Page 2 of The Callahan Effect

Evergreen offered everything I wanted. The hockey program consistently attracted NHL scouts, competed for national championships, and demanded excellence every day. Just as importantly, its kinesiology program ranked among the best in the country, particularly for students intending to pursue sports medicine and athletic rehabilitation.

Playing in the NHL remained my goal, but I'd spent enough years around professional sports to understand that even the brightest careers could change in a single shift. Preparing for life beyond the game wasn't admitting defeat. It was respecting how quickly fortunes could change while giving myself every opportunity to succeed, whatever the future held.

The aircraft banked, offering a wider view of Spokane as neighborhoods, rivers and roads came into focus beneath us. Somewhere among those streets stood the campus that would become home. Inside its arena waited teammates I hadn't yet met, coaches who would decide whether I deserved a place in their lineup and a future I couldn't begin to picture.

I rubbed a hand across the back of my neck, releasing tension I hadn't realized I'd been carrying.

If there was one person who understood exactly how conflicted I felt, it was Corey. My unfortunately very straight best friend. The unfortunate part was that he's straight, not that he's my best friend. The man was fucking gorgeous.

We'd met in seventh grade after discovering we were the only two kids willing to arrive at the rink before dawn for extra skating sessions. Friendship had developed from there, strengthened through years of shared locker rooms, bus trips, and enough early-morning practices to convince both our parents we were slightly insane.

People often assumed we were brothers. The resemblance ended with our height. Corey possessed sandy blond hair that never behaved and a personality capable of filling any room. He collected friends with ridiculous ease, remembered birthdays without reminders, and managed to make complete strangers laugh within minutes of meeting them. Standing beside him had always suited me because he enjoyed the spotlight while I preferred observing the people around us.

We had begun our university careers together in Florida, both wearing the same jersey but chasing very different futures. Hockey had helped him earn an education he might otherwise have struggled to afford, and once graduation arrived, he intended hanging up his skates and beginning the engineering career he'd planned since high school. I admired him for knowing exactly where his future lay. Mine had always been written on a sheet of ice.

Hockey wasn't something I was a natural at playing, but it had become part of who I was before I was old enough to understand the sacrifices it demanded. Every early morning training session, missed family gathering, injury, and victory had been driven by one goal. I wanted to play in the National Hockey League, and I intended taking every opportunity to make that happen.

Corey never tried to persuade me to stay. Real friendship didn't demand sacrifices that large. Instead, he helped me pack my dorm room, drove me to the airport, and reminded me that genuine friendships aren't measured in miles.

Even so, saying goodbye at Tampa International Airport earlier in the day had proved unexpectedly difficult.

Corey had wrapped me in a hug hard enough to crack ribs before stepping back with the grin I'd known for nearly two thirds of my life.

"You'd better not become one of those guys who forgets the people he knew before fame."

"I'll still answer your calls."

"Damn right you will."

"You're assuming hockey will make me famous."

"I'm assuming if you keep playing the way you have, it won't be long before people know who you are and your ugly mug will be plastered on billboards."

I rolled my eyes and Corey grew unexpectedly serious.

"I'm proud of you, Mase."

Four simple words.

They'd carried far more weight than he probably realized.

Leaving him behind hadn't been the hardest part because we wouldn't remain friends. I knew without doubt we always would be no matter what paths we followed. No. It hurt because we'd never lived more than thirty minutes apart.

For the first time since childhood, I was stepping into a chapter of my life where my closest friend wouldn't be there to witness it and be there to catch me if I fell.

My phone rested in the pocket of my jeans, undoubtedly holding another message wishing me luck, probably accompanied by some ridiculous meme intended to stop me taking everything so seriously.

I'd read it after we landed.

For now, I watched the mountains drawing closer, wondering how long it would take before Washington stopped feeling like a place I was visiting and began feeling like home.

There was another truth I hadn't shared with Corey. Not because I doubted him. Never that. He would have accepted me without hesitation. I hadn't found the courage to say the words aloud.

Realizing I was gay hadn't arrived with some dramatic revelation. It had crept silently into my life over several years until denying it became impossible. Keeping that knowledge private had seemed easier than risking awkward conversations, endless questions or becoming known for something that had absolutely nothing to do with the person I worked so hard to become.

Perhaps Evergreen would remain another place where the secret stayed locked safely away. Or perhaps, three thousand miles from everyone who'd known me since childhood, I'd finally discover what it felt like to stop hiding. I honestly didn't know which possibility frightened me more.

When the aircraft door opened, cool air wafted through the cabin, carrying with it a scent so different from the humid saltiness of Florida that I drew a deeper breath. It smelled clean, sharp, as though the mountains surrounding the city filtered everything before allowing it to settle over Spokane. By the time I stepped into the terminal, I already understood why people spoke so passionately about the Pacific Northwest. Everything was brighter, the afternoon sunlight reflecting through the enormous glass windows that overlooked the tarmac, while beyond the airport I could still make out the dark outline of forests stretching toward the distant peaks.