The Callahan Effect (Evergreen University Red Cedars Hockey)

Chapter One

MASON

The captain announced our descent into Spokane just as I closed the textbook resting on the tray table in front of me.

I'd spent most of the flight from Minneapolis attempting to revise muscle physiology, although I couldn't honestly claim much of it had stayed in my head.

Between leaving Florida for the first time in my life and wondering whether I'd made the biggest decision of my twenty-one years wisely, concentration had become an impossible goal.

Every page I'd read dissolved beneath thoughts of what lay ahead, leaving me staring out the window at a landscape unlike anything I'd ever called home.

Florida stretched flat in all directions, the horizon broken only by high-rise apartments, bridges, and swaying palms. Washington looked as though someone had sculpted it with impossible patience.

Mountains rose in the distance, their dark green slopes catching the afternoon sunlight and lakes reflected the sky like polished glass.

Even from several thousand feet in the air, the sheer size of the city below made me feel remarkably small.

I wasn't usually intimidated by new experiences.

Hockey had taken me across the country often enough to dull the novelty of airports and unfamiliar hotels, but traveling for tournaments bore little resemblance to relocating my entire life.

Those trips always ended with a flight home.

This one ended with a residence hall, a new team, professors who had never heard my name outside a recruiting report and a coach who had made it abundantly clear that reputation counted for nothing once training camp began.

Entering the transfer portal after my sophomore season had been the hardest decision I'd made since leaving home for college. Looking back, Coach Patrick Callahan's honesty convinced me I'd made the right decision.

Leaving Gulf Coast University hadn't been an easy decision.

The program had given me the chance to establish myself as one of the country's premier collegiate forwards.

Two All-American selections, a conference scoring title, and a reputation as the hardest legal hitter in college hockey had ensured I wasn't short of options.

I'd formed friendships that would last a lifetime and I'd played some of the best hockey of my career wearing its colors.

Walking away had never been about dissatisfaction.

It had been about recognizing that opportunities capable of changing a player's future rarely presented themselves twice.

Within days of my name appearing in the portal, coaches from across the country began calling.

Some promised immediate top-line minutes.

Others spoke confidently about building their offense around me, as though moving a few magnets across a whiteboard guaranteed championships.

One coach spent the better part of an hour explaining exactly how many goals he expected me to score if I committed to his program.

By the time the conversation ended, I knew he'd learned nothing about the person sitting on the other end of the phone.

Coach Patrick Callahan approached things differently.

A three-time Stanley Cup champion, he'd taken Evergreen to eight Frozen Four finals, emerging as national champions in five of them.

His reputation commanded respect long before he ever introduced himself, yet he never tried to impress me with promises or statistics.

Instead, he flew to Florida, sat across from me in a conference room overlooking Gulf Coast's practice rink and spoke with a level of honesty I'd encountered only rarely throughout the recruitment process.

"I've watched every shift you've played over the past two seasons, Mason.

You already know you can play this game.

That's not why I'm here. I'm here because I think you've still got another level in you, and I believe Evergreen is the place you'll find it.

If you want someone to promise you easy minutes, I'm wasting your time.

If you want to earn everything you get, we'd like you wearing our jersey. "

There had been no glossy presentation, no exaggerated claims, and no attempt to flatter my ego.

He outlined Evergreen's expectations, the standard he demanded from all players who pulled on the jersey and the opportunities available both on the ice and in the classroom.

The meeting lasted less than thirty minutes, yet by the time I walked back to my car I knew my decision had already been made.

Evergreen offered everything I wanted. The hockey program consistently attracted NHL scouts, competed for national championships, and demanded excellence every day.

Just as importantly, its kinesiology program ranked among the best in the country, particularly for students intending to pursue sports medicine and athletic rehabilitation.

Playing in the NHL remained my goal, but I'd spent enough years around professional sports to understand that even the brightest careers could change in a single shift.

Preparing for life beyond the game wasn't admitting defeat.

It was respecting how quickly fortunes could change while giving myself every opportunity to succeed, whatever the future held.

The aircraft banked, offering a wider view of Spokane as neighborhoods, rivers and roads came into focus beneath us.

Somewhere among those streets stood the campus that would become home.

Inside its arena waited teammates I hadn't yet met, coaches who would decide whether I deserved a place in their lineup and a future I couldn't begin to picture.

I rubbed a hand across the back of my neck, releasing tension I hadn't realized I'd been carrying.

If there was one person who understood exactly how conflicted I felt, it was Corey. My unfortunately very straight best friend. The unfortunate part was that he's straight, not that he's my best friend. The man was fucking gorgeous.

We'd met in seventh grade after discovering we were the only two kids willing to arrive at the rink before dawn for extra skating sessions.

Friendship had developed from there, strengthened through years of shared locker rooms, bus trips, and enough early-morning practices to convince both our parents we were slightly insane.

People often assumed we were brothers. The resemblance ended with our height.

Corey possessed sandy blond hair that never behaved and a personality capable of filling any room.

He collected friends with ridiculous ease, remembered birthdays without reminders, and managed to make complete strangers laugh within minutes of meeting them.

Standing beside him had always suited me because he enjoyed the spotlight while I preferred observing the people around us.

We had begun our university careers together in Florida, both wearing the same jersey but chasing very different futures.

Hockey had helped him earn an education he might otherwise have struggled to afford, and once graduation arrived, he intended hanging up his skates and beginning the engineering career he'd planned since high school.

I admired him for knowing exactly where his future lay.

Mine had always been written on a sheet of ice.

Hockey wasn't something I was a natural at playing, but it had become part of who I was before I was old enough to understand the sacrifices it demanded.

Every early morning training session, missed family gathering, injury, and victory had been driven by one goal.

I wanted to play in the National Hockey League, and I intended taking every opportunity to make that happen.

Corey never tried to persuade me to stay. Real friendship didn't demand sacrifices that large. Instead, he helped me pack my dorm room, drove me to the airport, and reminded me that genuine friendships aren't measured in miles.

Even so, saying goodbye at Tampa International Airport earlier in the day had proved unexpectedly difficult.

Corey had wrapped me in a hug hard enough to crack ribs before stepping back with the grin I'd known for nearly two thirds of my life.

"You'd better not become one of those guys who forgets the people he knew before fame."

"I'll still answer your calls."

"Damn right you will."

"You're assuming hockey will make me famous."

"I'm assuming if you keep playing the way you have, it won't be long before people know who you are and your ugly mug will be plastered on billboards."

I rolled my eyes and Corey grew unexpectedly serious.

"I'm proud of you, Mase."

Four simple words.

They'd carried far more weight than he probably realized.

Leaving him behind hadn't been the hardest part because we wouldn't remain friends. I knew without doubt we always would be no matter what paths we followed. No. It hurt because we'd never lived more than thirty minutes apart.

For the first time since childhood, I was stepping into a chapter of my life where my closest friend wouldn't be there to witness it and be there to catch me if I fell.

My phone rested in the pocket of my jeans, undoubtedly holding another message wishing me luck, probably accompanied by some ridiculous meme intended to stop me taking everything so seriously.

I'd read it after we landed.

For now, I watched the mountains drawing closer, wondering how long it would take before Washington stopped feeling like a place I was visiting and began feeling like home.

There was another truth I hadn't shared with Corey. Not because I doubted him. Never that. He would have accepted me without hesitation. I hadn't found the courage to say the words aloud.