Line Change

by W. C. Mack

  Shoot! Volume 4. It had to be.

  “You picked it up!”

  “Yesterday,” she said.

  “And you didn’t tell me?” I couldn’t believe she would hold out on me, especially when it was something so important. Something I’d been waiting for.

  “You had Math homework to do.”

  Good call. I still did, as a matter of fact.

  Even though I’d really needed the book back in October, when I was trying to win the PUCK Radio contest, I was still excited to read it.

  “Awesome!” I said, when she handed me the bag.

  I pulled out the book, and grinned when I saw the cover. It was a big picture of the NHL logo, made up of hundreds of tiny logos for every team in the league.

  Sweet? Oh, yeah.

  I started flipping through the pages. “I’m going to —”

  “Read it later,” Mum finished for me. “Homework first, honey.”

  “Nuts,” I sighed as I closed the book and left it on my bed.

  I knew from experience that Mum had the power to take the book away. And from a near-miss last month, I knew that my Math teacher, Mr. Holloway, had the power to take away my whole hockey season.

  I wasn’t about to test either one of them.

  When Mum left me alone in my room, I looked at the walls covered with posters and all kinds of other hockey stuff. A picture of the room would have made a great cover for one of the “Shoot” books.

  Actually, considering the amount of Jean Ducette stuff I had up on the walls, it might have made a better cover for a book about him.

  A biography of a legend, just like the ones I had for Gretzky and Gordie Howe in my personal hockey library. Of course, the library only filled one bookshelf so far, but it was growing fast.

  Aside from the books, the ultimate piece in my hockey collection was the jersey Ducette had signed for me when I met him at a Canucks game after winning the PUCK contest. I’d just missed my one big chance at a shot from centre ice and a big prize, but it didn’t matter.

  Jean Ducette made me forget I’d blown it.

  Well, almost, anyway.

  He was my absolute, number one hero.

  I flopped on my bed and started flipping through the pages of my brand new hockey bible, but stopped.

  Math had to come first. Period.

  Otherwise Mum would not only take away the book, but stop me from watching the game that night, whether Kenny came over or not.

  As much as I hated to do it, I cracked open my Math textbook instead. As usual, the homework assignment looked like hieroglyphics.

  At least I had Eddie Bosko to help me pass, so I wasn’t as doomed as I could have been. But I still seemed to be pretty doomed.

  I took a deep breath and started the first question, wishing he was there to walk me through it. Everything made more sense when Bosko explained it, which was funny, because you’d think a genius would only explain stuff at genius level.

  After about an hour I needed a break, so I checked out the Cougars schedule I’d tacked to my bulletin board, right next to my favourite picture of Jean Ducette.

  The next month or so was looking good. Of course, we’d already lost to the Thunder, but next up was Nanaimo, who usually gave us a run for the money. Our record from last season showed we didn’t finish that far ahead of them, so we’d definitely be putting some hustle into that game.

  After Nanaimo came the Esquimalt Eagles, who were the lowest ranked team on the island. Hockey was never a joke, but playing the Eagles was pretty close to it.

  Next were the Sooke Seagulls, whose goofy name didn’t match how good they were. After us and Bosko’s old Shoreline team, the Seagulls were probably the best team on the island.

  We had our work cut out for us, and it would be weird if we went into games without Coach, but I knew Dad was going to be an awesome secret weapon.

  * * *

  That night, Kenny came over and we watched his Red Wings play the Blackhawks on TV, which was pretty cool.

  But Kenny wasn’t.

  As usual, he was wearing all of his game night gear, including sweatpants, a T-shirt, hoodie and even a Red Wings tuque.

  He was shiny with sweat about six minutes into the first period.

  “You can take some of that off, you know,” I told him.

  “No way. It’s my lucky gear.”

  Dad and I just shook our heads.

  “Even the air freshener?” I asked, pointing at the logo hanging around his neck, totally reeking of cherries.

  “Yup.”

  “You’re taking it seriously,” Dad said.

  “I have to, Mr. McDonald,” My buddy said, blowing on his hands to cool them off before he put his Red Wings mitts back on. “If I’m missing one piece of my gear, they might lose.”

  “I see,” Dad said, and I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

  When Dad left to get drinks to go with the big bag of ripple chips I couldn’t believe Mum had actually bought, Kenny said, “I wonder how long Coach is going to be out.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, shrugging.

  “Because we’ve got some big games coming up.”

  “Yeah, Nanaimo this weekend, then Esquimalt and —”

  “At least we aren’t playing Shoreline for a while.”

  “We beat them last time,” I reminded him.

  Not that I was actually on the ice for the game. The Sharks were the biggest team in the league and Coach O’Neal always kept his tiniest player (me) on the bench for that one.

  “Well, Nanaimo’s a tough team.”

  “I know, Ken. I’ve been in the league for like, my whole life.”

  “Sure,” he said, quietly. “It’s just that it’s going to be a big game.”

  “Duh,” I told him, reaching for the chips and wishing Dad would hurry up with the drinks.

  “And if Coach isn’t back —”

  “My dad will handle it,” I told him.

  “Can he?”

  “Can he what?” I asked, turning to look at my friend, whose face was red. I couldn’t tell if it was from being way overheated or from embarrassment. “Can he what?”

  “You know … can he handle prepping us for that game?”

  “Dude, he was almost in the NHL,” I reminded him.

  Kenny nodded, his face even redder. “I know, almost, but this is coaching.”

  “He was a ref for ten years.”

  “Yeah, and that’s cool and everything, but I think coaching is … different.”

  I gave him a stare-down. Kenny wasn’t really known for coming up with theories on his own. “You think, or someone else thinks?”

  He winced. “Well, my dad said —”

  “That he’d rather take over the team for now?” I asked, kind of in his face.

  Mr. Cavanaugh was a hockey fan, but I was pretty sure he’d never actually played, even as a kid.

  “No, because —”

  “Because the only guy I heard offering to help us out was my dad.”

  Kenny definitely looked embarrassed. “I know.”

  “He’s going to do an awesome job, I swear. And don’t get all worked up about playing the Sharks and all that. Dad’s only going to be running a practice or two and then Coach will be back.”

  Kenny nodded. “I know he’ll be good. I’m sorry, Nugget. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “It’s okay,” I told him, handing him the bowl of chips.

  “Sometimes my dad’s kind of a —”

  “It’s okay, Ken. We’re cool.”

  Dad came back into the living room with Cokes for all three of us.

  I was totally stunned that Mum had given in on that one. She was a nutritionist and she was as dedicated to health food as I was to hockey.

  And that was saying something.

  “What did I miss?” Dad asked.

  “Nothing,” I told him. “The commercials just ended.”

  As we sat and watched the game, I thought about what
Kenny had said about coaching being different from playing or reffing. I wished his dad hadn’t said anything.

  Of course, Mr. Cavanaugh’s opinion didn’t matter, because I knew Dad was going to be the ultimate substitute coach. And everyone was going to see exactly how cool he was in a few short hours.

  * * *

  When my alarm clock went off at five the next morning, I guess I didn’t hear it right away, so I woke up to the sound of Wendy pounding her fist against the wall between us and yelling at me to turn it off.

  Oops.

  Hers wasn’t the kind of boat I wanted to rock at any time of day, but especially early in the morning. She was like an angry rhino at eight, and something even scarier before six.

  I hit the “off” button and jumped out of bed, heading straight for the shower.

  I ran into Dad in the hallway. His hair was crazy and he was rubbing his squinty eyes.

  “Oh, you’re up.” His voice sounded dry and scratchy.

  “Yup,” I nodded.

  “I was just coming to wake you.”

  “I’m awake,” I said, nodding. “I have an alarm clock.”

  “Sure,” Dad said, stretching as he yawned. “While you’re in the shower, I might catch a couple more Z’s.”

  Huh?

  “Um … Mum usually makes breakfast while I’m in there.”

  His eyes bugged. “She does?”

  “Yeah, because we have to leave by five-thirty.”

  “Right,” he said, nodding. “Five-thirty. I’ll get on it.”

  When he disappeared down the stairs, I turned to go into the bathroom. I glanced at my parents’ bedroom door, kind of wishing Mum wasn’t taking a turn sleeping in. I was used to practice mornings being just me and her.

  We had a routine that really worked.

  But maybe me and Dad would, too.

  Once I was in the shower, I relaxed under the hot water and started thinking about how awesome it was going to be to have Dad as a coach, even if it was only for a few days. I hoped it would be longer than that because he would play me to my strengths, and I had the feeling I could score some serious goals.

  Bosko and me had been splitting right wing down the middle, and we had a tight partnership, but an extra minute or two on the ice wouldn’t hurt my stats a bit. Dad calling the shots would be a good opportunity for me to take over the lead.

  I was already looking forward to leaving Bosko in the dust.

  I towelled off, threw on my sweats and grabbed my school books before heading downstairs.

  When I walked into the kitchen, Dad was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee, reading yesterday’s paper.

  I checked the counter for a toasted bagel or English muffin, but all I saw was a bowl of —

  “Oatmeal,” Dad said, grinning like it was a good thing.

  “Oh,” I said, carrying it over to the table and sitting down across from him.

  “It sticks to the stomach,” he said, flipping a page.

  From what I could tell when I tried to lift my spoon, it stuck to everything, including itself. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “No problem.”

  I shoved the first mouthful in and realized I was going to need something to wash it down. When I got up to get some milk from the fridge, I saw the time on the microwave.

  “Dad, it’s quarter past.”

  “Mmm,” he said, continuing to read.

  “If you’re going to have a shower …”

  “Right,” he said, folding the paper and drinking the last of his coffee in one gulp. “Be back in a flash.”

  He was pretty quick in the shower and I had just finished loading the dishwasher when he came downstairs.

  “Awesome look,” I said, happy to see him wearing his classic Nordiques jersey for practice. “Are you ready?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “I just have to grab my skates.”

  He opened the door to the garage, which was a very bad sign. It was so jam-packed with stuff, I couldn’t have found a car in there, if there’d actually been room for one.

  I’d never even seen skates in there.

  Ever.

  “Do you know where they are?” I asked, glancing at the microwave.

  Nuts.

  We couldn’t be late for his very first practice!

  “Yeah, I think they’re hanging by my workbench.”

  There was a workbench? Hidden under what?

  While Dad tried to track down the skates, I grabbed my hockey bag from the mudroom. It was so heavy I could barely lift it. As I leaned against the kitchen counter and waited for him, I wondered why Mum hadn’t made Dad get his stuff ready the night before.

  I always had to.

  Luckily, by the time Dad found his skates, we were only two minutes late leaving. He grabbed his keys and started for the door.

  “Uh, Dad?” I asked. “Where’s my lunch?”

  “Your what?” he asked, turning the knob.

  “My lunch. For school.”

  “I thought you were making it while I was in the shower.”

  “I thought you were making it while breakfast was cooking. That’s what Mum does.”

  “She does?” he asked, sighing. “Look, let’s just get you a school lunch today and —”

  “Mum doesn’t like me to —”

  “Does Mum have to know everything?”

  I smiled. “Maybe not.” That was cool with me. Sometimes they had fries in the cafeteria, and that was way more exciting than a Mum lunch.

  On the drive to the rink, it started to freak me out a bit that Dad hadn’t even known where his skates were.

  How long had it been since he’d played, or even been on the ice?

  I was feeling a little nervous, for both of us.

  But when he started talking about strategy and how he had some ideas he thought would really help the team, I knew it didn’t matter if he hadn’t skated for a while.

  He might not have mastered the morning routine at home, but it was stupid of me to worry about the rink.

  When it came to hockey, my dad knew exactly what he was doing.

  Chapter Three

  When we got to the rink, I hustled to the locker room to get into my gear while Dad headed for the ice.

  On the way down the hallway, I could hear the guys goofing off, and as I got closer to the door, I knew they were going to razz me for getting there so late.

  “Whoa, here he is,” Jeff said, when I walked into the room.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, dropping my bag on the bench and opening it up.

  “Sleep in much?” Patrick asked.

  “I guess,” I said, with a shrug. I didn’t want to say that the holdup was Dad, tracking down his antique skates.

  “Pretty cool that your dad’s coaching today,” Curtis said, as he headed for the door.

  David and Patrick both nodded and said something about that being cool, but the only opinion I wanted to hear was Bosko’s.

  He didn’t say a whole lot, but when he did, the guys listened. And since he’d seen my family in action during our eight million tutoring sessions, I really wanted him to be the guy to say that Dad would do an awesome job.

  But he didn’t say anything.

  In fact, he finished lacing up his skates and followed Curtis out the door.

  Kenny hung around while I was getting dressed.

  “We’re doing all our usual drills and stuff, right?” he asked, handing me my jersey once I had my shoulder pads on.

  What kind of a question was that?

  “It’s still hockey, Ken. No matter who’s coaching it.”

  “Cool,” he said, smiling. “I don’t like a lot of changes.”

  “Especially when it comes to your socks, right?” I laughed, punching him in the shoulder before I pulled the most awesome helmet on the planet out of my bag. Its red and black flames were the perfect match for my Cougars uniform. I still couldn’t believe it was mine.

  “Har dee har har,” he said, punching me back. “So,
are we heading out there, or what?”

  “Let’s roll,” I said, beating him out the door.

  The closer I got to the ice, the more excited I felt.

  The absolute truth was that the Cougars had one of the best starting lineups in the league, and I loved playing with these guys.

  I was the smallest kid on the team (and in the league, and in my grade, and on the planet, it sometimes felt like), but I was one of the fastest. What I lacked in height, I made up for in strength. And our giant, Bosko? He was a beast! Never mind the fact that his skills were almost as huge as his hulking body. He was quick, a killer stickhandler, and our other go-to guy (along with me). He’d left the Shoreline Sharks when he moved to Cutter Bay, and even though I wasn’t a fan to start with, he’d kind of won me over.

  And not because he wanted to, because the guy honestly didn’t care what me or any of the guys thought.

  Sometimes I wished I could be that way.

  At left wing was Colin Bechter, who I’d played with since I was about five. He was a solid player and I could always count on him at game time.

  At centre was Jeff McDaniel, who never failed to take possession when the puck was dropped. He was tight with Colin, but he got along with everybody. He was one of the strongest guys on the team, especially his breath, which was the worst on the island, mostly because of his beef jerky breakfasts.

  Seriously gross.

  Kenny Cavanaugh was my best friend on the team. He played defense with Patrick Chen. They were both nice guys and good players, but Kenny had really started to rock this season. He was finally getting to be as aggressive on the ice as he was when he watched his beloved Red Wings play on TV.

  And that was saying something.

  We also had the Watson triplets, who played left wing, centre and defense. Since no one could tell them apart, it’s hard to say for sure which one played which position, but they were all pretty good. At least I think they all were.

  Bedhead McCafferty filled in on defense when we needed him (and when he was awake).

  Our weakest position was probably goal (and it showed — Chris Fullerton actually closed his eyes when we took shots at him during practice!). Our old goalie, Jason, moved to Calgary with his family, and that left the most gigantic team hole in Cougar history. We ended up rotating Chris and our benchwarmers through that position. Jeremy Simpson hated it and the other subs were Tim Shaw and Curtis Blank, who’d been on the team forever, but didn’t play much. Tim’s knee was sometimes messed up and Curtis wasn’t much of an athlete. The two of them spent more time arguing over NHL stats than anything else.