Winter afternoons at Deerfield felt like nighttime. The sun would dip behind the Berkshires, and a luminous, violet shadow would cloak the valley. Ned ran past the red-brick dorms, his brown hair wet and freezing from the shower. He imagined he was on the ice, leading the Bruins to victory at the Boston Garden. He held an invisible stick, guiding the puck toward the goal. It's a mind puck, he thought, cracking himself up so he laughed out loud. He passed a bunch of freshmen who looked at him as if he were crazy. At seventeen he was six-four, gaining on his father's height, but more compact. He hoped he wouldn't grow much more. His father had had a collegiate growth spurt that had rendered him gawky, effectively ruining his prospects as a hockey player at Boston College, and souring his scholarship in the process. Seeing his father's truck parked in front of his dorm, he slowed down. He was just old enough to affect a certain reserve in his father's presence. He didn't want to show his father, or his dorm mates, for that matter, how excited he felt.
