Sorting between junk and moving emails into their color-coordinated folders, I open an email regarding my upcoming, and only, internship interview.
I’m lucky to even have this one.
The independent study wasn’t the only undertaking. Finding an internship that would read between my transcript was important. I wasn’t a sports psychology major by title till this semester, but when you comb through my coursework, it’s all there. I’ve connected every dot possible.
Transferring would have been easier.
But Lakeland University is home.
I know I have another year left, but I wouldn’t change a thing.
Dr. Manning comes in with a stack of paper binder clipped together in one arm. An orchid delicately balanced in the other. “Can you take this?” she huffs out.
She turns the plant in my direction. I rush to stand and configure my hands to take the unexpectedly heavy potted plant from her. I set it on the windowsill next to a dying succulent.
“Should I ask?”
“Maybe when you graduate.”
We both sit down, and I let out an awkward laugh. Then another when I notice the title page to the stack of paper.
“Is that my paper?” I sit up straighter, giving myself an ample view of her mahogany desk. “You printed it? And read it already?”
“My older eyes prefer printed paper.” Her older eyes are thirty-six. She pushes her red-rim glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Only the first six pages.”
“They emailed me about my interview,” I nervously tell her.
“Are you ready?”
Am I?
I think so, but that sentiment doesn’t make me confident. For most, this interview is probably one in a dozen. For me, it’smy only one. As much as I want it, I think I need it more. It’s the final percentage of reassurance that I can do this. I can be a sports psychologist.
“You are,” she answers for me. Dr. Manning must see something I don’t, but I latch onto her faith in me.
We spend the remainder of the two hours practicing interview questions.
Walking outside, it’s the time of year when the Midwest comes down with the biggest case of decision fatigue. It never knows which season it wants to be. Some days start winter and end summer. While others, like today, are full-blown spring.
Sixty degrees out, and you’d think it was the middle of July and not mid-March.
The psych building is right off the lawn. From Dr. Manning’s office, I could already see clumps of students forming. Studying, reading, sunbathing, throwing a football, or my favorite, people watching. There’s barely any green space left. Students overflow onto the brick walkways, cutting paths across what resembles a watering hole.
Leaning against a trash can out front, Cooper is waiting for me with a coffee. His smile fading, brown eyes softening when they land on Zach holding the door for me—which isn’t uncommon. We have similar majors with a majority of our classes being in the same building. The plastic cup in Cooper’s hand curves in on itself.
“Hey, Carmichael.”
“Zach,” he grits between his teeth before forcing a smile when I level him with a look and mouthyour jealousy is showing.
“You’re girl”—the semi-sour bite to those words are almost gone, but Cooper still picks up on them—“was only explaining a part of our lecture I didn’t understand, promise.” I roll my eyes,knowing he’s joking. “Good luck tonight, the team is coming after batting practice.”
“Cool,” Cooper mumbles, body language doesn’t loosen. I step away from Zach and slide an arm around his waist.
“See ya, Sutton.” Zach walks around us, disappearing into the mass of students changing classes. He’s kind, and when we have bumped into each other has been nothing but a friend. Respectful. Earlier this week he told me a girl from our Cognitive Psychology class asked him out. We shared an awkward laugh when I suggested not to take her to the same place we went.
I snatch the decadent liquid from my boyfriend’s hand, spinning in front of him and jabbing a finger into his spectacularly hard chest all in one movement.
“What was that?”
