Chapter One #3
"I'll leave you to get organized," David remarked as he climbed out and opened the rear of the vehicle.
"The buses leave at eight tomorrow morning for the team's preseason retreat.
Coach Callahan likes getting everyone away from campus before the semester starts.
Five days in the mountains usually tells him everything he needs to know about a player.
Be at the arena by seven-thirty. Coach Callahan considers arriving on time the same as arriving late. "
I grinned as I lifted my equipment bag onto the pavement.
"I've heard enough about him to believe that."
"You'll discover most of the stories are true."
"Should I be worried?"
David laughed.
"Only if you cut corners. He has very little patience for those who try."
After thanking him for the lift, I watched the university vehicle disappear around the corner before turning my attention to the building that would become home.
The residence wasn't especially modern, yet it had character.
Red brick walls climbed three stories beneath a slate roof, broad windows overlooked neatly maintained gardens and mature trees shaded the pathways leading toward the academic precinct.
It felt more like an old lodge than a student dormitory, and I found that strangely reassuring.
Inside, the foyer buzzed with activity. Parents carried bedding through the hallways while resident advisors answered questions with practiced smiles.
A noticeboard covered one wall, advertising everything from tutoring services to hiking clubs, volunteer organizations, and intramural sports.
University life extended well beyond the rink, a fact I'd promised myself I wouldn't ignore.
Hockey remained my priority, but I hadn't traveled across the country to spend every waking hour inside an arena.
The young woman behind the reception desk welcomed me warmly before handing over an access card, a campus map, and a folder thick enough to require its own backpack.
"You'll be in room three-twelve," she explained. "You have the room to yourself as requested."
Having wealthy parents willing to pay for my accommodation meant I was able to pay for a single room.
I wasn't antisocial by nature, but having a room to myself meant I wouldn't feel obliged to make conversation.
The lift groaned its way to the third floor, opening onto a corridor lined with identical timber doors.
My room sat near the end, overlooking a stand of evergreen trees that stretched toward the athletic complex beyond.
The accommodation proved better than I'd expected.
An oversized single bed stood against one wall and on another was a desk and bookshelf, while a generous wardrobe occupied one corner beside a compact kitchenette.
The furniture lacked personality, but that would change once photographs, textbooks and the inevitable pile of hockey gear claimed all available surfaces.
Before starting on the unpacking, I remembered the promise I'd made Mom before boarding the plane and dialed home. She answered before the first ring had finished.
"You made it."
I smiled. "Hi, Mom."
"How's the room? Did your hockey bag arrive? Have you eaten? Is it cold?"
Dad's voice sounded loud through the speaker.
"Honey, let the boy answer one question before you ask the next."
I laughed, picturing them standing together in the kitchen exactly as they had every evening for as long as I could remember.
"Everything's fine. The room's better than I expected, my gear arrived with me, and the campus is incredible."
"We weren't worried," Dad said.
Mom snorted.
"He's lying. We both were."
We talked for another ten minutes. Mom wanted details of the flight and the campus, while Dad was more interested in tomorrow's retreat and whether I was looking forward to meeting my new teammates.
Before hanging up, Mom reminded me that home was only a phone call away, and Dad told me to enjoy every minute of the opportunity I'd worked so hard to earn.
Ending the call proved harder than making it, but hearing their voices eased something inside me. They'd always been my biggest supporters, and despite the three thousand miles now separating us, that hadn't changed.
I unpacked methodically, a habit inherited from my father.
Clothes disappeared into drawers, textbooks filled the shelves according to subject rather than size, and my laptop found its place on the desk beside a framed photograph of Mom, Dad and I had taken after my final high school championship and another with Emma at the same time.
Corey occupied the next frame, the two of us grinning beneath sweat-soaked hair while holding a state trophy we'd spent years chasing.
Looking at the photograph stirred an unexpected mixture of gratitude and melancholy. Friendships like ours didn't come along often.
People occasionally assumed we were inseparable because we spent so much time together, yet the opposite had always been true.
Corey could spend hours explaining engineering concepts that left me completely lost, while I'd happily lose an afternoon reading about biomechanics or rehabilitation techniques.
We challenged one another because we approached life differently, and perhaps that explained why the friendship had survived adolescence without the usual dramas.
I hoped university would introduce me to people capable of becoming equally important.
The thought surprised me.
I'd never consciously admitted how much I wanted that.
Once I'd unpacked, I changed into shorts and a university polo before deciding to explore the campus.
Remaining inside my room wouldn't make tomorrow arrive any later, and I'd always found unfamiliar places easier to understand after walking through them.
The map remained folded in my pocket, although I referred to it only occasionally.
There was something satisfying about discovering a campus through observation rather than colored lines and numbered buildings.
The academic precinct impressed me. Students lounged beneath enormous trees discussing assignments, while others hurried between lectures balancing coffee cups and open notebooks.
Conversation lingered around me without demanding participation.
Nobody gave me more than a passing glance, and I found the anonymity unexpectedly liberating.
Back home, people usually recognized me from hockey. Here I was, another student finding his bearings.
I found myself drifting back toward the Red Cedars arena before dinner.
I'd already seen it from the outside, but standing beneath its soaring glass entrance, I understood why photographs had never done it justice.
The closer I looked, the more details emerged.
Banners filled the space beyond the glass, each one marking another chapter in Evergreen's history.
Inside, the familiar scent of sharpened skate blades, fresh ice and rubber mats wrapped around me like an old friend.
The rinks in North America I'd been to possessed their own personality, yet they all shared that unmistakable atmosphere which slowed my heartbeat.
It had always been that way. As a child I'd felt calmer as soon as I entered an arena, and even years later very little had changed.
The main rink lay empty of players, the sheet of ice gleaming beneath bright overhead lights. I wandered toward the glass, resting my forearms against the railing as I scanned the surface. Movement at the far end of the rink caught my attention.
A Zamboni with the name CALLAHAN painted in bold black letters across the front glided across the ice with remarkable precision, laying down an immaculate trail behind it.
I'd watched countless resurfacing machines during my life, but something about this operator drew my eye.
Every turn appeared perfectly judged, every overlap identical, the machine moving with an effortless confidence that suggested years of experience rather than routine employment.
The driver slowed near the players' bench before executing a smooth turn so neat it looked choreographed. Whoever sat behind the wheel clearly took pride in doing the job properly.
As the machine approached the exit gate, the driver brought it to a steady halt and climbed down.
As he disappeared through the doorway, I found my gaze lingering a fraction longer than it probably should have.
The broad shoulders, narrow waist and easy athletic grace should have been unremarkable in a hockey arena, yet something about him held my attention.
I told myself it was curiosity. My body, however, seemed to have reached a different conclusion.