The Arrival
My reflection stared back at me from the passenger window, a ghost boy superimposed over the blurring Vermont countryside. Mile marker 47. Then 48. Then 49. Each green sign countdown to a future I wasn’t sure I wanted. My fingers drummed against my thigh—one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four—the same nervous rhythm Mom did when she was grading papers or thinking too hard about something.
“So Harrison’s got you boys scheduled for evaluation skates first thing Monday morn,” Dad said, his voice trying too hard to sound casual. “Nothing formal, just wants to see where everyone’s at skill-wise.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Mile marker 50.
“I talked to him last week. Good guy. Played at BU back in the day. He knows the game, knows how to develop—”
“Wyatt.” Mom’s voice from the backseat, soft but pointed. The same tone she used when his post-game analysis went on too long at dinner.
In the rearview mirror, I caught her hazel eyes finding mine. That look—the one that said you don’t have to do this and I’ll support you anyway and I’m worried all at once. The look that made me want to tell Dad to turn the truck around and forget this whole elite hockey academy thing.
But then Natalie gurgled from her car seat, chubby fist waving in the air, and Mom’s attention shifted. “That’s right, baby girl. We’re taking your big brother to his new school. Yes, we are.”
My chest tightened. Big brother. Like I was someone worth looking up to, instead of a kid running away from home because he couldn’t handle being Wyatt Reynolds’ son in Lake Haven anymore. Like I was brave instead of counting mile markers to keep from thinking about the camera van behind us.
Dad’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, tendons standing out like he was gripping a hockey stick for a crucial faceoff. He’d been driving like that for the last hour, ever since we’d met up with Melissa’s production van at the gas station outside Lake Haven. Cowboy’s Next Generation—even the name made me want to hide under the dashboard.
“Your mom and I were talking,” Dad started, then stopped. His jaw worked like he was chewing words, trying to find the right ones. “This thing with the cameras—”
“It’s fine.” The lie came out automatic, practiced. Mile marker 51.
“Jake—”
“Really, Dad. It’s fine.”
Another look in the mirror, this one between my parents. Fifteen years of marriage had given them their own silent language, whole conversations in glances and tilted heads. Whatever this one said, it ended with Mom reaching forward to squeeze Dad’s shoulder.
Behind us, I could make out Tank’s massive frame through his truck’s windshield, Kat beside him probably keeping Tommy calm with her nurse’s steadiness. At least I wasn’t doing this alone. At least Tommy would be there to—
Sutton Academy, Next Right
The sign loomed green and official, with smaller print underneath: Established 1887. Developing Tomorrow’s Leaders.
My fingers stopped drumming. This was really happening.
“Heard they renovated the rinks last summer,” Dad said, taking the exit with careful precision. “Olympic-size, state-of-the-art everything. You’re gonna love—”
“Wyatt.” Mom again, softer this time.
Dad’s shoulders dropped. “Yeah. Okay.”
The exit ramp curved through trees already hinting at fall, maples edged with premature gold. Vermont in September—usually my favorite time of year. Hockey season starting, Charlie making apple cider on Sundays, Tommy and I planning our school year at Lake Haven High...
Except we weren’t going to Lake Haven this year. We were sixteen-year-old juniors at a school that had probably never heard of apple cider that didn’t come from some fancy organic farm. A school where my last name came with expectations I couldn’t escape, no matter how many miles stretched between here and home.
“Baba!” Natalie’s voice broke through my spiral, her new favorite sound. “Baba-ba-ba!”
“That’s right, princess,” Dad said, his voice softening the way it always did for her. “Tell your brother he’s going to do great.”
I turned to look at my baby sister, her face lit up with pure joy at the sound of her own voice. Dark wisps of hair like her Mom’s, but those eyes were all Reynolds blue. She’d grow up part time in Lake Haven the way I did, except her dad would just be the youth hockey coordinator who used to play in the NHL. By the time she was my age, Cowboy’s Next Generation would be some forgotten reality show nobody remembered.
Lucky her.
“Jake?” Mom’s hand touched my shoulder. “You okay, honey?”
I met her eyes in the mirror again. Hazel like autumn, like home, like every time she’d waited up to make sure I got back safe from Tommy’s or caught me reading under the covers with a flashlight.
“Yeah,” I said, and tried to make it true. “I’m good.”
Dad took the next turn, and suddenly the trees opened up to reveal Sutton Academy’s entrance—wrought iron gates standing open like jaws, Gothic buildings rising beyond manicured lawns that probably cost more to maintain than most people’s houses.
“Holy sh—” Dad caught himself. “Wow.”
“Wow,” Mom echoed faintly.
“Baba!” Natalie contributed.
I said nothing, but my fingers found my thigh again. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
Welcome to Sutton Academy, where tomorrow’s leaders learned to lead, and today’s anxiety learned to multiply.
Mile marker: Zero.
The gates rose up before us like something out of a movie I’d never want to star in. Wrought iron twisted into the Sutton Academy crest—a shield with crossed hockey sticks behind a lamp of knowledge, because apparently even their symbolism had to overachieve. The metal gleamed black in the morning sun, polished to a shine that probably required its own maintenance staff.
“Jesus,” Dad breathed, and this time didn’t bother censoring himself.
The security booth looked like a miniature version of the Gothic buildings beyond, complete with peaked roof and leaded glass windows. Because God forbid even the security guards work somewhere that didn’t scream old money. A line of cars waited to be checked in—a parade of automotive excess that made Dad’s truck look like we’d taken a wrong turn from a construction site.
“Is that a Maserati?” I couldn’t help asking, staring at the sleek silver thing two cars ahead.
“That’s a semester’s tuition,” Mom muttered, then caught herself. “I mean—”
“It’s okay, Charlie.” Dad’s voice held that mix of defensiveness and pride that always surfaced when money came up. “We’re not here to impress anybody’s parents.”
No, just their cameras, I thought, glancing back at Melissa’s van. Through the windshield, I could see Dave’s lens pointed our way, red recording light glowing like a predator’s eye.
The Maserati glided through the gates, followed by a Range Rover so pristine it had probably never seen an actual range. Or a rover. Or dirt. Behind us, someone honked—a polite, expensive-sounding beep that somehow managed to convey impatience with breeding.
“Baba?” Natalie’s voice rose, questioning. Even she could feel the tension ratcheting up in the cab.
We inched forward. Through the gates, I could see it all spread out like a college brochure come to life. Lawns so green they looked painted, every blade of grass standing at attention. Buildings that belonged in Harry Potter, all stone and towers and windows that watched like eyes. A fountain—an actual fountain—sparkled in the center of a circular drive, water dancing in perfect choreography.
“Tommy seeing this?” Mom asked, craning to look back at Tank’s truck.
I turned, caught my best friend’s face through the windshield. Even from here, I could read his expression—the same oh shit look he’d worn when we’d accidentally signed up for AP Calculus thinking it was regular calc. His lips moved, probably swearing in that steady, methodical way he’d learned from his dad. Kat’s hand appeared on his shoulder, steadying.
I raised my hand in a what have we done gesture. Tommy shook his head, managed a grim smile that said too late now.
“Boys okay?” Dad asked, watching in the mirror.
“Define okay,” I said.
Another inch forward. A BMW X7 in front of us, so black it seemed to absorb light. Through its rear window, I could see perfectly styled blonde hair, probably belonging to some future investment banker who’d never eaten cafeteria food in his life.
“At least the hockey will be good,” Dad offered, filling the silence that threatened to swallow us whole.
“Right,” I said. “The hockey.”
Like that was why we were here. Like it wasn’t about escaping Lake Haven where everyone saw Wyatt Reynolds’ son before they saw Jake. Like it wasn’t about Tommy and me wanting to prove we were more than small-town kids riding famous coattails. Like it wasn’t about—
“Sir? Sir!”
The security guard was waving at Dad, who’d been so lost in thought he’d missed our turn at the booth. We pulled up, and I watched the guard’s face transform in real-time—polite professionalism, then recognition, then that look. That starstruck, holy-shit-it’s-really-him look I’d seen my whole life.
“Mr. Reynolds? Wyatt Reynolds?” The guard was maybe twenty-five, built like he’d played hockey until he hadn’t. His nametag read PETERSON. “Oh man, I watched you play at Boston Garden when I was a teen. That playoff series against Montreal? Unbelievable.”
“Thanks,” Dad said, his public smile sliding into place like a mask. “Just dropping my son off for the semester.”
Peterson leaned down, peered into the truck with eager eyes that found me in the passenger seat. “This must be Jake! Heard you were coming. Chip off the old block, eh?”
I slid lower in my seat, wishing I could melt into the upholstery. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“We’re pretty excited to have you here,” Peterson continued, oblivious to my discomfort. “My nephew’s a sophomore, plays JV. He’s gonna flip when he hears I met Cowboy Reynolds.”
“That’s... great,” I managed.
Behind us, another polite honk. The Mercedes waiting its turn, probably wondering why the help was holding up the line.
“Oh, right, sorry.” Peterson straightened, suddenly professional again. But the damage was done. Through the BMW’s rear window, I saw the blonde head turn, checking out what the commotion was about. “Welcome to Sutton Academy, Jake. You’re gonna love it here.”
He waved us through with the enthusiasm of someone directing a parade float, and Dad pulled forward, jaw tight.
“Well,” Mom said after a moment. “That was...”
“Yeah,” Dad agreed.
“Baba!” Natalie added, because someone had to say something positive.
I kept sliding lower until my knees hit the glove compartment, watching the Gothic buildings loom larger through the windshield. Behind us, Tank’s truck got the normal treatment—quick check of paperwork, polite wave through. No fanfare. No recognition. Lucky Tommy.
“Sit up,” Mom said gently. “You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I lied, straightening slightly.
“Your dad works hard for what we have,” she continued, using her teacher voice. “This truck’s paid for. That BMW probably isn’t.”
“Charlie,” Dad warned, but his lips twitched toward a smile.
“I’m just saying.” She reached forward to squeeze my shoulder. “You belong here as much as anyone.”
Through the windshield, Sutton Academy spread out before us in all its intimidating glory. Stone and privilege and centuries of tradition I’d never be part of, no matter how well I played hockey.
“Do I though?” I asked, quiet enough that maybe they wouldn’t hear.
But Mom heard everything. Her hand tightened on my shoulder, and in the rearview mirror, her hazel eyes found mine again.
“Yes,” she said simply. “You do.”
I wanted to believe her. But as we joined the line of luxury vehicles winding toward what looked like a castle masquerading as a dormitory, Dad’s truck rumbling like it was clearing its throat in apologetic embarrassment, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Peterson the security guard might be the friendliest welcome I’d get.
Behind us, Dave’s camera kept rolling, recording every moment of Cowboy Reynolds’ son arriving at his new school. Tomorrow’s footage for viewers who wanted to see if fame and glory ran in the family, or if some legacies were meant to be broken.
One way or another, they were about to find out.
So was I.
