The Futures(4)

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?”

He talked and talked, going into more detail than any of us could absorb. I tried to pay attention, but I kept drifting, noticing instead the embroidered monogram of his shirt, the gold wristwatch peeking from beneath his cuff. His accent still had the last traces of a childhood spent somewhere in Canada’s sprawling interior. He was rich and young. He’d done everything right. But he looked tired beneath it all.

The sky outside had darkened. Reynolds waved down the waitress to close out his tab. “Have to head back,” he said, draining his beer. He passed around business cards. “I know you guys are good, but odds are you’re not going to the pros after college. Call me if you ever want advice.”

Earlier that day, before afternoon practice, I’d finally moved my things into my dorm room. The other students would be arriving the following morning. That night, after Reynolds left, I wanted to forget what I was about to face: the people who had earned their place at this school through different means—through more legitimate means. I’d spent the previous week pretending that this place belonged to me, but it was only that—pretending. After leaving the bar, a few of us picked up a case of beer and a handle of whiskey and brought it back to my room, drinking until late. By the end of the night, it had done the trick. I’d almost forgotten. I kicked the empty cans aside and collapsed onto the bare bed.

In the dim basement of a frat house, in a room that smelled like beer and dirt, a girl pressed her body against mine. She kept laughing at everything I said. It was that first night after everyone arrived, the first real night, and my teammates and I ventured in a pack from party to party. I moved my hand down her waist, over her T-shirt, and she drew closer. Okay, I thought. It still worked. We danced for a while, and then we were kissing. She tasted like tequila and salt. A few songs later, she pushed closer with impatience. She was cute, with a great body, and both of us were the right amount of buzzed. But in that moment sex seemed only marginally appealing, not worth all the trouble. I felt a little melancholy. My teammates were scattered throughout the room, distracted by other girls or games of beer pong, so I extracted myself and left the party unnoticed.

Back at the dorm, the light coming through the door to my entryway caught a figure in silhouette. It was a girl, tall and long-legged. Blond. She looked familiar. As I got closer, I recognized her from the diner that morning. Her hair was loose and long, and she’d changed into a dress. She was looking for something in her purse and didn’t see me until I was right behind her, reaching for my key card.

“Oh! God, you scared me,” she said.

“You need to get in?”

She laughed. “I think I managed to lose my card already.”

“You live here, too?”

“On the fourth floor. I’m Julia.”

“I’m Evan. Third floor.”

I stepped aside to usher her through the open door. “After you.”

“Oh—thanks.”

The door fell shut with a loud bang.

“So, Evan.” She smiled. “Where are you from?”

“Canada.”

“Really? That’s cool. Where in Canada?”

“The middle of nowhere. You’ve never heard of it.”

“Try me.”