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Chapter

Twenty-Eight

The NHL playoffs became our soundtrack. Somehow, Blakely convinced the admins to play the games in the North Centre like they had during Nationals, which meant Crystal, Shar, and I were there most nights with the guys.

Crystal printed the bracket, and we all made dollar bets.

We watched the Devils claw through the rounds, and Shar never quite got over the Blizzard being knocked out in round one.

When New Jersey took down Detroit in a clean sweep, Bear was the one who took home thirteen dollars.

After spending a week with my mom, I started a summer job in the admissions office—organizing files, scheduling tours, and answering phones.

It may have been the position I was getting paid for, but the work I couldn’t stop thinking about was my research.

Well, that and checking the mailbox for Chase’s letters.

We kept writing. I didn’t ask where he went after Montana, but when I got a letter postmarked from Vancouver, my heart dropped to my knees. It wasn’t a surprise, I knew he was going there eventually, but it still hurt like a punch to the throat.

This wasn’t just a summer gig. He was moving. He wouldn’t be coming back.

I did what I did best—put my head down and worked. Chase may have seen it is a strength, but I couldn’t help but start to look at it as only a coping mechanism.

As soon as applications opened for the Rhodes, I compiled my documents, completed my essays including a write up of my experiences with supporting student athletes on the committee, and included Lamont and Kowalski as references.

After triple checking the information, I sealed the envelope and set it on my desk.

I could turn it in right away, but I didn’t want to seem desperate.

I opted to wait a few days before stamping it and dropping it in the mail.

That week, Tash was on a road trip with friends and Crystal was in Kamloops visiting her grandma, which meant I had nothing better to do than sit in the library. Emails had started rolling in a few days prior, but the responses were less than exciting.

Hi Madelyn,

Thanks for reaching out. Interesting idea, but unfortunately our current league structure focuses on junior and pro-development pipelines. There’s not a ton of demand for older athletes, and the logistics just aren’t feasible. Best of luck.

—D. Gerber, Operations Director, WHLA

I sighed, clicking on the next. They were all polite, and all dead ends. No one was outright dismissive, but none of the people I’d contacted seemed remotely interested in the data I’d sent.

Hi Maddie,

Appreciate your message. In our experience, most adult players who don’t go pro tend to move on from competitive hockey. Too many life changes, not enough time. A league for that age group would be hard to fund, let alone fill. Take care.

—G. Lewis, League Development, Canadian Minor Hockey Assoc.

“Still haven’t figured out how to take a break?”

I startled, spinning to find Professor Kowalski standing a few feet away, a coffee in hand.

“Hey, good morning.”

Professor Kowalski stepped closer, peering at the colour-coded sheets on the desk next to me. “I know this isn’t homework.”

I sighed, leaning back in my chair. “Nope. New project.” He raised an eyebrow, and I tried to give him the short version. “I’ve been researching adult hockey leagues.”

He grunted. “Any particular reason?”

How was I supposed to explain that? I turned my sheets toward him and slid them across the desk.

“There are thousands of players in Alberta who don’t get to play competitively for some reason or another.

If they don’t make the cut for the pros or graduate and leave their university teams, they’re done.

There aren’t any options besides community rec leagues. ”

“And that’s not a good option?” Kowalski thumbed through my notes.

“It’s not the same.” I stifled a yawn. “I’ve been emailing everyone I can find who runs a hockey league. Trying to see if there would be an option for a new league structure—something for players who age out of Juniors or college and don’t make it to the minors or NHL.”

He let go of the papers and stepped back. “Not your normal area of study.”

I sighed. “Yeah.”

Kowalski sipped his coffee. “Have you gotten any interest?”

I shook my head. “No. Seems like nobody is very compelled by my numbers.”

He gave me a knowing smile. “Are you compelled?”

“Yes,” I answered without hesitation. It was the truth. It wasn’t just about Chase. Or Rob. Or any one player I’d come to care about. It was the numbers. The patterns. The way they kept pulling at me like thread I couldn’t stop unraveling.

Thousands of players aging out every year, most of them never stepping onto competitive ice again.

The data was right there—league drop-offs, age curves, training plateaus.

They weren’t just figures on a page. They were lives.

Futures. Potential that didn’t vanish just because a draft didn’t go their way. Maybe no one else cared, but I did.

“Isn’t the purpose of our work to do good? To make changes?” I shook my head. “I don’t understand why nobody’s even willing to try.”

He studied me for a moment, then set his coffee cup down.

“I was first published when I was a grad student. I had a paper rejected three times. Fourth time, a small analytics journal picked it up. I was studying voting trends in rural municipalities. Pretty dry stuff, but I had a theory no one else thought had legs.”

“What was it?”

“That public trust was more strongly tied to community sports funding than infrastructure spending.” Kowalski gave a modest shrug.

“Took me a while to convince anyone. But when I did, it changed how some of those towns shaped their budgets. Point is—you don’t always know what your work will become when you start.

Sometimes the world just needs a little time to catch up. ”

He gestured toward my pile of papers. “If you believe you’ve got something here, you could try pitching it as an independent research project. For credit.”

My eyes widened. “Is that a possibility?”

Kowalski picked up his coffee cup. “Maddie, what do you think you’d be doing at Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar? Running basic problem sets? You’d be choosing an area of study, contributing something new to the field. This isn’t so different.”

I stared at him. “But this isn’t pure math.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s applied. It’s structural. And it’s got real-world implications. You’re using analytics to solve a problem with socioeconomic fallout. That’s academic gold if you frame it correctly.”

My mind spun. “So who would I propose this to?”

“Lamont would have to endorse it, but you already have a connection there.” Kowalski said. “If the proposal’s solid and you’ve got faculty support from both departments—math and athletics—you could make a strong case.”

My heart picked up speed. What would I make a strong case for? The numbers? The idea? “You’d support something like this?”

He gave me a crooked smile. “I don’t make a habit of backing bad ideas. And you’re not in the habit of having them. You’d need a timeline. Deliverables. A clear objective for the league and measurable outcomes.”

“I told you, nobody was interested in expanding their programming or offering a league for this age group. I wouldn’t?—”

“You have an ice arena here don’t you? Seems to sit empty much of the time.” Kowalski stepped back, straightening his jacket. “I’d be glad to look over your proposal if you’d like. When it’s ready.” He gave a small nod, then turned and walked toward the glass doors.