Page 25 of The Callahan Effect

"Enough talking. We've got a season to prepare for."

Every player swung toward the locker room.

As I followed the group, I found my attention drifting toward the glass overlooking the ice.

Jack hadn't left.

He stood near the Zamboni entrance with one shoulder resting lightly against the boards, watching us with the same calm expression he'd worn since returning from the tunnel. Even from across the rink I felt his eyes settle on me and something inside my chest tightened. His lips curved into the smallest of smiles when he realized I'd noticed him looking.

Without thinking, I smiled back.

The exchange lasted barely two seconds before we both looked away, yet it left me feeling strangely lighter.

For the first time in my life, I found myself looking forward to a hockey practice for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with hockey itself.

The locker room settled into the familiar rhythm that existed in every hockey program, regardless of what logo happened to be stitched across the front of the jersey. Equipment bags unzipped in unison, sticks leaned against stalls, tape appeared from seemingly nowhere and conversations veered effortlessly from one corner of the room to another.

The difference at Evergreen wasn't the routine itself but the atmosphere surrounding it. There wasn't a trace of the competition I'd occasionally experienced at Gulf Coast, where players sometimes guarded their positions as fiercely as they guarded the puck. Here, the veterans made a point of including everyone. Advice was offered freely, jokes crossed every corner of the room and nobody seemed interested in reminding the freshmen or me, a transfer, that we were newcomers.

Ryan finished adjusting the laces on his skates before looking across at me. " Coach has you on the first line, right wing today. He wants to see how quickly the chemistry develops."

"Who's with me?"

"You've got me in the middle and Luca on the left wing."

On paper, it made sense. Ryan O'Connell had earned the captaincy because he elevated everyone around him, while Luca Moretti possessed the kind of speed capable of turning a routine rush into an odd-man opportunity within seconds. Watching game film during the summer had shown me enough to know they complemented each other naturally. My responsibility wasn't to carry the line. It was to become part of it.

Oscar commented from where he sat on the far side of the room.

"Congratulations."

"For what?"

"You get to chase Ryan around all morning."

Ryan smiled. "He'll survive."

Oscar shook his head dramatically. "Barely."

Ben looked up from taping the blade of his stick. "Ignore him."

I laughed. "I'll keep that in mind."

"You'll learn that's the healthiest option."

The laughter around the locker room faded as Coach Callahan stepped through the doorway.

"Five minutes."

The easy conversation ended. Helmets were lifted from the hooks above each stall, gloves were pulled on, mouthguards found their way into place and players gave their skate laces one final tug before reaching for their sticks. The relaxed mood was replaced by the concentration that always settled over a team preparing to take the ice.

Coach didn't deliver a speech. He didn't need to. The expectation had already been established.

When we stepped through the tunnel and onto the rubber flooring leading toward the bench, the familiar smell of fresh ice, sharpened steel and cold air settled over me with reassuring familiarity. Every arena possessed its own personality, yet the sensations never really changed. The first deep breath always steadied my nerves.

I glanced toward the Zamboni entrance.

Jack was still there.