Page 105 of The Callahan Effect

For a long time, he didn’t move. He stayed above me, holding his weight, until his breathing evened. Then, with more care than ever, he withdrew and gathered me against him, my back to his chest, his arm a secure band across my stomach. My hip gave a muted protest at the shift, reminding me there was still healing to be done.

He felt me tense and immediately stilled. "Pain?"

I settled deeper into his warmth, the lingering pulses of pleasure drowning out the ache. "No," I sighed, utterly spent.

In the dark, his lips pressed softly against the nape of my neck. We didn’t speak. The evening had given us its words. Now, our bodies had written the rest.

Epilogue

JACK

Six months had a way of making impossible things feel wonderfully ordinary.

Thanksgiving had come and gone beneath Dad's roof, where far too much food disappeared from the table and nobody complained about leftovers because Ryan, Luca, Ben, and half the team seemed to materialize at one point or another.

Mason no longer walked with even the slightest trace of a limp. Dad laughed more than he had in years. I’d found my voice, and after the first few weeks of novelty wore away, speaking had quietly become another part of everyday life instead of the miracle all three of us still occasionally caught ourselves remembering.

Christmas had brought another first.

Mason and I flew to Florida with Dad, where Christmas gave us the chance to spend time with his family under far happier circumstances than our first meeting at the hospital after Mason's accident. His parents had welcomed me then, despite the fear surrounding all of us, but being invited into their home allowed me to know them properly instead of through anxious conversations beside a hospital bed.

Emma spent most of Christmas Day producing increasingly embarrassing stories from Mason's childhood, much to his disgust and everyone else's amusement, while Corey fitted into the gathering with the comfortable familiarity of someone who'd been part of Mason's life for years.

By the time we returned to Spokane, the two families that had first been brought together by one of the worst moments of our lives had shared something considerably better.

Now another season had almost reached its ending with the Frozen Four final game.

The Great Lakes Arena in Minneapolis vibrated beneath the noise of nearly twenty thousand people, every seat filled long before warmups ended. Evergreen green dominated one side of the building while the deep navy worn by the Lake Superior Mariners covered the other, both groups determined to drown one another out before the opening faceoff. Television cameras circled continuously above the ice, giant video screens replayed highlights from the tournament, and every few seconds another chant rolled around the arena before being answered by supporters wearing the opposite colors.

I sat in the section reserved for players' families with Mason's parents on one side of me and Emma on the other. Corey occupied the aisle seat, proudly wearing an Evergreen jersey he'd bought the moment he landed in Minneapolis despite spending three years playing and cheering for Gulf Coast University. Every so often he shook his head in disbelief when Mason's image appeared on the giant screen above center ice.

"I still remember him falling asleep halfway through biology because he'd been shooting pucks in his driveway before school," Corey muttered with a grin. "Now look at him."

Mason's father laughed quietly.

"I remember telling him he was going to wear himself out."

"And he ignored you?" I asked.

"He ignored both of us," Victoria replied fondly. "Some things never change."

Emma folded her arms and looked toward the ice where the Evergreen players completed their final skating drills.

"He's always been like that. Once Mason decided he wanted something, there wasn't much point trying to convince him otherwise."

"There still isn't," Corey agreed.

My attention drifted automatically toward the Evergreen bench.

Dad stood exactly where he'd stood hundreds of times before, one hand resting against the boards as Ryan listened intently to his final instructions. Calm surrounded Dad in a way I'd come to recognize over the past year. He never paced, never shouted unnecessarily, and prepared his players thoroughly enough that, by the time the puck dropped, there was nothing left to say except trust one another and play the game they'd practiced every day since September.

Beyond him, Mason circled with the first line. Watching him skate still filled me with gratitude.

Only months earlier I'd stood beside his hospital bed wondering whether he'd ever move across the ice with complete confidence again. Now there wasn't the slightest hesitation in his stride. Every crossover looked effortless, every turn carried the balance and strength he'd fought so hard to regain, and every time the puck touched his stick there seemed to be an expectation throughout the building that something extraordinary might happen. Despite missing almost three months with his injury, he'd returned strongly enough to finish as the highest scorer in college hockey, an achievement that had attracted serious attention from professional organizations throughout the second half of the season..

Half a dozen teams had made their interest clear by February and March, but Mason had never encouraged any of them beyond the professional courtesy they deserved. With another year of college hockey still ahead of him, there was no immediate pressure to decide where his professional career would begin, although he already knew which organization he hoped would eventually come calling. The Washington Icemen were the only team he was genuinely interested in joining because playing for them would allow him to pursue everything he'd worked toward without building his future hundreds or thousands of miles away from me. For now, his focus remained on Evergreen and the season ahead, but when the time eventually came to take the next step, he hoped Washington would give him the opportunity to take it without leaving me behind.

Tonight, though, none of that mattered. The future could wait because Evergreen still had sixty minutes of hockey standing between them and a national championship.