I was. I still was. But the anticipation had been building up for so long, and now that it was actually here, the moment felt disappointingly ordinary. We could have been driving anywhere, on a family trip, or en route to some hockey tournament. I had the feeling that eventually we’d turn back in the other direction, toward home. It seemed impossible that this was how life transformed itself: a drive down a road you’d driven so many times before.
“Only a hundred more kilometers,” she said an hour later, as we whizzed past another road marker. I felt like I should make conversation—it was the last time I’d see her for months—but I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Checking in?” the clerk at the motel asked.
“The reservation is under Peck. Two rooms,” my mom said, digging through her wallet. I raised my eyebrows at her, my eternally frugal mother. Only when we were wheeling our bags down the hallway, away from the lobby, did she lean over and whisper: “You’re a grown-up now, honey. I think you deserve your own room, don’t you?”
I was on campus early. Every year a rich alum from the hockey team paid for the team to have use of the rink for one week in late August. The captains would run the practice, skirting the NCAA rules that prevented us from officially beginning practice until October. Most of the players lived off campus and could move in early. After my flight—the longest I’d ever taken, the first one out of the country—I caught a shuttle bus to New Haven. I was going to crash at the hockey house for the week, along with the other freshmen. The door was unlocked when I arrived.
“Hello?” I called into the empty living room. I followed the sound of voices to the back of the house, where I found two guys sitting in the kitchen, eating dinner.
“Hey. I’m Evan Peck. I just got here.” I held out my hand.
“Hey, man. I’m Sebi. And this is Paul. We’re new, too.”
“Where are you guys from?”
“Medicine Hat,” Sebi said.
“Kelowna,” Paul said.
Our team was mostly composed of guys like that, guys like me—Canadians from the prairies and the western provinces, some New Englanders, a few boys from Minnesota. It made settling in easy. The routine was familiar, the intensity turned up: twice-a-day practices, runs and lifts, team dinners. I was exhausted, not so much falling asleep every night as passing out, too tired to feel homesick. On the second-to-last day of that week, toward the end of afternoon practice, I noticed a man sitting in the stands, watching us scrimmage. He wore a crisp suit and tie, which seemed incongruous with both the August heat outside and the manufactured cold inside the rink.
“Did anyone else notice that guy?” I asked in the locker room.
“The guy in the stands?” one of the seniors replied. “That’s Reynolds. He’s paying for all this.”
The same man was waiting outside the rink when we emerged in the late afternoon light. He wore mirrored sunglasses and leaned against a bright yellow sports car. One of the captains went over and shook his hand, and they spoke briefly.
“Guys,” the captain called out to the rest of us. “We’re going over to Liffey’s for beers. Mr. Reynolds is treating.”
“I still don’t really get who this guy is,” I said to Sebi as we trailed the group down Whitney Avenue. At the bar, quiet on a weekday evening when the campus was still empty, Reynolds took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and slapped his card down to open the tab.
I thought of the dwindling contents of my wallet as I reached for the pitcher. I was planning to find a job on campus, but until then, I was spending the last of the money saved from my summer job. At least the beer was free. A little later, Reynolds came over to our table and pulled up a chair. “You’re all new, huh?” he said, reaching to pour himself a beer. “I don’t recognize any of you from last year.”
We nodded. “Yes, sir,” I said.
“Well, this is my favorite time of year, getting you guys together for the first time. The main thing is you get to know each other. These early days are the best, let me tell you. When everything’s still up for grabs.”
Reynolds had the build of an athlete in retirement, muscles gone soft, a cushiony midsection. His mirrored sunglasses shone like an extra pair of eyes from the top of his head. He squinted at us. “Not that I don’t expect a return on my investment.” He laughed. “I’m paying for this because I expect you guys might be able to bring home a national championship in your time here.”
We sipped beer in silence. “Did you play at all after college, Mr. Reynolds?” Sebi finally asked.
“It’s Peter. No. No, I wasn’t good enough to go pro, never expected to. But there’s another game, you know. It pays better and it lasts longer.” He laughed again, his teeth glowing white. “Moved to New York, started in banking, and now I’m running a hedge fund. You know how hedge funds work?”