Chapter Fourteen
MASON
By the time October surrendered to November, I had become thoroughly sick of being patient.
For nearly two months my life had revolved around timetables created by other people.
Dr. Juneau decided when I no longer needed the walking frame and could trust my hip to support me without it.
The physical therapists decided how far I could push before stopping.
Coach determined which practices I attended and which I watched from the stands, and every time I thought I was finally making meaningful progress, someone reminded me that recovery wasn't measured by how good I felt but by how well my body had actually healed.
I understood every reason but that didn't make living with them any easier.
The trainer's whistle echoed across the rink as the Red Cedars flowed through another transition drill, sticks snapping crisp passes tape-to-tape while skates carved clean arcs into the fresh ice Jack had prepared before sunrise.
During the previous week Dr. Juneau had finally cleared me for full skating, although body contact remained completely off-limits until my next review in two weeks.
Coach had accepted her instructions without argument and made certain every player understood them.
"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.
"That isn't an answer."
His grin widened just enough to tell me he had absolutely no intention of explaining himself.
I folded my arms.
"You know I hate surprises."
He looked entirely unapologetic.
I know.
"You're enjoying this."
A shrug.
"You really aren't going to tell me?"
Jack slipped the phone into his pocket, shook his head, then reached over and squeezed my forearm before heading toward the equipment room.
That was it. No explanation. No clues. Just an invitation and a look that somehow managed to make me even more curious.
Coach appeared beside me a moment later carrying his clipboard.
"What was that about?"
"Dinner."
He frowned.
"Dinner?"
"Apparently we're both expected at your place at seven."
"He didn't tell you why?"
I shook my head.
"Not a word."
Coach chuckled.
"He's stubborn."
"I've noticed."
"He gets that from me."
"I was going to say exactly the same thing."
Coach laughed as we walked toward the locker room.
"Well, whatever he's planning, we'd better not be late."
"I don't think it's optional."
"It probably isn't."
The rest of the afternoon crawled by with agonizing slowness.
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.