Page 9

9

Henri

I’m sitting in my car in the parking lot of the practice rink for South Carolina’s NHL team. Checking the time, I note that I’ve still got an hour before my interview and recline my seat a little bit, allowing my legs to stretch out. I didn’t have to come so early, but I was nervous about traffic and finding my way. It’s always better to be early rather than late.

Pulling my phone out, I look again at the message Atlas sent me this morning. Good luck in your interview. It was unexpectedly kind and so out of character for him, I wondered if he might be drunk at 6 a.m. I’d texted back a thank-you, but he hadn’t responded. Even so, his was my favorite of the messages I’d received from my friends and brother, wishing me luck and telling me I’d do fine.

Carefully setting a timer, I prop my phone in the cup holder and grab the textbook I brought to pass the time. By the time my phone chimes forty minutes later, I’ve made little headway in the reading I’m supposed to get done. I know I’ve got a good grasp on the English language and that my problems mainly stem from low confidence, but it’s a hurdle that only seems to get taller. The longer I’m in school, the harder the subject matter becomes, and the gap between the content and my understanding seems to lengthen. It seems rather unfair that the only language I struggle with is the one most people speak.

Checking my hair in the rearview mirror, I smile at myself and make sure there isn’t anything in my teeth. I can’t find anything overly offensive with my appearance, so I check the portfolio I brought to make sure everything is still inside. All is as it was the last five times I checked it. All of that done, there’s nothing left but to leave the car and walk to the front of the building.

As I approach, the door opens and a man I recognize as Sam Jameson steps out, propping the door open with his hip and watching me. He’s a nice-looking man, with warm brown eyes and an easy smile. I try to relax my shoulders, and extend my hand to shake his.

“Hello, sir. I am Henri Vasel.”

“Sam Jameson,” he replies, shaking my hand and gesturing me inside. The door locks behind us as it swings shut. “But please, call me Sam.”

“Thank you, sir.”

His lips twitch like he wants to grin, but he merely strides off down the hallway.

“Do you prefer to go by your last name, or Henri?”

“Oh.” I pause, surprised to be asked. I’m so used to everyone calling me Vas. “Well, whichever you prefer! I am happy with however you like to speak to me, sir. ”

He chuckles softly and stops next to an open doorway, gesturing for me to precede him through. He puts a gentle hand on my upper back, the touch barely discernible through my shirt, and uses his free hand to indicate the chair in front of his desk.

“Have a seat, Henri. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Oh no, I am fine, thank you so much.” Sitting down, I rest my folder on my lap and link my fingers. “I should like to apologize if there are any mistakes in my English, sir. I will do my best.”

“No need to apologize, and no need to call me sir. This is a casual interview, Henri. We’re just going to be chatting. I’ll tell you a little bit about what the program looks like, and what we’re looking for, and you can tell me about yourself. Sound good?”

“Yes, si—Sam,” I correct.

He hands me a packet that I glance at before tucking into the portfolio I brought. I will need to apply myself to reading it later, but for now I want to be sure and give him my full attention. He talks me through the internship, outlining each level of the organization I would be involved in. I start to get excited as he speaks, imagining myself in the role. I know I could succeed here, if given the chance.

Sam talks for a good ten minutes, before he stops and asks if I have any questions. I like the way his voice is smooth and calm, and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. He seems like a nice guy and I trust him immediately.

“You have some impressive letters of recommendation,” Sam says, smiling at me in a way that makes his eyes seem impossibly warm, like melted chocolate. “Nico Mackenzie and Anthony Lawson have had nothing but good things to say about you, as I’m sure you know.”

“They are too kind. I am appreciative of having the opportunity to learn from them.”

“How’s the season going?”

“It is early, but I am happy. It is fun to be playing with Max Kuemper. I will be having him sign a jersey before he leaves so that I have it before he is famous.”

Sam laughs and I smile proudly. I’m not good at telling jokes, so I appreciate it when others pick up on them.

“He’s impressive. I won’t lie to you, though, I have the most fun watching the netminders. McIntire has a lot of promise. He’s already showing improvement from last year.”

“Oh yes, Micky will do well. Coach Mackenzie tells me you played at Harvard, sir. That is very exciting.”

He waves a hand. “Thank you, but I was nowhere near as good as some of you college athletes these days. You’re close with Carter Morgan, if I remember correctly?”

“Yes, he is a great friend. If I am getting this internship, I will be living with him and his boyfriend.”

I flinch as soon as I say it. It isn’t good etiquette to insinuate that you are making plans, as though you are sure you will get the thing you are interviewing for. Especially as it’s me, and I know I have more connections here than most of the other applicants probably do. Sam doesn’t correct me, just smiles.

“Zeke, right? I haven’t met him yet, but I’ve heard quite a bit about him. I imagine he and I would probably get along well.”

“Yes.” I nod, thinking of the sign on the door that showed Sam’s title. “You could talk about statistics and all the other math things. It would be like a secret language. ”

Sam laughs and I smile again. Two jokes and two laughs. I’m doing good today.

“Can you tell me a little bit about your degree path? I’m interested in the foreign language minor. It doesn’t look like you’ve chosen a single language?”

I sit up a little straighter. Foreign language is the only part of my degree path I am 100% confident in.

“Yes, Sam, thank you. My main focus is media, but I am also taking foreign language classes. Because I am foreign student, there is a”—I pause, panicking as I lose the English word I wanted to use—“a…different rule? I am fluent in German, French, Russian, and Spanish. Instead of taking classes in all of these things, I am able to take a test.”

I twist my fingers together on top of my folder. I didn’t explain that right, but tripping over that word made the rest of the words more difficult. When I start to struggle, the best thing to do is to stay quiet.

“Wow,” Sam says, shaking his head. “That’s impressive. It’s an incredible achievement to be able to speak two languages fluently, let alone five.”

“Well, my English is not perfect.”

“Neither is mine,” he replies kindly. I flush a little bit at that. He seems to be a very gentle and welcoming person, and I hope more than ever that I will be offered this position. He reminds me of my brother. “Do you have any questions for me?”

“No, sir, I believe you covered them all. I will also read through the literature you provided me, as soon as I get home,” I promise.

“No need to rush. My contact information is on there—you can reach out with any questions you might think of, okay?” He waits for me to nod before grinning. “Do you want to take a walk? I’ll show you around; introduce you to a few people.”

“I would enjoy this very much, thank you.” Nodding, I stand up.

“You can leave your things here, if you want. We’ll come back.”

Gratefully, I leave my folder on my recently vacated chair and follow Sam out the door. We stroll the halls, sticking our heads into offices to say hello to people that I desperately try to commit to memory. Sophia has scarlet hair, I repeat to myself after meeting one of the women who manages the social media.

As we walk, Sam points out various things, hands tucked casually into his pockets. He is very relaxed, so I try to emulate that. I have been so nervous for this meeting, but it has been nothing but enjoyable.

“Sam,” someone calls, and we turn around to see Corwin Sanhover walking toward us. Sam smiles widely.

“Hey, Cor. Video just finishing up?”

“Yeah, Troy will probably be waiting for you in your office.” They share a private look that I politely pretend not to see. Sam puts a friendly hand on my shoulder.

“This is Henri Vasel, one of our applicants for the new internship program.”

“I remember you well,” Corwin says, holding his hand out to me to shake. “You’ve had an incredible couple of seasons since Max Kuemper joined the team. I enjoy watching the pair of you together.”

I swell with pride at the words and wish I could have recorded that to play for Max.

“Thank you, sir. It is easy to play with Max, he makes us all better. ”

“Lawson speaks highly of you. Both of you,” Corwin tells me. Again, I feel as though my heart has expanded to twice its normal size. My face burns with embarrassment.

“Thank you,” is all I can think to say.

Sam and I continue through the halls, and I struggle to keep a smile off my face and my expression neutral. Not only did Corwin Sanhover remember me from training camp my freshman year, but he said he’s been watching our games this season. He said I’ve had an incredible couple of seasons, as though I am a player worth paying attention to. My fingers itch to text Max.

“So, that’s all the time we have unless you can think of any further questions?” Sam stops, turning to me. We are near the rink, so I watch the Zamboni make its rounds for a few moments before answering.

“Not yet, but I may think of some later.”

We head back toward his office to grab my things, where Troy Nichols is indeed waiting. When he sees me, his face breaks out into a wide smile that has dimples poking to life in his cheeks. I’m not usually one to judge the way others look, but I think I like dimples. They are rather cute. I wonder what Atlas would look like with dimples.

“Vas, right?” Troy asks, holding out his hand. I have shaken the hands of two NHL stars today—incredible. “I came to help out at camp a couple years ago, remember? With Corwin?”

I stare at him, momentarily struck dumb by the realization that he is under the impression that I would ever forget that day.

“I remember. It was the best day of the summer for all of us. ”

Troy beams. “I didn’t mean to interrupt the meeting. I can wait in the hall.”

He takes a couple steps toward the door before Sam holds a hand out to stop him. “We were just finishing up. Give me a minute to pack up and we can walk out together.”

“How’s your season going?” Troy asks me eagerly. Bending to pick up my folder, I grasp it tightly between both my hands.

“Very well, thank you for asking. I will be missing Max when he is not with me next year.” Realizing that this sounds like a complaint about the rest of my team, I rush to continue, “But we have many promising forwards. Many younger players that will do well.”

Troy chats with me as Sam packs up his things, and together we leave the building. I am unsure of the etiquette here, as this feels particularly informal. I don’t know whether I made the best impression, and already I am feeling nervous at the thought of letting Coach Mackenzie down.

“Thank you, sir, for meeting with me. I appreciate the time you have taken out of your schedule to do so,” I tell Sam the moment he turns to me after we reach the outside of the building. He smiles.

“You’ll hear from us in a couple of weeks, okay? Still a few interviews to conduct and then we’ll be contacting all the applicants to let them know.”

“I understand. Thank you,” I repeat.

“I’m going to ask Nico if I can come back to practice one day,” Troy announces. “So, hopefully we will be seeing each other again soon.”

“Micky would be very happy to meet you,” I tell him, thinking of our goalie’s “lucky” Troy Nichols jersey. “You are his favorite. ”

When I get to my car, I sit in silence for a few moments. I always get a little nervous in situations like this, and coming down from them always makes me feel vaguely ill. From my car, I can see Troy and Sam crossing the parking lot together at a casual stroll, hands linked. The now familiar pang of jealousy burns in my stomach. I really want to know what that feels like.

When I get back to my dorm, I change out of my clothes and take a quick five-minute shower. Sitting down at my desk to get some work done, I set a timer on my phone for forty-five minutes. My mother told me that after forty-five minutes, I should be taking a break or moving on to a different subject matter; that after a certain amount of time studying the same thing, I will no longer be retaining it.

Unfortunately, when the timer goes off, I don’t feel like I’ve retained much of anything at all. This English course is higher level and more intricate than my previous classes of the same subject. The reading assignments alone take me twice as long than they are probably taking other students, which makes me feel panicky. I am terrified of failing a course and letting my parents down.

Before I can switch my books and reset the timer, I notice there is a text message from Atlas.

Atlas

how was the interview

I smile at my phone, a strange buzzy feeling in my chest when I look at his name on the screen, like I’ve swallowed a bee.

Henri

Hello, Atlas, thank you for asking. The interview went well, I believe. I will not know for a few weeks.

I wait, but there is no indication that a reply is coming. It doesn’t matter. The fact that he even remembered makes me feel good. For the first time all semester, I’m excited to go to communications class on Tuesday.