Page 27 of The Callahan Effect

Throughout the entire practice, however, I remained aware of something else.

Every time our line rotated back to the bench or I glanced toward the far side of the arena between drills, I found Jack watching the ice. Not constantly, and not obviously enough that anyone else would likely notice, but often enough that I became conscious of it. Whenever our eyes happened to meet, he didn't turn away immediately. Instead, he'd hold my gaze for a second or two which made my heartbeat stumble every single time.

Instead, I found myself wondering whether Jack was watching the practice...

...or whether he was watching me.

By the time Coach finally called us together at center ice, my legs were burning in a way that only the first full practice of a new season could produce.

Sweat soaked through the base layer beneath my equipment, every muscle reminded me I'd spent the better part of two hours skating at full intensity, and despite the exhaustion I couldn't remember enjoying a practice more. Coach hadn't wasted a single minute. Every drill had served a purpose, every correction had been immediate, and every assistant coach had reinforced the same message—that talent might earn an opportunity, but only disciplined execution would earn ice time once the regular season began. There wasn't a player standing around me who looked anything other than physically spent, yet nobody appeared eager to leave the ice. If anything, the atmosphere carried a sense of satisfaction because we'd all learned something.

Coach removed his whistle before addressing us. "There were plenty of positives today. The effort was where I expect it to be, and I liked the pace once we settled into the drills. That doesn't mean we're anywhere near where we need to be. We gave away too many pucks entering the offensive zone, our defensive coverage broke down when pressure increased, and some of you are still thinking instead of reacting. That changes with repetition. Hockey is played at a speed that doesn't allow hesitation."

He slowly looked around the circle, making certain every player understood he expected complete attention.

"Brooks."

"Coach?"

"You've settled in well. Ryan and Luca communicate constantly. Listen to them. They're making your transition easier, but I also expect you to contribute. Don't become a passenger because you're learning a new system. You've got the instincts to create offense. Trust them."

"I will, Coach."

Coach turned his attention toward the rest of the forwards.

"The first line showed flashes of exactly what I want this season. Your puck movement improved every period we practiced together. Keep building on that chemistry because good lines become dangerous when they stop thinking as individuals."

Ryan glanced in my direction and gave a small nod before turning his attention back to Coach. I returned it instinctively, realizing how much easier he'd made my first practice. He'd communicated constantly throughout every drill, pointed me into open ice before I recognized the opportunity myself, and never once made me feel like the outsider stepping onto the program's top line.

Plenty of established players might have resented a transfer arriving and immediately skating beside them, but Ryan seemed interested only in building the strongest line possible. The success of the team clearly mattered far more to him than protecting his own status, and I understood why Coach had trusted him with the captaincy.

Coach spent several minutes discussing details from the morning before dismissing us with instructions to report back for video analysis after lunch. The instant the whistle sounded, the atmosphere relaxed. Players moved toward the benches, conversations replacing the intense concentration that had dominated the ice throughout practice.

Oscar was already teasing Ryan about one of the saves he'd made during the final scrimmage, insisting the captain's shot had looked far more impressive in Ryan's imagination than it had in reality. Ryan answered by threatening to score five on him tomorrow, which only encouraged the rest of the team to join the conversation.

I climbed over the boards and removed my helmet, running one hand through my damp hair before reaching for a towel. As I wiped the sweat from my face, I found myself glancing automatically toward the far end of the rink.

Jack was gone. Disappointment surprised me with its intensity. I told myself he had work to do, yet the arena felt a little emptier without him.

I was halfway through removing my gloves when movement near the Zamboni entrance caught my attention.

Jack had returned and was standing beside the equipment area listening as Graham Foster discussed something displayed on the tablet between them. Graham pointed toward one of the storage racks before making another note, and Jack nodded in acknowledgment.

Jack's attention turned toward the players leaving the ice. The instant our eyes met, his face brightened. It wasn't a broad grin or an overly familiar greeting, just a genuine warmth that made it feel as though he was pleased to see me.

I found myself smiling back as I stripped off my gloves and helmet before making my way toward the boards, waiting until Graham had finished speaking before stepping closer.

Jack excused himself with a polite gesture toward Graham and reached into the pocket of his hoodie for his phone.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Jack shook his head before typing a short message. A second later he turned the screen toward me.

Congratulations on your first practice.

"Thanks. It felt good to finally get on the ice with everyone. Ryan and Luca made the adjustment a lot easier than I expected."

We stood watching the last of the players head toward the locker room. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. If anything, it seemed surprisingly easy, neither of us feeling any urgency to fill it. Jack didn't appear self-conscious because he couldn't speak, and I found myself forgetting that our conversations would always be a little different. His expressions and the occasional message on his phone said everything that needed saying. I glanced toward the locker room before looking back at him.