AN: For of those you who don't know, this story was originally posted in 2010. It was then more or less abandoned for several years. I came back to it in 2017 and re-wrote and re-updated all of the chapters. Apologies to those who have been reading from the beginning lol.

DISCLAIMER: I'm not in any way affiliated with movie Miracle or Disney, I own nothing, and am not making any money off this. I don't think I have to say this but just to be safe, I want to make it clear that this story is 100% fiction. I know nothing about any of the 1980 players' families or personal lives (beyond the basic info that's been shared with the public), other than what I'm writing is far from the truth. I don't really see this as a fanfic about any real people; rather it's a fanfic about the characters in Miracle, which of course we know was not entirely accurate either. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

I walked out of the sweltering July heat and into the lobby of my apartment building. The trek home from work had me sweating but instead of going upstairs to change I made a beeline for the mailroom, as I had been doing everyday for months. I unlocked the metal mail box labeled: O'CALLAHAN. I'd applied to the University of Minnesota way back in January and had yet to hear anything back. I was starting to get anxious because the first Olympic hockey practice was right around the corner.

I sorted through junk mail and bills until I flipped over an envelope with a return address from Minnesota. I dropped the rest of the mail in my haste to open it, and scanned it just quickly enough to read the words happy to inform and congratulations on your acceptance.

"Yes!" I couldn't help exclaim.

I had been agonizing over this ever since my older brother Jack and three of my closest friends had been invited to tryout for Olympic hockey team, so much so that it almost overtook my excitement for them. Before that, actually; ever since we heard that the team was most likely going to be based out of Minneapolis. Jack, Dave Silk, Jim Craig, and Mike Eruzione were all going to be spending the year in Minnesota to train for the 1980 winter games. Which meant I would be spending my senior year in Boston completely alone. I was estranged from both of my parents and Jack was my only family. As for Jim and Mike—I'd known both of them for four years, ever since my brother started going to Boston University. Dave and I had been best friends since we met our freshman year. I knew how much the Olympics meant to all of them. No way was I going to spend it halfway across the country and not witness it with my own eyes.

Too excited to wait for the elevator, I ran up four flights of stairs to the apartment Jack and I shared without stopping even though I tripped several times. Maybe I'd had too much coffee that morning. I threw open the door, slammed it closed, and leaned against it while I tried to catch my breath.

Jack, sitting on the sofa watching Happy Days, did nothing in response to my dramatic entry except slowly raise one eyebrow and ask: "Running from the fuzz?"

"No, I'm just excited," I panted, waving my acceptance letter around.

"What's that?"

I hadn't wanted to tell Jack, not right away at least. When the head of the culinary arts department at BU told me that I might want to transfer because they didn't have the best program, I didn't even consider it. I didn't want to leave Boston where I was born and raised and thought was probably the best place on earth. More importantly, Jack and I were really close. With our tumultuous childhood, I didn't think we could not have become as close as we were. We were sort of forced to take care of each other and had been doing do as long as I could remember. I knew my brother would be completely lost without me. He didn't even know it and he was a year older than me, but it was true. I didn't want him to think I was transferring solely to be with him during the Olympics; he would think I was just trying to look after him and that would hurt his ego.

Anyway, one of the schools that had a great culinary arts program just happened to be the University of Minnesota. I only applied when I found out where the Olympic hockey team would be located. That was before they'd had the tryouts but I wasn't taken any chances.

"I didn't tell you, but I applied for the University of Minnesota."

"What? Why?" he asked.

"Remember how the head of my department said I should transfer since BU has a shit culinary arts program?"

"Yeah, and you said you loved BU too much to care."

"That was before I found out Minnesota had one of the best programs in the county. I applied and they accepted me. I'm coming with you guys!"

"Are you serious? Cal, that's great," he said excitedly. I could tell he was relieved but he'd never admit it. "Now we don't have to worry about who'll cook for us anymore."

"Would it kill you to learn how to make one meal for yourself?" I laughed. I often tested out new dishes on him and the boys since it was good practice, and even if it didn't turn out great they'd pretty much eat anything.

"Wait a minute, you know what this means, right?" he asked, his face turning serious. "You, Jennifer Mary O'Callahan, are going to be a Golden Gopher."

Ugh, I hadn't thought about it like that.

"Don't say that! And don't call me that." I threw one of the pillows on our couch at him for good measure. It him square in the head.

I hated my real name, no one ever called me Jennifer. Ever since I was a kid people had referred to me as Cal, a shortened form of my last name.

"Ow!"

"Come on, that did not hurt."

"It did too, you're strong."

"Shut up. I'll only be at the U of M for a year."

"I mean, if you're okay with it," Jack said, shrugging. "You'll be like a double agent."

"Yeah, like a Russian spy, except I'll be one of the good guys."

"Right. Hey, did we get any other mail?"

"Um." I looked down sheepishly at my empty hands. "I think I may have dropped it."

He rolled his eyes. "Classic Cal."

Just then there was a knock on the door and Dave walked through it without waiting for an answer.

"Silky!" I yelled.

"Ello govnah," he said in a British accent, bowing to me.

"How do you do?" I played along.

Jack sighed heavily. He was never much of a fan of our antics.

I ignored him and grabbed Dave's shoulders in a very dramatic fashion. "Guess what guess what guess what."

"What what what?" he asked, spinning me around. We always got a little hyper when we were together.

"I got accepted."

Dave I had told because I told him almost everything—well, everything that had happened in my life past a certain point. Not about my parents. It wasn't because I didn't trust Dave; he was one of the few I did. I just didn't like to talk about that stuff. He knew, though. I know Jack had told him some at point.

"Oh, thank god," he said, releasing me to wipe fake sweat off his forehead. "I had no idea what I was going to do without my best friend. Isn't this great, OC?"

Jack glared at both of us. "Super."

I burst out laughing. "We have to celebrate."

"Okay, but no bars," Dave said.

I gaped at him. "Why not?"

"Because you always get drunk. Plus, we have to pack."

"I do not always get drunk," I said indignantly. "And I don't need to pack; I have plenty of time."

"We're leaving in a few days, Cal. Aren't you coming with us? Or are you waiting until school starts?"

I thought about spending the rest of the summer there by myself. "No way. Fine, I'll pack soon."

"We should still do something," Jack pointed out.

"Okay, I can't stay mad at you guys," Dave said happily.

"Let's go out to eat," I suggested.

"Why are you always so fixated on food?" Jack asked me.

"I'm a cook, remember? We have to love to eat. It's the first requirement."

Luckily I got my way and that evening we went out to eat at our favorite Chinese place with Jimmy. He was a goalie and the same age as my brother. I was good friends with him but I always got the impression that Jimmy didn't actually need people. He was kind of a loner, but he wasn't shy-he was the exact opposite in fact. Most of the time it was hard to get him to shut up.

"Have you guys packed yet?" he asked.

"Yes," Silky and OC said at the exact same time I said: "No."

"Cal, we're leaving in less than a week,"Jimmy admonished.

"Relax," I said, waving my chopsticks at him. "Has anyone ever told you you need to relax?"

"There's sweet and sour all over you face," he said flatly. That had everyone at the table laughing for about five minutes.

"Anyways," I said after they finally calmed down. "Why haven't any of you told me about who your teammates are going to be?"

"OC and Silky are being immature," Jimmy informed me.

"They're acting immature?" I pretended to be shocked. "Impossible!"

Dave flicked me on the ear and I swatted at him.

"What Jimmy means is that there are a lot of guys from Minnesota," he said.

"No shit?" I laughed. "A team based in Minnesota with the former head coach of the Gophers has many players from the U of M? Who knew?"

"Smart ass," OC quipped. "What Jimmy means specifically is Rob McClanahan."

"No way. You don't mean that guy from the '76 playoffs?"

"The very same."

"Uh-oh." I knew what kind of conflict that was going to cause. McClanahan had put my brother out of the game with a cheap shot and the Gophers ended up winning. I was watching from the stands and when Jack limped off the ice, I had never hated anyone more. The game had also erupted into a bench-clearing brawl. The rival between the Gophers and Terriers had always been fierce.

"Uh-oh is right," Jimmy said deviously. He and Silky exchanged amused glances.

It was going to be an interesting year.

XXXXXXXXXX

After saying our goodbyes and moving out of our apartment, my brother and I packed everything we could fit into my '72 Ford Cortina and started out on a monster of road trip that crossed nearly half the county, eight states, and over 1,000 miles, to start our lives anew in the Twin Cities. We followed Silky and Jimmy in his car, since he and I were the only two that had ones. It took the better part of two days with a night spent in the cheapest hotel known to man a few miles outside of Toledo. There we met up with Mike Eruzione, another friend and former Terriers player who had graduated a couple years previous. He played for Toledo's International Hockey League team but was coming to Minnesota with us to play for the Olympic team.

Our first stop once we got to Minneapolis was the team's trainer, Dr. Nagobads', house. Jimmy was moving into his basement. Jimmy cared more about saving money on rent than being close to his teammates by rooming with them or living in the same building. That's just how he was. I always got the impression that he didn't really need people. He was kind of a loner but he wasn't shy, and he definitely wasn't quiet. He just preferred to be on his own.

Meanwhile, Silky and I were sharing a two-bedroom apartment, and Rizzo and OC were rooming together in the same building.

I dropped one of Jimmy's boxes onto Doc's driveway, taking a moment to stretch out my back. Rizzo was doing the same beside me. We were helping unload Jimmy's things before going to pack our own stuff.

I sighed. Moving was awful.

Doc came out the front door with two bottles of water for us. "Hot day," he remarked as we took them gratefully and murmured our agreement.

"Your brother said you're looking for a job," Doc said to me.

I nodded, quickly gulping down a mouthful of water. "Yes, I am."

"There is a diner on campus you should try. I know they're looking for someone. You are a chef, yes?"

"Yes-I'm a cook, yeah," I said. I was studying to become a chef.

"Cal's brilliant in the kitchen," Rizzo said. "She can make anything and that's high praise from me, considering I'm Italian."

I rolled my eyes even as I flushed at Rizzo's praise. "Not really, I'm just all right."

Doc smiled at me. "Make sure you apply, I'd love to try your cooking."

A week later I was sweating over a grill as my boss, Tommy, hollered orders at me.

"Two eggs over easy!"

This wasn't quite the kind of cooking job I'd dreamt about having, but it paid the bills and tuition that wasn't covered by scholarships. Dave was living with me and he'd gotten a job as soon as we settled in, so half the rent was taken care of. I wasn't sure he'd be able to keep up with the job, though, and from what I could tell so far the coach, Herb Brooks, was a real hard ass. Slightly insane, too. That was just going off what they'd heard from former Gophers.

I finished up another order on the grill and pushed my bangs off my forehead. I had started cooking when I was around thirteen, out of necessity more than anything. I quickly discovered I loved it, so I took on the responsibility of keeping Jack and I fed early on. Cooking was the one thing I could see myself doing professionally—well, the only thing that had any creativity whatsoever and could actually provide me with a reliable job. For a while I wanted to be a fine arts major, but I eventually convinced myself out of that one. I had grown up without having a lot of money and I didn't want to spend the rest of my life struggling. Being a fry cook in a college diner wasn't exactly glamorous but at least it was good practice.

"Can you take a break from the grill and pick up the slack in Lynn's section?" Tommy said to me.

I sighed before complying. I always preferred working behind the scenes. I changed my greasy cook's apron for an around-the-waist one and pulled out a pad a pen from the pocket. I walked up to a table where three young guys were sitting. "Hi, what can I get you?"

The one on the left who had a mop of dark hair and boyish features was squinting at the menu. "What would you recommend?"

"Well-"

"Do I know you from somewhere?" the guy in the middle interrupted. He had shaggy blond hair and an open, friendly face. "You look familiar."

"That's not possible," I replied. "I just moved here."

"I thought I heard an accent!" the dark haired one said triumphantly, no longer interested in the menu. "Where are you from?"

"Boston," I said, failing to hide the annoyance in my voice even though I was on the job. I wasn't used to being questioned like this-it must have been a Midwestern thing.

The guy grinned. "Are you by any chance related to Jack O'Callahan?"

"Yeah, he's my brother." Now I was downright suspicious. "Who are you?"

"Stop torturing her, Koho," the blond guy said. "I'm Eric Strobel, we're also on the USA team. My insistent friend here is Dave Christian, and this is Mark Pavelich. Pav." He gestured to the smaller guy on the right, the one who hadn't yet said anything. He smiled politely at me.

It checked out. The names were familiar. I knew more about college hockey than anyone who wasn't a player or coach should know. I was a huge supporter of the Terriers and went to every home game.

"Oh," I said. "I'm Cal. Nice to meet you."

"You too!" Dave Christian-or Koho-said brightly. "Why did you move? Are you going to school here?"

"Yes, I-"

"You should come to one of our practices some time," Eric interrupted, I could tell out of excitement rather than rudeness.

"I'm actually going today after my shift is over," I said.

They beamed at me.

"That's great, we'll definitely see you there."

"If you ever want to hang out, or need someone to show you around, don't hesitate to ask," Koho said.

Pav nodded in agreement.

"Uh, thanks," I said, admittedly stunned by their friendliness. That was definitely a Midwestern thing.

After I'd taken their orders, I turned around and walked by Tommy. He evidently had been listening to the whole exchange and found it extremely entertaining.

"Didn't believe the whole 'Minnesota nice' thing, did you?" he asked as he fell into step next to me on the way to the kitchen.

"Not entirely," I admitted. "But college kids from the U are supposed to hate college kids from Boston University. Athletes are, at least."

"You're one of us now," Tommy said jovially.

I certainly didn't agree with that, but I seemed to be adjusting better than I thought I would. I wondered how my guys were going to take joining up playing together with their sworn enemies. Of course, I was going to be graduating from UM, and I had no problem with the school itself. It was a good school and everything, but I did spend three years going to every game against them screaming profanities and praying they would fail so my boys could win the NCAA Championship. I would always be a Terrier at heart. Taking care of my brother and being close to the most important people in my life were more significant than the name of the college on my degree.

The rest of my shift passed quickly and before I knew it I was on my way to the rink the team used for practice. School hadn't started yet but when I was registering for classes I made sure I had time to stop by every once in a while-mostly because OC and Silky had kept up a steady of stream begging: "It's the Olympics, Cal. We're going to be in the Olympics. This is a big deal." They were still a bit in awe of the whole thing, as was I, which was the main reason I found the practices so interesting. Herb Brooks coaching method was also intriguing.

I parked and walked into the rink, taking a seat in the stands. The place was completely deserted except for me and two dozen guys in multicolored jerseys on the ice. Practice was in full swing. I chose a good seat and scanned the ice for my friends. I spotted them quickly, then observed everyone else and how they compared.

I knew the goalie who wasn't Jimmy was Steve Janaszak, and I recognized the Gophers captain Bill Baker. He was all blond hair and cheekbones, a face that was hard to forget. I smiled wryly to myself. Dating my brother's teammates was never a good idea to begin with, out of the question if they were from the U of M.

I started flipping through a textbook I'd just bought for one of the more boring classes I had that upcoming semester: Food Safety and Sanitation. I kept one eye on the ice and one eye on the book. They were doing a lot of drills, nothing too exciting. Herb Brooks circled around the perimeter of the rink menacingly. I wondered if it was normal for a coach to be yelling so much at his players this early on in training. It didn't seem like anybody would have had time to do a whole lot wrong.

Eventually I got bored of the drills and the book, plus I was hungry. I packed up my stuff and went out to the concession stands in the lobby. Luckily they were open. A while later I was sitting at the counter halfway through my second hot dog when a guy about my age took a seat a few stools down. His face was smeared with blood, some of which was coming out of his nose. He took a handful of napkins out of the dispenser and started mopping his face with them which I immediately took note of.

My mom's a nurse. At least she had been when I was growing up. I didn't know what she was doing nowadays, I hadn't seen her since I was twelve. But Jack and I were always getting hurt as kids. We played a lot of sports on streets and vacant lots and we played rough, as you had to in Charlestown. We were constantly coming home with scrapes, scratches and bruises. Not to mention all the times Dad whipped us with his belt hard enough to draw blood or slapped us around. I had so many memories of my mother tending to our injuries.

"You're doing it all wrong," I blurted out.

The guy slowly looked up at me. "Sorry?"

Even though he was all bloody I could tell he was pretty good looking. He had wavy dark hair and dark eyes, a strong chin.

"You'll make it worse," I explained. He still didn't get it. I sighed and put my down hot dog. "First of all, you need water." I caught the attention of the man who was running the concession stand and asked for a glass. When he gave me one I took a napkin and dipped the corner in. "Come here."

He looked a little unsure but shrugged and moved to the stool next to mine.

"Hold still," I instructed and started to dab his face where it was bruised, wiping away the blood under his nose and cleaning the wound on his cheek. He closed his eyes and had a look of utter peacefulness on his face. I could be gentle when I wanted to be. A few seconds later I realized I'd been dabbing longer than necessary.

I cleared my throat and moved back. "That should do it."

He opened his eyes. "Thanks. I feel much better."

"It's no big deal," I said even though it sort of was. I didn't usually help strangers—I was slow to warm up to people in general.

I turned back to the concession stand and asked for a bag of ice, just for something to do.

The guy took it with a smile and pointed a finger at me. "Let me guess: pre-med, senior year."

I rolled my eyes. "Nice try."

"No? You just like to tend people's wounds?"

Um, not exactly. "Only a select few." As soon as I said it, I knew it wouldn't come out the way I intended.

"Just good looking men, I bet."

Fantastic. He thought I was flirting with him. I really needed to work on my social cues. "Don't flatter yourself."

He chuckled a little. "No, you're right, with the way I look right now."

"The ice is supposed to go on your face," I said. He was crunching the bag in his fist.

"It's too cold."

"Well, it's ice."

"No, really?"

Ah, yes, I recognized this. Two sarcastic people meeting for the first time. Bloodshed, death, nuclear warfare. Probably best to remove myself from the situation. But I just couldn't help myself.

"How'd a pretty boy like you get a face like that, anyway?" He looked so clean cut. Smartly dressed in a fitted T-shirt, jeans with no holes or frays, even his outgrown hair was neatly combed.

"I got in a fight," he scoffed with a lifetime of irritation from being called 'a pretty boy.' "I'm a hockey player."

That much was obvious, I realized. We were in an ice rink arena, after all.

"Who do you play for?" I asked, just to make sure.

"Herb Brooks."

There must have been a fight and I missed it. Stupid hunger pains.

"What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't. It's Rob McClanahan."

That settled it. "I'm pretty sure I know who did that to you."

"What do you mean?" He had the same confused look on his face as when I'd first spoken to him. The one I had thought was sort of cute, goddamn it.

"I mean that it was my brother. I'm Cal O'Callahan, and I think you deserved that." I indicated the mess of his face.

"Cal O'Callahan?" he repeated, momentarily distracted.

Everyone always needed to comment on my name. I definitely wasn't about to explain it to him.

He shook his head a little, probably trying to clear it. "How can you say I deserved it? You don't even know me."

"I know that you're oh-so-fond of giving people cheap shots."

"That's what this is about? The '76 playoffs?"

Yes. And no. I was already fired up due to the fact that he acted like a snide jackass, this was just an excuse to take it out on him. But that would take too long to explain. "Damn right it is."

"Well, you know what?" he shot back. "Boston would have lost even with him in the game."

"Are you calling my brother a bad player?"

"Maybe I am. I think he's juvenile and has anger management issues. He's crazy!"

"Shut up about him." My hand curled into a fist at my side. I'd always had an Irish temper. It was the one thing I had gotten from my father, personality wise, and I despised that fact. I hated to think I was similar to him in anyway, but it was the alcoholism that made it really bad. And I wasn't an alcoholic.

"No, I won't! Because he's the ass here and I can see you're a lot like him."

I've heard much worse said about Jack—I've heard much worse said about me—but I don't know, that was the straw that broke the camel's back. I didn't think before I reeled back and punched him in the solar plexus, right where it knocks the wind out of you. It threw him halfway off the stool. One hand grabbed the counter so he wouldn't fall to the floor, the other grabbed his gut.

"What is with your family?" he yelled, looking more disbelieved than angry.

I must not have hit him hard enough. I was seriously considering doing it again when we were interrupted.

"What's going on here?" Rizzo and Silky had just walked into the lobby in their street clothes. Practice was over.

McClanahan glared at me and awkwardly righted himself, sitting back on the stool. Rizzo and Silky put two and two together. This instance, believe it or not, wasn't the first time they'd walked in on me punching someone.

Rizzo dropped his hockey bag to the floor with a dramatic thud, marched over to me, seized my arm and started pulling me away. "Come on."

"Let go of me," I barked but he didn't until we had walked outside.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"Giving him what he deserves."

"Are you kidding me, Cal? You have got to let this go. It's not even your problem."

"Don't give me that. You know it is." He knew how close Jack and I were. His problems were my problems and vice versa. "He was badmouthing OC. What was I supposed to go?"

"You can't go around punching people you hardly know!" Rizzo yelled. "Or anyone you do know," he added quickly. He took a deep breath, trying to calm down. He seldom lost his cool but he hated OC's and my temper. It was practically the only thing that could make him lose his. "That game was over three years ago and we're all on the same team now, so it's time to put that behind us. You have to get used to this. Get used to him."

I hated upsetting Rizzo. Before he moved to Toledo he always tried to look out for me. He was almost like a second brother.

I stared at my dirty sneakers. "I'm sorry," I said quietly.

"Don't apologize to me. Tell that to Mac."

I looked back up. "No way."

"Cal, come on."

"I can't," I said earnestly, staring him hard in the eyes. The thought of facing McClanahan, or anyone else, after what I'd just done made me want to curl up in a ball and disappear.

Rizzo must have sensed my panic. He immediately softened. "Okay," he said gently, right back to his normal self. "All right, Callie, that's okay."

But somewhere in the pit of my stomach, I knew it wasn't.