Page 19 of The Callahan Effect

Chapter Four

JACK

The arena always felt different after the preseason retreat. I'd seen enough teams return over the years to recognize the atmosphere when the players walked through the doors. Conversation flowed more easily, laughter echoed through the corridors beneath the stands and even the newest faces seemed more comfortable among teammates who had been strangers only a week earlier. Whatever happened during those few days away from campus, it always achieved exactly what Dad intended.

The time away turned a group of individual players into the beginnings of a hockey team, and by the time they stepped onto the ice for their first official training session, the season suddenly felt real.

There were no classes that morning, so I'd been inside the arena since before sunrise. Preparation had become second nature over the years. I inspected every part of the Zamboni before filling the hot-water tank, checking the conditioner blade, and easing the machine onto the untouched sheet of ice.

The slow, methodical passes across the rink settled my thoughts in a way very little else ever had. Every lap erased the marks left behind by my previous day's skating until the surface reflected the overhead lights like polished glass.

Most people looked at the finished product and saw nothing more than ice. I saw hours of care, precision, and pride. It wasn't only my job. It was my contribution to Evergreen Hockey, and although my name would never appear on a roster or a scoresheet, every practice and every game began with the work I did before anyone else arrived.

By the time I parked the Zamboni in the maintenance bay and completed the final checks, the arena had come alive around me. Players began filtering through the doors carrying hockey bags over their shoulders and sticks tucked beneath their arms. Conversations picked up exactly where they had apparently left off at the retreat, laughter echoing through the corridors while players were drawn naturally toward one another instead of lingering awkwardly on the fringes. The returning players were completely at ease, and even the newcomers moved among them with a familiarity that hadn't existed before they left campus.

Dad stepped out of his office carrying a clipboard thick with practice notes, his whistle already hanging around his neck. Retirement from professional hockey had done nothing to diminish the authority he possessed. He never needed to raise his voice to command attention. Players listened because they respected him, and respect carried far more weight than fear ever could.

He spotted me as he approached.

"Morning, Jack."

I smiled and signed, Morning. The ice is ready.

His hands answered without hesitation.

It looks perfect. Thank you. Stay with me for a few minutes. I want to introduce you to the new players before practice starts.

Standing in front of an entire team had never been something I particularly enjoyed but I did as I'd been asked. Dad had always insisted that I should never make myself smaller because I couldn't speak, and after all these years I knew there was no point arguing. He believed I belonged every bit as much as everyone else in the building, and that belief had shaped my entire life.

The players gradually gathered in front of him, conversations fading until the only sounds came from skate blades shifting against the rubber flooring and the distant hum of the arena's refrigeration system. Ryan stood confidently near the front wearing the captain's 'C', looking completely at ease in the leadership role he had earned. Around him the returning players chatted comfortably, while the newcomers remained a little unsure, taking everything in as they adjusted to their first day inside Red Cedars Arena.

Dad waited until the conversations died away before stepping to the front of the group.

"Before we get started, there's one more person I want our new players to meet." He beckoned me forward, resting a hand lightly on my shoulder. "Some of you haven't met my son, Jack Callahan. Jack has been preparing the ice in this arena since he was fifteen, and every practice and every game begins on a sheet he prepares. He operates the Zamboni, works closely with our equipment staff, and will assist with your speed drills throughout the season. He's as much a part of this program as anyone standing here."

Dozens of faces turned toward me. Heat crept into my cheeks despite myself, but I smiled and raised a hand in greeting.

Dad turned his attention to the newest players. "Feel free to introduce yourselves, gentlemen, when the opportunity arises."

As the players began drifting toward their first practice stations, I found myself searching for Mason.

The instant I saw him at close range, I understood just how misleading photographs could be.

I'd watched every recruitment video Dad had brought home over the summer, along with countless game tapes from Gulf Coast University, enough photographs to recognize Mason Brooks instantly, and more than one interview where Dad remarked that he possessed the maturity and leadership qualities Evergreen needed.

Even so, none of those images had prepared me for the man standing only a few feet away. He was even more handsome in person, his broad shoulders filling the practice jersey effortlessly, his blue eyes brighter than any camera had captured and his smile carrying an easy warmth that reached all the way across the small space separating us.

For reasons I couldn't begin to explain, my pulse quickened.

Dad smiled when he saw the direction of my gaze. Mason closed the distance between us and extended his hand without the slightest trace of hesitation.

"Mason, this is Jack," Dad introduced.

"It's good to meet you, Jack."

I slipped my hand into his.

The handshake should have lasted only a moment, yet our eyes remained locked far longer than either of us seemed to expect. There was an openness in his expression that caught me completely off guard, and for one impossible instant the bustle of the arena seemed to fade until all I was aware of was his hand around mine.