Page 47 of On the Edge

The air is brisk when we get outside, and I take a nice deep inhale. It smells like rain. Feeling inspired, I look at Atlas as we walk. His head is tilted downward giving me a view of his dark hair, shiny in the weak afternoon light.

“Atlas?” He grunts, which in Atlas-speak meanswhy are you bothering me?“Are you free this evening?”

“Sure.” He shrugs, kicking at a loose rock on the ground and sending it skittering over the sidewalk. “Want me to come over and blow you?”

I stumble over a perfectly flat piece of ground, and feel my face flush.

“Goodness,” I reply. Atlas looks over at me, smirking. “Thank you for the offer, but I was actually going to see if you would like to come to the game this evening? It is our last home match. It shall be a lot of fun.”

He looks at me like I’ve recommended the murder of puppies as a pleasurable pastime. “Are you serious?”

“Certainly. I have a ticket for you, if you would like. But no pressure! I know you have many friends and things to do. I know you are not a hockey fan. Please do not feel obligated to come.”

He stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing me to come to a halt and turn around. He’s clutching the straps of his backpack tight in his fists, eyes squinted at me and mouth turned down in a frown. This is not an angry-Atlas face, though. This is the confused-Atlas face.

“Why?”

“Because we are friends and I am thinking it might be fun!” I don’t tell him it’s also because I want him to see meplay. I want to score a goal and look up to find him in the stands. I want to share something with him that isn’t homework and platonic kissing. “You might enjoy it, Atlas. And Nate will be playing—you like Nate, yes?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, I like Nate.”

“So, you will come?” I shouldn’t keep needling him like this. I should take my green apple mug and be happy with what I have.

“Okay,” Atlas says, sounding as though he’s just agreed to a chemical castration. “Fine. I’ll come, but only thisonetime. I’m not your groupie.”

I don’t know what a groupie is, so I merely agree. “No. No groupies here.”

After sending him the virtual ticket, I carefully explain where he’ll be going and how the seating works. He listens to my speech in silence, glowering at me, before snapping that he’s not an idiot and he knows how stadium seating works. I watch him walk off in the opposite direction of my dorm, a happy warmth suffusing through my limbs.

Atlas is coming to my game.

14

Atlas

I hate hockey games.All sporting events, really, but I’ve just decided that I hate hockey most of all. The hallways arepacked, and I’ve already stepped in three sticky spots even though the doors to the stadium have only been open for an hour. Annoyed, and quickly losing patience, I stop trying to weave my way through the crowd and instead start shouldering my way through. I don’t make any friends, but I am finally able to get to my seat.

Flopping down gracelessly, I accidentally bump the leg of the guy sprawled in the seat next to mine.

“Sorry,” I grunt, and move away from him.

“Atlas, right?”

I look over at him, narrowing my eyes. Dark hair and skin a shade of brown I could never in my wildest dreams hope to achieve. He’s got an open, friendly sort of face that makes me instantly wary of him. I’ve never seen or talked to this guy before in my life.

“Who’s asking?” I reply rudely, which makes him smirk at me.

“I’m Luke. Vas is a friend of mine. He mentioned you might be coming to the game.”

Clenching my fingers around the armrests in annoyance, I turn away from him and look out at the ice. I don’t like that Henri has been talking about me to his friends. I hope to hell he hasn’t told them what we’ve been doing in his fucking dorm.

The teams are skating around down below, one on each half of the ice but not mingling yet. I assume that means the game hasn’t started, so I look back at my companion and notice he’s wearing a jersey.

“Who’s number eight?”

“Max Kuemper. Current leader of the division in points, and hottest guy on the team. Also, mine, so don’t fuck around unless you want to find out,” he says, so smoothly it comes out practiced. I can’t help but laugh.

“Noted,” I reply. “What number is Henri?”

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