Page 69 of On the Edge

“Right? I’m so excited you’re here. Do you want to go to the new Marvel movie with me and Ryan? Maybe we could go tomorrow, since weekdays are usually less busy at the theater.”

I sit in silence, listening to his idle chatter as we fly down the interstate. Ethan has always been the excitable one of my stepbrothers, prone to going “off to the races” as my stepmom likes to say. He can talk about anything to anyone. Ryan, on the other hand, is both shy and sensitive, disposed to getting teary-eyed over ASPCA commercials. I, of course, fill the role of the angry and unfriendly brother. Together, we are the perfect trifecta.

“Do you think you know what you want to major in, yet?”

Realizing that I’m actually needed in the conversation now, I pull myself out of my stupor to answer his question.

“Uhm, no. Not really.”

“Do you have any cool classes, though?”

“Ceramics was a lot of fun,” I admit.

“Holy crap, that would be so cool,” Ethan agrees, voice rising an octave as he gets himself worked up over the thought. I can’t help but smile a little bit—Ethan is contagious. “So, what do you make? Can I see something? Can you makemesomething?”

We talk aimlessly as he drives us home, the conversation bouncing all over the place the way it usually does when Ethan is involved. He’s so distracting, I’m able to forget my private misery for the length of the car ride. It’s not until I’m home, and in the bedroom that used to be mine but is now a guest room, that the pain resurfaces.

Both of us will be better off in the long run, I tell myself miserably, as I try to fall asleep. Maybe if I repeat it enough times, it’ll actually be true.

21

Henri

“Henri?”

I turn quickly at the sound of my name being called, and heft the armful of binders into the crook of my elbow. Sam Jameson walks toward me, casually dressed in slacks and a blue button-up shirt. As usual, he’s smiling at me in a friendly way that I’m sure is meant to put me at ease. Unfortunately, because anyone in a position of power makes me a little nervous, it does nothing to smother the butterflies that live in my stomach.

“Yes, sir?” He raises an eyebrow at me, and my cheeks burn as I correct myself immediately. “Sam. My apologies.”

“I’ve never had to work so hard to convince someonenotto be polite,” he teases. There’s no bite to the words, and his eyes are warm, so I relax a little bit.

“I am sorry. This is a hard habit to break. I fear it might take all summer.”

Tucking his hands into his pockets, he smiles. “You busy?”

“No,” I reply hastily, even though I am a little bit busy. This is the start of my fourth week into the internship, and I’m working with the media team. Today I’m supposed to be learning about the different players and accounts, and the sheer amount of reading I need to do is daunting. The department head also spoke to me about working together on a special project, which is both exciting and intimidating. All of a sudden, “busy” is an understatement.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” Sam asks, nodding to the folders in my arms.

“I am to come up with interview questions,” I tell him. “Miss Denise would like to do foreign-language interviews on social media for the non-native players. She is thinking that it would be fun to have me interview in German, French, and Russian, and we can put subtitles for the American fans. She says…well, she says some things that I should probably not repeat to my boss.”

Sam laughs, reaching out a hand to pull some of the binders off of my pile.

“Here, let me help you carry. And don’t worry, I already know Denise curses like a sailor. It sounds like a good idea—utilize all those languages you’ve got in your repertoire. Particularly now, when we’ve got two KHL rookies joining. I would like to speak with you, though, if you can spare a minute or two.”

“Of course,” I tell him, nerves multiplying as I follow him toward his office. Sam is the nicest of anyone I’ve worked with here, but he’s still technically my boss and being told he needs to speak with me doesn’t make me feel great. I’m desperate to do a good job here, and the thought that I might have done something wrong is terrifying.

“No need to look so nervous,” he comments, letting mewalk into the office before he closes the door behind us. “I just wanted to check in. Nothing bad.”

“Okay.” I take a seat in front of his desk—a chair I’ve sat in many times so far this summer. Placing my media folders on the floor, I rest my hands in my lap and wait for him to speak.

“First of all, how are things going here? Any complaints? How are you liking the job so far?”

“Oh, no, I do not wish to complain. I am liking it here very much. If I do not become a sportscaster, I think perhaps I will try equipment manager. I believe I would enjoy Mr. Brad’s job.”

“I bet he loves it when you call him Mr. Brad,” Sam muses. I smile, and relax a little more. He’s so nice to me, it’s impossible to be uncomfortable around him. “Is the commute okay? I know you’re coming from the university area and that can be a bit of a drive.”

“It is not so bad if traffic cooperates.” I shrug. “Thank you for asking.”

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