Chapter 8
KNIFE’S EDGE
Maverick
I’ve never suffered from anxiety. Not really. At least not the way my sister does, or Kody.
When Lavender was little, even before she disappeared for what was the longest single hour of my entire life, she was always quiet when we were out in public places, a silent observer—and especially with people she didn’t know well.
But inside the walls where we lived, she was different.
Herself. Full of life and giggles and smiles.
Kody’s anxiety is different and layered with his obsessive tendencies.
He still pukes before almost every single game, like he did when we were kids.
Our freshman year, the older players made fun of him for it—until they saw him play.
He has the grace of a figure skater and the speed of someone half his size.
And he constantly worries about everything.
It can’t be easy to deal with the shit that goes on in his genius head all the time.
Between Lavender and Kody, I’m pretty used to dealing with other people’s anxiety.
But until this week, I’d never experienced it myself to such an extreme level, and it gives me a very different perspective on what those two battle.
My every waking minute is consumed by thoughts of Professor Sweet.
I keep waiting for a call from the dean, or my coach, or the head of my department, or the athletic facility manager, asking me where I got a key to the building and why I never turned it in, and what was I doing in the women’s freaking sauna.
So, on Sunday night, when the athletic facility manager stops by the locker room to talk to us right before the game, I nearly shit my pants.
But he doesn’t single me out. Instead, he tells us a key was turned in this week, and that there’d better not be any more of them floating around out there, or some of us will be looking at game suspensions.
Unfortunately, my relief over not being expelled is overshadowed by the questions I don’t have answers to—like, did Professor Sweet intentionally leave my name out, or are they just going to let me get away with this?
As a result, my head is a mess during the game, and I’m playing like garbage. It’s the beginning of the third period, we’re down one, and Kody and I are sitting on the bench, waiting to be called back into the game.
“You all right tonight, man?” He taps rhythmically on his thigh.
“Yeah. I’m good.” I nod once, and my knee bounces a couple of times.
“You sure? You’ve been . . . off all week.” He raises his hand, as if he’s going to rub his bottom lip, but his cage is in the way, so it drops back into his lap.
“I failed an assignment in one of my classes.” That’s only a small part of the reason, but I’m not going to tell him the truth.
“I thought you’d pulled your grades up. Can you do something for extra credit? Or redo the assignment?”
The idea of failing something gives Kody hives.
“I dunno, but I resubmitted it, so I’m hoping I get a passing grade. I don’t want my dad to have another reason to sit me down and lecture me, you know? But my professor isn’t my biggest fan, so who knows how that’s going to go.”
“Why does he hate you?”
“He’s a she. And because I’m me.”
Kody frowns and opens his mouth to ask a question, but we’re called back to the ice, ending our conversation.
A few minutes later, Kody scores a goal, and I manage the assist, which is better than me continuing to shit the bed for the rest of the game.
My dad often watches the replays, so I’m glad there’s something semi-positive for him to focus on.
I hate it when he struggles to find something good to say about the way I played.
“Nice goal, Bowman.” Cooper, one of the rookie forwards, pats Kody on the shoulder as he passes him on the way to the shower.
“Thanks, man,” Kody mumbles as he grabs his towel from his locker.
“We’re all going to Eddie’s for something to eat. You guys wanna join us?” Treble, a junior, asks.
Kody looks to me before answering.
I shrug. “Better than reheating that lasagna from two nights ago.”
“I think BJ ate that for breakfast anyway,” Kody says.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t you guys have food at your place?”
“Yeah. But we don’t have you or Lavender at our place. And she can make a mean lasagna.” He doesn’t even have the decency to sound apologetic about it.
I look to Treble. “We’re in.”
Half an hour later, ten of us are sitting around a table at Eddie’s, an off-campus restaurant and bar, rehashing the game. Eddie’s is not far from where Kody and I live. The food is better here, and the chances that I’ll run into one of the girls I’ve formerly dated is lower.
Normally I’m a social guy, but I’m exhausted from all the freaking worrying, and my head is still all over the place, so I find myself zoning out, watching the hockey game on the TVs above the bar and plowing through my plate of wings while everyone else picks apart tonight’s game and speculates on how our next game is going to go.
When the game on TV goes to commercial break, I hit the bathroom and stop our server to tell her we’re celebrating a birthday. I ask her to bring out one of those brownie sundae things and put it on my tab. I need a reason to smile.
On my way back to the table, a flash of pale green catches my attention. I glance over at a woman wearing a long cardigan, sitting in a booth, with another woman seated across from her.
Professor Sweet.
She doesn’t notice me as I pass her table, but when I return to mine, I realize I have a perfect view of her from my seat.
Her hair is down, falling in loose waves around her shoulders, like it was when I met her in Pearl Lake. She looks younger with her hair down, and if she traded the cardigan for a hoodie, she’d probably look like a student.
“Should we get the bill?” Kody asks when I take the seat next to him.
“In a minute.” I drag my attention away from my professor.
At that moment, a gaggle of servers comes down the aisle, heading for our table.
“Ah, fuck.” Kody tries to slouch down in his seat.
“Like I was going to pass up an opportunity like this.” I put my arm around his shoulder—in part to keep him from bolting—and whistle loudly, pointing at him. “This guy right here. He’s the birthday boy!” I shout. Kody’s birthday is in April, but they don’t know that.
The servers break into an off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday,” and I join in. But that’s not the best part. It’s the sparkler in the middle of the sundae that looks like a mini firecracker, shooting sparks three feet into the air.
“I’m gonna get you back for this. I hope you know that,” Kody gripes.
“You have to get used to the attention, my man. You’re going to be breaking NHL records in a matter of months.” I give his shoulder a squeeze and drop my arm as the sparkler sputters and dies out.
He gives me a sidelong glare, but a hint of a smile pulls up the corner of his mouth. Even though Kody is one of the best players out there, he still needs the praise. Sometimes I think he needs it more than most.
“You’re gonna be right there with me,” he replies, grabbing one of the spoons left by the servers. “It would be so awesome if one of us gets traded when we’re called up and we play for the same team.”
“It would,” I agree. But I’m aware that the chances of that are slim, and it’s more likely that I’ll be playing against him next year, not with him.
I glance over at Professor Sweet’s table, and for a moment, our gazes lock. She averts her eyes quickly, untucking her hair from behind her ear so it falls forward as she leans in. The woman across the table leans in too.
My stomach has been off since the whole sauna thing, but I still dig into the sundae. When Kody and I have eaten as much as we can, we pass it down the table.
I use the fact that my hands are sticky with chocolate sauce as an excuse to go back to the bathroom. It also means I pass Professor Sweet’s table again.
Like me, she ordered the wings, which I can appreciate.
Wings are messy, and it’s hard to eat them with manners.
As I’m passing, she sucks the barbecue sauce off her thumb and tosses the bone in the discard bowl.
I should not find that sexy, but I do. Her gaze shifts as I come into her line of sight, and her cheeks turn pink.
I nod, but don’t acknowledge her otherwise.
On my way back from the bathroom, I spot the server who’s taking care of her table and pay her bill on a whim before I settle Kody’s and my tab.
When I get back to our table, he’s already got his jacket on, ready to go, so I leave, sparing Professor Sweet one more glance.
She’s frowning at the server who motions to our table, but I’m not there anymore.
I don’t know if I just nailed my coffin shut or what.
It’s nearly eleven by the time we get home. Kody disappears upstairs to Lavender’s room.
I mentally berate myself for paying my professor’s dinner tab, like I’m trying to buy my way out of my previous fuckup, as I sit down at my desk and pull up my school email. I’ve been obsessive about checking it, hoping for a revised grade on my paper.
I scroll past a couple from my coach about training and practices, and my mouth goes dry when I see one from Professor C. Sweet. Her TA is cc’d, and it was sent four hours ago. Before dinner at Eddie’s.
Dear Maverick,
Based on the resubmission of your assignment, your grade has been updated.
There is a twenty percent penalty for late work, as outlined in the class syllabus.
Please ensure that you include all components prior to the deadline on future assignments to avoid such penalties. Your revised grade is attached.
Please feel free to email me with any concerns or questions.
Best,
Professor Sweet
I check the comments. I managed to get a seventy-two, even with the penalty and my crappy grammar.
It looks like it was marked by the TA again, based on the comments in the margins.
I read through the email twice more, searching for a hidden meaning or some kind of .
. . sign, maybe? Does this mean she’s not going to report me to anyone other than the athletics facility manager?
That she believed me when I told her I was sorry?
I don’t even know if she named me or not.
I debate sending her a reply to tell her I’ve just seen this now, but I’m not sure if that’s going to make the situation worse or better. So I leave it.
Two nights later, I arrive to class early. Today we’re talking about story structure, which is something I admittedly know very little about. My older brother, Robbie, always had a book in his hand, where I generally had a hockey stick.
At the end of class, I take my time packing up my stuff, and as expected, Sandy-Suzy asks if I’m going to the bar.
When I say no, her right foot rotates back and forth, and she does that ponytail twist thing, exactly like my cousins do. “Maybe you want to get coffee instead?”
The awkwardness of being asked out by one of my peers is magnified by the fact that it’s happening in front of someone I’ve slept with, and made that much worse since she’s my professor—whose good side I’m trying to get back on.
“It’s cool of you to offer, but I’ve got a lot of stuff going on, and I need to keep my focus on school and hockey this year.”
“Right. Yeah. Of course. That makes sense.” Her expression screams dejection, and I hate that I’ve made her feel like that. “I’ll see you next week.” She rushes for the door and ducks out of class.
I shoulder my bag and push out of my chair. Professor Sweet glances around the room, maybe realizing we’re the last two people here.
She crosses her arms. “What exactly were you trying to accomplish at Eddie’s?”
I take a step back. “It was me trying to apologize for my thoughtlessness, but I didn’t see how it could have been taken differently until after I left the restaurant. And I didn’t see the revised grade until I got home, which is when I realized how shady that probably looked to you.”
She stares at me for a few long seconds, saying nothing.
Her throat bobs with a swallow, and she tips her chin up, looking down her nose at me.
“You’re no longer failing the course, but there’s still one more independent assignment and the exam, so I wouldn’t suggest using your athletics involvement as an excuse to shirk your educational responsibilities again. ”
“I won’t.” I tuck a hand in my pocket. “I’m not trying to be a pain in your ass, but, uh . . . Are you planning to report me to anyone else?”
She mutters under her breath before her gaze shifts my way—not to me, exactly, but in my direction. “Can you just be grateful I didn’t name you and leave it alone?”
Well, that answers that question. “I am grateful. I just . . . Thank you.”
She lifts her ancient bag. “Do not make me regret this decision. I didn’t do this because you’re on a sports team, or because of your family or their influence.
Or because of what happened before. I did it because I see potential that’s being wasted, and I did not want to be the person to derail your future.
I’m hopeful the lesson has been learned and the behavior won’t be repeated. Ever again.”
“It won’t. I swear.”
She nods. “I’ll see you next week.” She turns and stalks out of the classroom.
I should be glad this semester is almost over, but for some reason, the closer I get to the end, the less I want it to get here.