Page 97 of The Callahan Effect

I attended my final lecture, completed every rehabilitation exercise my physical therapist insisted remained essential, and even managed to read through two chapters of kinesiology without remembering more than a paragraph of either. Every few minutes my thoughts wandered back to Jack and whatever surprise he'd decided required both Coach and me sitting around the same dinner table.

He wasn't usually mysterious.

If anything, we'd reached the point where very little remained unsaid between us. We spent most of our free time together, studied together almost every evening, and knew each other's routines well enough that neither of us needed to ask where the other would be. The fact he was deliberately keeping something from me only made my imagination work overtime.

By the time seven o'clock approached, I'd convinced myself of half a dozen possibilities but none of them felt quite right.

Whatever Jack had planned, he'd managed something I hadn't thought possible. For the first time all day, I'd stopped thinking about hockey.

***

The November evening had turned crisp by the time I crossed campus toward Coach's house.

A light breeze stirred the last stubborn leaves still clinging to the maple trees lining the sidewalks, sending the occasional one tumbling across the pavement ahead of me. Students wandered between residence halls wrapped in hoodies and jackets, their conversations carrying faintly through the cooling air, but I barely noticed them. My thoughts kept circling back to Jack's mysterious invitation.

He wasn't usually secretive. If he wanted to tell me something, he told me. If something bothered him, I normally knew before the day ended. We'd reached that comfortable stage where silence never felt awkward because we'd learned to read one another without needing constant conversation. That made tonight even stranger.

The front door opened before I reached the porch and Jack stood waiting for me, one hand still resting on the handle. The moment our eyes met, his expression softened into the smile that had become my favorite welcome after any day apart.

He stepped forward without hesitation, slipped one hand gently around the back of my neck, and kissed me. It wasn't hurried or self-conscious. It was simply the kind of kiss that came naturally now, warm, familiar, and reassuring enough to chase away every lingering frustration from another day of restricted practice.

When we finally drew apart, his fingertips lingered against my skin for another heartbeat before he took my hand and led me inside.

The familiar warmth of the Callahan house settled around me immediately.

Rich aromas drifted from the kitchen, carrying the unmistakable scent of garlic, rosemary, slow-roasted beef, and freshly baked bread. Somewhere deeper in the house, soft instrumental music played quietly enough to create atmosphere without demanding attention, while warm golden light spilled from the dining room, making the entire place feel welcoming in a way that had nothing to do with the food.

Jack gave my hand a gentle squeeze before disappearing toward the kitchen without offering a single explanation, leaving me standing in the hallway more intrigued than ever.

I wandered through to the dining room and stopped dead.

The table had been set with obvious care. Cream-colored placemats rested beneath matching dinner plates, polished cutlery gleamed beneath the overhead light, and neatly folded cloth napkins waited beside each place setting. A simple arrangement of autumn flowers surrounded by three flickering candles occupied the center of the polished timber table, giving the room an intimacy that felt completely unlike our usual dinners together.

Jack emerged from the kitchen carrying a large serving platter and placed it carefully in the center of the table before disappearing again.

The aroma intensified immediately.

Thick slices of herb-crusted roast beef rested beside crisp roasted potatoes glistening with butter and herbs. Roasted carrots, asparagus, honey-glazed pumpkin, and green beans surrounded the meat, while a jug of rich gravy sat warming beside a basket lined with a checked cloth that concealed fresh bread rolls.

I stared. Jack had always been a good cook. I'd known that since the first meal we'd shared together, but this belonged in an entirely different league.

Coach wandered in a moment later and came to exactly the same abrupt halt.

"Well..."

I glanced across at him.

"That was pretty much my reaction."

His gaze traveled slowly over the table before settling on the roast.

"I'd say something's definitely going on."

"I was thinking exactly the same thing."

Before either of us could speculate any further, Jack returned carrying a large salad bowl filled with crisp greens, cherry tomatoes, cucumber, feta, toasted pine nuts, dried cranberries, and thinly sliced red onion. He placed it beside the roast, followed it with a bottle of sparkling apple cider, filled each of our glasses, then gestured toward the chairs with an expression that revealed absolutely nothing.

Coach pulled out his chair.