Luckily, as someone who loves to veg at home on the couch, I have a lot of shapeless, butt-ugly ensembles. Since I figure the ice hockey arena will be cold, I wear baggy Cincinnati Bengals sweatpants that once belonged to my dad and an old t-shirt I wouldn’t normally go anywhere in, and I scrape my hair into a high ponytail. I pop out my contacts and put on my thick-rimmed Harry Potter glasses. Looking at myself in the mirror, I declare myself sufficiently boring and unobtrusive before grabbing my bag and heading out the door.

I somehow manage to find the nearest T station and purchase my very own Charlie Card at one of the kiosks. The map isn’t the easiest thing to figure out. I Google hockey on my phone during the ride and get so busy studying the ins and outs of the game that I end up missing my stop, and by the time I get on the right train, I’m already ten minutes late. When I get off in East Boston, I find myself in an area of the city that seems even worse than where I live. I sprint to the arena, and when I get there, Professor Morgan is standing outside, tapping his foot. “I’m sorry,” I say breathlessly, ready to launch into an explanation, but he cuts me off.

“Come on, Shaw. The practice has already started.”

He walks briskly ahead of me toward the arena doors, as I trail behind him, barely able to keep up. He opens the door to the darkened arena, and already I hear the swoosh of ice skates, the clatter of hockey sticks, the low rumble of men speaking. Professor Morgan leads me down to the row of seats directly behind the bench. “Sit here,” he instructs.

I dutifully squeeze into the row next to him, watching the players loop around the ice. “They practice every afternoon,” he tells me, setting his briefcase and sweater on the row in front of us. “I expect you to be here, too.”

I nod.

“Also . . .” He pauses, peering at me over his bifocals like I’m a piece of gum on his shoe. “You’re going to want to write this in your notebook.”

I freeze. Do I have a notebook? Oh, god, I don’t. All my newly purchased school supplies are still in my suitcase. What kind of idiot college student goes anywhere without a notebook?

The answer: This one.

Maybe I can just write on the back of one of my mom’s tissues. I fish one out of my pocket, crumpled though it is, and reach for the trusty pen I always keep in my backpack. It’s missing. Suddenly, my mind flashes to the last time I’d seen it—in Flynn’s magic hands, as he used it to jimmy the lock. After that, he never gave it back to me. Who knows where it is, now?

Gah.

I rummage around in my backpack aimlessly, cursing the extra bottle of Tropicana, dog-eared copy of Emma, and the How to Do Boston Like a Local book I’d packed in there, little good they’re doing me now. It doesn’t take long for Dr. Morgan to get the hint. He tsks at me, then reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a clean notebook and a heavy, expensive looking pen. I bet he never travels anywhere without them. “Thanks,” I say, opening it to the first crisp page and getting the pen at the ready.

“Practices are one to four,” he says. “Except Fridays. Saturdays are eight to noon. After each practice, you’ll be expected to take a handful of the players into a conference room and conduct your interviews. The players you’ll be interviewing have been pre-selected for each day this week and are listed on this schedule.”

He shoves a very elaborate spreadsheet into my hands, but continues before I have a chance to digest it.

“Now, these are professional athletes but they are playing for the Boston Bobcat’s farm team, which means every single one of them ultimately has the goal of moving up from this team and onto the Bobcat’s main roster. Understand?”

I’m getting a little peeved that he has to punctuate every sentence with “Understand?” I’m not some dummy, I think, then at the same time realize that forgetting to bring a pad and pen doesn’t exactly ooze intelligence. Fueled by the desire to prove myself to him, I nod and say, “Perfectly” in my most self-assured voice.

“Good.” He reaches into his briefcase again and pulls out a large stack of manila folders. “These are dossiers on all the players you’ll be meeting with. I expect you to be fully versed in each player’s history before you begin interviews.”

I open my mouth to ask how many players there are, but he says, “There are forty-five players.”

“Oh.” I open my mouth to ask when I’ll be conducting the first interviews and he says, “The interviews commence tomorrow.” Can he read my mind? “We need to get as much out of the way as possible before the season starts and they start traveling for their away games.”

I try to make my mind as blank as possible, knowing he can probably see what lurks in there, but it doesn’t stop terror from leaking in. Because not only do I need to study up on the rules and regulations of hockey, I need to know the histories of forty-five strange men by tomorrow? My head is spinning and starting to throb. Another necessity I forgot to pack in my backpack: Excedrin.

He deposits the heavy pile of dossiers in my arms, the weight of which has me dangerously close to collapsing like a house of cards, and then lays a thumb drive on top. “I’m not a computer person, but I’m told all the files are on this gadget, if you’re so inclined.”

Heck yes, I’m inclined, if only to save myself from a broken back two days into the semester. “Thank you. I’ll study them tonight.”

I rest my weighty new friend, the stack of files, on the seat next to me, and we sit in a couple of old pleather chairs that are bleeding stuffing. He points out a few key players. “That one—forty-five, Martin. He’s the captain. I don’t expect him to be here all season because the Bobcats already have their eyes on bringing him up. That forward over there with the fast hands and serious stick-handling—number nine—that’s Taylor, our local boy. He’s got a bit of a temper. What happens with him is anyone’s guess. Now—“

He stops mid-sentence and looks over at me.

I realize I’m staring at them and not writing. He wants me taking notes. I start scribbling as fast as I can. 9 – Taylor – local- hands-unpredictable. Who was the captain? I can’t remember.

After listing another twelve players without so much as taking a breath, I wonder why we even need to do this study. The professor seems to know everything about them, right down to their blood types, already.

When he stops, I look at my illegible scribbling and realize I might as well have written in it Swahili.

After another hour, the players start to line up to go off the ice. “Let’s take you down to meet them.”

And I thought I couldn’t feel any more like throwing up. Steeling myself, I follow him down to the bench, where he leans over the wall and says, “How’s it going, Earl?”

Earl, who must be the head coach, gives him a grin and shakes his hand like an old friend. Then he looks over at me. “This her?”

He nods. I throw a hand out there, determined to take the bull by the horns with introductions and prove I’m not totally inept.

“Savannah Shaw,” I say, shaking his hand firmly. “Nice to meet you. Your boys look great.”

“Thanks,” he says, clearly pleased by the compliment. He motions the captain over and introduces him. Chris Martin. Right, that’s his name. He’s clearly a lot older than most of the guys, and has been around the block, judging from the variety of scars on his face. “Hi, there, Miss Shaw. Nice to meet you,” he says, very kindly despite his rough exterior.

One-by-one, he calls all the men over, and they’re similarly kind and professional. After a while, I feel like I’m on a greeting line at a wedding. I can’t even begin to put all these guys’ faces with their names and numbers. I stifle a yawn and try to concentrate, then see a light at the end of the tunnel when the ice empties out, leaving the three of us alone in the arena. I’m about to gather up my files when Jacobsen bangs on the boards, startling me.

“Taylor! Get over here, Taylor!”Jacobsen calls, an annoyed edge in his voice. I look up and see a man, number nine, swiveling lazily at the blue line, like he hasn’t a care in the world. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

That doesn’t hurry Taylor up any. In fact, I think it slows him down. He glides, very leisurely, toward us, spitting out his mouth guard. Jacobsen sighs deeply. I glance down at my scribbled notes and see the words hands and unpredictable. It’s obvious from the tired look Jacobson gives the professor that this Taylor player is a thorn in the team’s side. I’m going to have to be extra careful around him.

He skates to an abrupt stop at the edge of the ice and steps onto solid ground. Then he rips off his helmet and his cinnamon-colored hair falls on his forehead, and I can already tell he’s living up to the unpredictable label, and in a big way.

Because nope, I never would’ve predicted this.

It’s Flynn.