Page 89 of The Callahan Effect

"See that you do."

He stepped back before turning to me.

"Look after him."

You don't have to tell me twice.

"No...I don't."

We stood together watching the town car with all three inside disappear beyond the line of trees bordering the campus road until it finally vanished from sight. Only then did Mason let out a long breath.

"I hate goodbyes."

I slipped my fingers through his and squeezed gently.

They're only a video call away.

"I know."

Life gradually settled into a routine neither of us had expected.

Every morning began with Mason's rehabilitation exercises before either of us headed to class. Between lectures I still reported to the arena, checking the ice plant, preparing the Zamboni, and resurfacing the ice before afternoon practices exactly as I'd done since I was fifteen. Dad had offered to find somebody else until life settled down, but the familiar routine gave me something solid to hold onto when everything else seemed to be changing.

By the time practice finished each evening, Mason and I would make another slow circuit of the campus because Dr. Juneau insisted gentle walking would rebuild both his strength and confidence. He complained constantly that everybody treated him as though he might shatter without warning, yet the frustration never stopped him completing every exercise exactly as prescribed. Beneath every complaint sat the same determination that made him such an exceptional hockey player. If recovering demanded discipline, then discipline was exactly what he intended to give it. The only disagreements between us had nothing to do with rehabilitation.

They happened whenever Mason decided feeling better automatically meant we could resume the physical side of our relationship.

More than once he pulled me down beside him on the bed after we'd finished studying, his kisses growing steadily more persuasive as his fingers wandered beneath my shirt. Every instinct inside me wanted to forget the surgeon's instructions and simply lose myself in him, yet the image of Dr. Juneau explaining exactly what another injury could do to the repaired muscles around his hip remained impossible to ignore.

Each time I stopped us and each time he protested.

One evening, after I redirected another increasingly enthusiastic kiss into nothing more adventurous than holding him in my arms, he leaned back against the headboard with an expression hovering somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

"You know my hip isn't connected to my mouth."

I grinned.

I'm aware of that.

"So why do I get the feeling you've appointed yourself guardian of my virtue?"

I reached for his hand before answering.

Because I love you too much to risk hurting you.

The teasing disappeared from his face immediately.

For several quiet moments he simply watched me before intertwining his fingers with mine.

"I love you too."

He leaned forward and kissed me again, slower this time, every bit as meaningful as anything we'd shared before his injury. Sometimes loving someone meant knowing exactly where to stop.

Three weeks passed more quickly than either of us realized, bringing us back to Providence Sacred Heart for Mason's next review with Dr. Juneau. After examining his hip, watching him walk, and assessing his strength, she finally cleared him to begin slow skating as part of his rehabilitation, making it abundantly clear that skating wasn't hockey and wouldn't become hockey for several more weeks.

While Mason followed the physical therapist toward the rehabilitation gym to discuss the next stage of his recovery, I found myself standing alone outside the elevator, staring at the illuminated numbers above the doors.

One floor higher, Dr. Nathaniel Kershaw was waiting. My appointment had arrived.