Tucker Pillsbury was already there, half-slouched in a chair at the small, scarred wooden table. His head was propped on one hand, his other holding his phone aloft. A small mountain of crumpled protein bar wrappers and two empty silver energy drink cans sat next to a pristine, largely unopened Statistics 101 textbook. His notebook was blank.

He wore a slightly faded university hockey hoodie, the number 7 on the sleeve. A fresh, thin cut bisected his left eyebrow, stark against his skin. The weak fluorescent light caught the disheveled dark brown of his hair, the kind of mess that came from a helmet and never quite settled.