Page 95 of The Callahan Effect

"If Juneau says no contact, then no contact means exactly that. Anybody who forgets will answer to me," Coach announced at the beginning of practice.

Nobody needed reminding twice.

Ryan centered the first line as naturally as ever, Luca worked the opposite wing, and together we pushed through every drill at full speed. The pace matched game intensity, the passing remained sharp, and the timing we'd spent weeks rebuilding finally felt instinctive again. Every rush through the neutral zone reminded me why I'd missed hockey so desperately.

The only thing missing was contact.

Whenever I drove toward the net, the defensemen peeled away at the last second instead of finishing their checks. Battles along the boards became little more than carefully choreographed rehearsals because nobody wanted to risk clipping my hip. Even rebound drills changed. Players boxed one another out with their sticks instead of their bodies whenever I happened to be near the crease.

They were protecting me and I hated it.

Not because anyone was doing the wrong thing, but because every instinct I'd developed since childhood expected hockey to be played one way. The game demanded physical commitment. It demanded sacrifice. Every time someone eased away instead of leaning into me, I felt less like a player and more like a fragile piece of glass everyone had been instructed not to break.

Coach's whistle shrieked again.

"Reset!"

Ryan circled behind our defenseman, collected the puck, and accelerated through the neutral zone before sliding a perfect pass onto Luca's tape. Luca carried it wide, drew both defenders toward him, then feathered the puck into open ice exactly where I'd arrived at full speed. I gathered it cleanly, shifted my weight onto my outside edge, and snapped a wrist shot toward the top corner.

The puck exploded off the crossbar.

"So close," Ryan called.

I barely heard him. The release had been perfect. My stride felt strong. My balance had returned completely, and for the first time since the injury I wasn't thinking about my hip before every movement. My body finally trusted itself again. Now everyone else needed to.

Practice continued for another forty minutes before Coach finally blew the whistle one last time.

"That's enough."

Helmets disappeared. Gloves landed on the bench. Conversations immediately broke out around the rink as players compared drills, joked about missed chances, and argued over whether Oscar had robbed Ryan with a brilliant glove save or Ryan had simply missed the net altogether.

I remained near center ice for a few extra seconds, staring around the arena. I'd missed the place far more than I'd ever admitted.

Jack stood near the Zamboni entrance waiting for everyone to clear the ice. Graham stood beside him checking something on a clipboard before handing it over. Jack scanned the page, nodded, and handed it back before slipping his phone from his pocket.

The moment he noticed me watching, he smiled. It always did ridiculous things to me. I skated across to him, stopping beside the open gate before stepping carefully off the ice.

"There you are."

Jack rolled his eyes.

Where else would I be?

I laughed.

"Fair point."

Dad and you are coming to dinner tonight. Seven o'clock. Don't make other plans.

I frowned.

"Dinner?"

He nodded.

"What are we celebrating?"

You'll see.