Page 50 of The Callahan Effect

Dad gave everyone another minute to finish warming up before finally raising the whistle to his lips. One sharp blast echoed around the arena, bringing the players together at center ice until every conversation faded and every eye settled on him.

"Circle up."

As everyone gathered around Dad, Ryan leaned toward Mason with an unmistakable grin.

"Watch this."

I pushed away from the boards and skated toward the group, conscious of the familiar curiosity that always accompanied times like this. The returning players already knew why Dad had called me onto the ice. Mason, judging by the look on his face, had absolutely no idea what was about to happen.

Dad folded his arms as I came to a stop beside him. "Some of you are still giving away too much speed coming out of your backward transitions through the neutral zone. Jack's going to demonstrate."

I pushed away from the group with an easy stride, letting the blades settle beneath me before allowing my speed to build.

The first few strides carried me effortlessly across the defensive zone before I lengthened them, allowing momentum to build naturally beneath me. Within seconds the boards began sliding past in my peripheral vision, every crossover blending into the next until it felt less like skating and more like floating across perfectly prepared ice.

Reaching the far blue line, I rotated smoothly onto my backward edges without sacrificing the slightest trace of speed. My hips opened before my feet followed, shoulders remained level, and weight settled exactly where experience had taught me it belonged. Another sweeping arc carried me through center ice before I pivoted again, returning to forward skating as cleanly as I had left it.

The rink remained silent.

When I glanced in Dad's direction he ordered, "Again."

This time I reduced my speed, exaggerating each movement so everyone could follow the mechanics instead of just watching the result. After completing the transition once more, I pointed toward my hips, then my knees, before tapping the inside edge of one skate.

Dad addressed the players.

"Jack is explaining that everybody watches their feet first. That's the mistake. Your hips control everything. Open them early and your feet will follow. Fight the rotation and you'll bleed speed every time."

One after another the players took their turn in practicing what I'd demonstrated, each receiving only the correction they actually needed. Some required a slight adjustment to their posture. Others were opening their hips too late or placing too much weight on their inside edges before beginning the rotation.

"Brooks," Dad called.

Mason skated toward me when everyone else had taken their turn. His expression carried equal parts curiosity and determination. I watched him complete the drill and only after the second attempt did I move alongside him.

Resting my fingertips lightly against his lower back, I encouraged him to begin the rotation earlier before sliding my hand to his hip to show him exactly where the movement should originate. Finally, I crouched slightly and tapped the outside edge of his left skate before pointing down the length of the rink.

Understanding flashed across his face.

"I think I've got it."

He accelerated backward before initiating the turn exactly where I'd indicated.

The improvement was obvious.

Instead of forcing the transition, his entire body rotated as a single fluid movement. His skates bit cleanly into the ice and he exploded forward carrying noticeably more speed than he had only seconds earlier.

He circled back toward me wearing the broadest grin I'd seen since we'd met.

"You're brilliant, Jack. That felt completely different."

I returned his smile and lifted an enthusiastic thumbs-up. The noise of the arena, the rest of the team, and even Dad's voice faded into the background. All either of us seemed to notice was the other.

Practice continued for another ninety minutes as Dad pointed out errors from the Inland Northwest game, every player trying to incorporate the adjustments into transition drills before moving into battle exercises, line rushes, and special teams.

Dad kept the pace high from beginning to end, stopping only when he wanted to reinforce a teaching point before sending everyone straight back into the next exercise. By the time the final whistle echoed around the arena, every jersey was soaked through with sweat despite the cold air surrounding the ice.

The players drifted toward the locker room in small groups, already replaying drills and arguing over who had performed the worst when trying to imitate my transitions. Mason slowed beside me before glancing toward Dad, who remained near the benches discussing something with Nolan Pierce.

"I think we should do it now."