Page 110 of The Callahan Effect

That single gesture meant as much to me as any celebration ever could.

The scoreboard changed.

Evergreen 4.

Lake Superior 1.

Three minutes and twenty-two seconds remained.

The celebration lasted only a few seconds before Coach's voice cut cleanly through the noise surrounding us.

"Back to work!"

None of us needed reminding.

Championships had been lost because players celebrated too early, and nobody wearing Evergreen colors intended becoming another cautionary tale. Ryan pointed toward our end of the ice, reminding everyone the game still had to be finished, before we separated and skated back toward center.

Across from us, the Lake Superior players gathered around their captain with expressions that told the story without a single word being spoken. They'd emptied everything they possessed into the previous fifty-seven minutes and now found themselves three goals behind with barely enough time remaining to score once, let alone three times.

The faceoff confirmed what everyone inside the arena already knew.

They attacked immediately, throwing caution aside completely as their defensemen joined every rush and forwards abandoned any thought of protecting against a counterattack. Coach responded by rolling four lines through the remaining shifts, demanding fresh legs and disciplined hockey rather than chasing another goal that no longer mattered.

"Nothing cute," he called as our line changed. "Win your battles. Get pucks deep. Make them earn every inch."

Ryan acknowledged him with a quick nod before hopping over the boards again.

Nobody argued.

Nobody freelanced.

We played exactly the way Evergreen hockey had been built to play.

The final two minutes disappeared one clean shift at a time. Connor cleared the puck the length of the ice after blocking another point shot. Ethan won a battle along the boards that had everyone on our bench pounding the dasher in appreciation. Oscar calmly gloved a harmless wrist shot through traffic before freezing the puck long enough for another twenty precious seconds to disappear from the clock.

I found myself looking upward.

Ninety seconds.

Then sixty.

The arena announcer called the final minute, and every Evergreen supporter rose as one.

The sound hit us like a wall.

Twenty thousand people counted down together as though they could will the final seconds away through sheer volume alone. Every completed pass drew another roar. Every clearance beyond our blue line sounded like another step toward history. Lake Superior continued battling with the pride worthy of a championship team, but even they understood the outcome had slipped beyond their reach.

Ryan collected one final loose puck behind our net before banking it safely off the glass and into neutral ice.

Five seconds.

Four.

Three.

Nobody on either bench moved.

We simply watched.