing my thoughts will be distracting enough to get me through.

By the time I finish and am walking back to my dorm, I’vemade the decision to talk to Carter and Zeke first. If they’re amenable to having me as a temporary roommate over the summer, I’ll apply to the internship.

2

Atlas

Any college professorthat makes you call them doctor is a fucking asshole. Similarly, any college professor who still uses a chalkboard is an asshole. I scowl and slide a little lower in my seat as I watch Doctor Robertson write his name on the chalkboard in big block letters, as though none of us could read it off the syllabus he emailed out. Give me a fucking break.

When all the seats in the lecture hall are filled, I stare hard at the front of the room as I pretend to be enraptured by what he’s saying. Mostly, I’m just trying to deter the girl sitting next to me from talking. She’s practically vibrating with excitement, sitting on the edge of her seat and shooting me covert glances each time Doctor Robertson pauses for breath. Pointedly, I ignore her. She’s cute, but she reeks of codependency. I would bet every dollar in my bank account that this girl is looking for that Mrs. degree to go with her SCU one. She’ll have to look elsewhere. I know better.

I’m so caught up in—admittedly—rude thoughts about my seatmate, that I almost miss what the professor said.

“Wait, what?” I ask, and Perky Girl whips her head toward me so fast, her ponytail almost takes her eye out. “What did the professor say?”

“Doctor,” she corrects, and I nearly burst a vessel in my eye from holding back my eyeroll. “He said he’s assigned us seats. We’re supposed to pack up and he’s going to move us around.”

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