Chapter Three
MASON
The shrill buzz of my alarm shattered the silence at five o'clock, although judging by the restless night I'd endured, it hadn't interrupted much sleep.
Every time I'd drifted off, my mind had returned to the previous afternoon.
A new university. A new hockey program. Teammates whose names I'd memorized from the preseason roster but whose faces I'd soon have to learn.
Then, without warning, the image that kept returning wasn't Coach Callahan or the arena or even the campus.
It was the intriguing man driving the Zamboni.
I could still picture him gliding across the ice with effortless precision, completely absorbed in the task before him.
There had been something strangely captivating about the way he'd guided the huge machine around the ice as if performing a dance.
He hadn't turned to see whether anyone was watching, nor had he seemed interested in attracting attention.
He'd done his job before disappearing through the service corridor without looking back or speaking a single word.
I frowned at the memory while pulling on the Evergreen Red Cedars training gear Coach had instructed all of us to wear.
It was ridiculous that someone I'd never spoken to occupied any space in my thoughts, particularly on the morning our preseason retreat began.
If anything deserved my attention, it was the next five days.
I'd heard enough stories from a couple of returning players yesterday to know Coach Callahan treated the retreat as the true beginning of the season.
Whatever happened in the mountains apparently shaped the team long before the opening faceoff in October.
The residence hall was unusually silent as I made my way downstairs carrying an overnight bag in one hand and my hockey gear over the opposite shoulder.
Most students hadn't yet arrived on campus, leaving the pathways close to deserted apart from the occasional early riser crossing between dormitories.
A cool breeze filtered through the towering evergreens surrounding the university as I crossed the campus toward the arena.
The arena parking lot, however, was another matter entirely.
Players were arriving from all directions, vehicles pulling in one after another as equipment bags were hauled from truck beds and SUV cargo areas with the practiced efficiency that only hockey players seemed capable of managing.
Conversations overlapped across the lot, laughter erupting regularly as many of my teammates reunited after the summer break.
It struck me that this wasn't merely a collection of athletes preparing for training camp.
They genuinely seemed to enjoy one another's company, greeting each other with bear hugs, shoulder checks and insults that communicated affection far better than formal welcomes ever could.
"Mason!"
I lifted my head to find Oscar Niewald, one of the seniors, waving enthusiastically from beside one of the buses.
Even standing amongst a group of players, the towering goaltender dominated the scene through sheer size alone.
At six-foot-seven he made those around him appear several inches shorter, yet the broad grin spreading across his face gave him the approachable quality of an oversized Labrador rather than an intimidating athlete.
"You actually showed up," he called.
"I thought attendance was compulsory."
Oscar shrugged.
"It is."
"Then why are you surprised?"
"I wasn't sure transfer students could read emails."
Luca Moretti, standing beside him, groaned.
"He's been practicing that joke since yesterday."
"It deserved a better audience."
"It deserved no audience."
I laughed despite myself as I reached them.
"You always like this before breakfast?"
"Worse," Luca answered.
"He gets louder after coffee."
Oscar appeared genuinely offended.
"I have range."
"You certainly have volume."
Their effortless banter dissolved the lingering uncertainty I'd carried from yesterday.
Joining an established team always involved walking into friendships that had taken time to develop, yet nobody seemed interested in reminding me I was the newcomer.
Instead, conversations expanded to include me, questions about Florida giving way to discussions about classes, favorite road trips, and speculation over what Coach had planned for the retreat.
"I've heard rumors," Ethan Cruz announced dramatically as he wandered over balancing two coffees and an improbably large paper bag from a local bakery. "Apparently we're carrying logs this year."
"We've never carried logs," Ryan O'Connell replied.
"Always a first time."
Ben Walsh accepted a coffee from Ethan before looking at me.
"Ignore him."
"I was planning to."
"Good."
Oscar nodded approvingly.
"You're going to fit in just fine."
The side entrance to the arena opened before anyone could continue, and conversation gradually subsided as Coach Callahan walked toward us carrying nothing more than a clipboard and a stainless-steel travel mug.
He didn't whistle for attention or raise his voice.
He merely arrived, and the parking lot stilled around him until the only sounds came from birds beyond the trees and the distant rumble of another vehicle entering the lot.
His gaze moved deliberately across the group, checking faces rather than counting numbers.
"Morning."
A chorus of greetings answered him.
"I trust you all remembered the one instruction I gave you."
Oscar whispered, "Bring deodorant."
Luca Moretti elbowed him.
Coach either hadn't heard or chose to ignore the comment.
"If you packed more clothes than hockey gear, you're going to regret it."
A ripple of laughter spread through the players.
"For the next five days, your schedule belongs to us.
" He gestured toward the men and women standing beside him—the assistant coaches, athletic trainers, equipment staff, physical therapists, and strength coaches.
"Forget your phones. Forget social media.
Forget everything that usually competes for your attention. This retreat has one purpose."
He let the silence settle over the group before continuing.
"Building a hockey team."
His gaze lingered on the newcomers.
"When you arrived this morning, you were talented hockey players wearing the same jersey. By the time we return to campus, I expect you to be teammates."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"Some of you arrive with impressive statistics.
Others arrive carrying expectations. None of that matters once we leave this parking lot.
Every season starts the same way. Nobody has earned a place.
Nobody has earned ice time. Nobody has earned the right to wear an Evergreen Red Cedars sweater just because of what they accomplished somewhere else. "
The words weren't directed solely at me, yet I felt their weight all the same.
"If you're willing to work for the player beside you instead of yourself, this retreat will probably become your favorite memory of college hockey."
A faint smile appeared.
"If you aren't..."
He shrugged.
"Long weekend."
Several veterans chuckled knowingly.
Coach glanced toward the buses.
"Load your gear. We leave in ten minutes."
The group broke apart with the efficiency of people who'd completed the routine many times before.
Equipment bags disappeared into the luggage bays beneath the buses while sticks were slid into the long storage compartments beside them, conversations continuing without anyone needing direction.
I hoisted my equipment aboard before climbing the steps into the bus, pausing briefly to glance back toward the arena.
The doors remained closed, the arena silent in the early morning light. I held my gaze there for a second longer than I needed to before climbing aboard.
Then the bus engine rumbled to life, Evergreen slowly disappeared behind us, and whatever waited over the coming days became the only thing any of us could think about.
The first hour of the journey passed quickly as the city gradually gave way to rolling farmland before the landscape transformed into towering forests that seemed to stretch endlessly toward distant mountain peaks.
I settled into the window seat beside Luca, content to watch the scenery unfold while conversations ebbed and flowed throughout the bus.
Now and then someone wandered down the aisle to borrow headphones, steal a packet of chips, or become the target of some practical joke that had apparently begun years earlier and showed no signs of ending.
The atmosphere fascinated me. At Gulf Coast University, players had certainly gotten along, but friendships had tended to form in small groups.
There had been the Canadians, the local Florida guys and those who lived off campus with girlfriends.
Here, the lines seemed blurred. Ryan O'Connell, the team captain, was just as likely to be laughing with a freshman as he was with another senior, while Oscar appeared determined to make every player on the bus smile before we reached our destination.
Whatever Coach Callahan had built over the past several years extended far beyond systems and tactics.
It was impossible to spend an hour in this environment without realizing the players genuinely enjoyed being together.
Luca must have noticed me studying everyone because he smiled without taking his eyes from the road ahead.
"Takes a little getting used to, doesn't it?"
"What does?"
"The fact nobody sits in the same seat for more than twenty minutes."
As if determined to prove his point, Oscar abandoned his place near the front of the bus and squeezed into the empty seat across the aisle.
"I bring important news."
Luca sighed dramatically.
"Already?"
"I've completed extensive research."
"You've been asleep."
"I dreamt about the research."
Luca shrugged at me.
"This is what we deal with."
Oscar ignored him completely.
"I've concluded Coach is getting soft."