Page 59 of The Roommate Game
The inane conversation continued into the rink and while strapping on skates, and after a short warmup during which Gus attempted to divert the topic to sex toys, I broke free and glided to center ice. Free skate was set to begin soon, but we were the only ones here now.
I took a deep breath…and began to move.
I’d been working on a new routine with elements that were both familiar and challenging. The flourish of arms like a bird in flight, one leg raised in an arabesque. I could feel the wind take me. And suddenly, I was soaring and I couldn’t be caught.
I sat in a low spin, rapidly gaining speed as I straightened. And I was off again, long before gravity could slow me down. A jump…a mere baby step, and then…I leaped into the air, twisting and turning in a storm of my own making. The return to Earth was flawless. A gentle click of blades on ice and I was where I’d begun, slowing to a stop at mid rink, hands on my hips, chest heaving.
A shrill whistle and loud cheering broke through the whoosh of blood in my ears.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Gus hooted like a madman.
My grin was wide, so big it hurt my face as I pivoted. “Thank you.”
I was too far for him to hear me, but his thumbs-up and wink were the perfect reply. I tipped my chin, stared at the rafters, and closed my eyes.
Please let this be a beginning. Please.
CHAPTER 18
GUS
Fidgetingduring an interview was frowned upon. The last thing anyone wanted was to advertise a wicked case of nerves. And why was I nervous, anyway? It wasn’t as if I were desperate. I didn’t need this job. It was nowhere near the pay grade my parents had in mind for me postgraduation, and God knew my mom would have a fit if I used my degree to teach high school students.
But damn, I wanted this. So much that I didn’t laugh outright when the principal asked if I was prepared to brush up onBeowulfand Chaucer’sThe Canterbury Tales.
“Absolutely.”
“That’s good to hear. The head of the English department has embraced a modern curriculum with some newer classics, but we can’t seem to escape some medieval favorites as well,” Ms. Callisto informed me, peering at me over the rims of her reading glasses.
She was a middle-aged woman with short brown hair, a small nose, and intense eyes that glinted with the capacity for humor. I liked her instinctively. And according to Coach Finley, Ms. Callisto had the final say regarding new hires. If I wanted to be the varsity assistant coach, I needed her on my side.
So far, I thought it was going pretty damn well.
“Understood. I lean more toward Steinbeck and Bradbury myself, but I also like the idea of incorporating lyrical poetry by Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan, too. Kids connect with music, and it’s a good way to get their attention. At least…it worked for me in high school.”
Whoa, Langley. Do not bore a potential new employer with tales of teenage angst.Ms. Callisto didn’t need to know that the guitar I’d begged for in my retro Nirvana era had been collecting dust in the closet of my childhood room for a solid decade.
“I think that’s an innovative approach. The key to reaching young minds is to spark collective interest. In an Internet era, that changes on a daily basis, and not all educators are good at adapting.”
In a show of incredible self-control, I didn’t brag about my Internet savvy or tell the story of how my brother had hacked into our local junior high’s mainframe in an attempt to change his D in Physics to an A. I doubted Ms. Callisto would appreciate the irony that Mikey was a med school resident now.
Nope, I just smiled. And when she concluded the interview, walking me to the door with her hand on my elbow as if we were old friends, I had a good feeling.
Two days later, I received a formal job offer from Smithton High.
I was thrilled. No, I was beyond thrilled.
I could stay in town, coaching and teaching. Maybe someday I’d take over as head coach at the high school…or hell, the college. I’d need to continue my master’s if I had my sights set on Smithton. No problem. It would be good for me, keep me out of trouble.
Rafe went bonkers. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! Congratulations.”
He jumped into my arms, clung to me like a koala, and kissed every inch of my face; then he insisted on making a congratulatory dinner.
We sat outside on the deck, enjoying the mild spring evening with grilled steaks and easy conversation about books we read in high school, memorable teachers, and teenage crushes.
“I had a crush on Mr. Mooney, my ninth grade English teacher,” I shared. “He was kind of nerdy, wore glasses and cardigans, and he had a thing for sci-fi. I readThe Martian Chronicleson his recommendation and became obsessed with stories set in space. I think I confused my folks. I was a bruiser on the ice who read until midnight…for fun.”
“They might not be as surprised that you want to teach and coach as you think,” he hedged, gaze fixed on the cows grazing in the pasture beyond the bluff.