Page 68 of The Callahan Effect

"You get this little crease between your eyebrows."

I raised one finger to the spot in question.

You notice everything.

"I notice you."

The simple reply settled deep inside me.

"I've been worried about Corey," he admitted. "I keep hoping he'll call when he's ready, but every day that goes by makes me wonder if he isn't going to call at all."

I rested my hand lightly against his forearm until he looked at me.

You've given him time to understand. The next step belongs to him.

"I know."

He exhaled through his nose and glanced toward the locker room entrance where the rest of the team had already disappeared.

"I just miss my best friend."

There wasn't a message I could type capable of fixing that. Instead, I squeezed his hand once before letting go. He understood exactly what I meant.

The shrill blast of Dad's whistle echoed down the corridor, signaling that warmup preparations were beginning. Mason adjusted the strap across his shoulder, gave me one last look that lingered just long enough to say what neither of us could risk expressing in public, then headed toward the locker room without another word.

I remained where I was until the door closed behind him.

Only then did I turn back toward the ice, hoping the next few hours would give him something else to think about besides the friend who still hadn't found his way back. He needed his head in the game.

***

The giant video board cycled through its final pregame sequence as the arena lights dimmed, plunging the building into near darkness before brilliant white spotlights swept slowly across the ice. Thousands of phones lit the stands like scattered stars while the public-address announcer welcomed everyone to another season of Evergreen hockey. The anticipation building throughout the crowd had become almost tangible, the sort of electricity that seemed to vibrate beneath the roof before a single puck had been dropped.

Standing near the resurfacer entrance, ready to climb onto the Zamboni between periods, I found myself smiling despite the nervous energy that had followed me throughout the afternoon. Hockey had always possessed that effect on people. Complete strangers arrived carrying different worries, different jobs, and different lives, yet for the next few hours they would all become part of something much larger than themselves. The arena transformed into its own small world, bound together by shared hope, superstition, and the belief that tonight might become one of those games people talked about for years afterward.

My thoughts drifted somewhere entirely unexpected.

When I was five, Dad had taken me to one of those enormous traveling ice skating shows that had stopped in Spokane for a weekend. I remembered almost nothing about the story itself, but one image had remained with me ever since. A huge bear had skated into the spotlight as though the entire performance depended on him, waving enthusiastically to the crowd before pretending to lose his balance and spinning into an exaggerated recovery that had children laughing so hard they could barely stay in their seats. Dad had laughed just as much as I had, and afterward he'd bought me a stuffed bear wearing tiny red hockey skates that still sat on the shelf in my bedroom.

Looking back, I realized it hadn't really been about the show at all.

It had been about sharing an evening with Dad before life became more complicated than either of us could have imagined. Sometimes the memories that stayed with us weren't the dramatic ones. They were the ordinary moments that became precious.

The house lights brightened again as the visiting team completed its introduction, and the arena announcer's voice rose another notch in anticipation.

"Ladies and gentlemen...your Evergreen Red Cedars!"

The response shook the building.

Players burst through the tunnel one after another beneath flashes of green and silver light, sticks raised toward the crowd as the student section answered each introduction with deafening approval. Ryan emerged first as captain, followed by the defensive pairings, the remaining forwards, the newcomers, and finally Mason. His introduction generated another roar that rolled around the arena before gradually settling into a rhythmic chant of his name.

He skated a slow circle through the neutral zone before glancing toward my end of the rink. He lifted his stick a fraction. It was such a small gesture that nobody else would have noticed but I did.

I returned the tiniest nod.

Then the officials called both teams toward center ice, the music faded, and the opening night of another season finally began.

From the opening faceoff between Ryan and the Portland captain it became obvious the Northern Wolves intended to impose themselves physically. Each trip through the neutral zone came with stick lifts, hooks that flirted with penalties, and heavy shoulders finishing every check they could. They weren't interested in matching the Red Cedars' speed. Their entire game plan centered on slowing Evergreen down, forcing turnovers along the boards, and turning the contest into a grinding sixty-minute battle.