Line Change

by W. C. Mack

  It was really cool to see everyone play their new positions like they’d been playing them all along. And I guess that’s what Dad was aiming for. If we all mastered more than one position, we’d be a stronger team than ever.

  We’d be full-on dangerous.

  I had a breakaway just a couple of minutes into the second period, with two goons right on my tail. There was nothing but a goalie to stop me, and I could hear the home crowd getting desperate for the Seagulls to steal the puck.

  But they couldn’t.

  “Go for it!” Kenny shouted, from way behind me.

  I didn’t need instructions. It was the kind of moment I was built for.

  “Shoot!” Patrick shouted, as I got nice and close to the net.

  “You stink!” one of the Seagulls called out.

  But the voice I heard the clearest was Dad’s, yelling, “Let it rip, Nugget!”

  I lined up the puck, with the goons panting behind me. Before they had a chance to catch up, I whaled on it.

  I felt the stick make contact, then watched it go airborne, heading right toward the sweet spot.

  And then?

  The stupid goalie deflected it!

  Right at Bosko, who was ready, like he always was.

  He took a crack at the puck and it sailed right into the lower corner of the net while the goalie was still adjusting his mask.

  “Yes!” I shouted, happy he scored but wishing the goal was mine.

  “Nugget’s still up by three,” Patrick called out from the bench.

  “We’ll see about that,” Bosko called back with a laugh.

  All the guys skated up to Bosko and slapped his back or helmet, depending on their height.

  I ended up punching his elbow.

  That was as far as I could reach.

  “Nice play!” Dad shouted.

  The Seagulls came back pretty hard after that, and I had to admit, they made it tough to keep up.

  But Bosko was shooting like Gretzky.

  Exactly what I’d been afraid of.

  “We’re tied, Nugget,” he said with a smile at the end of the second period. “You know I’m gonna win.” He smiled. “Playing centre might just put me over the top.”

  I thought about how tricky it had been to convince him that the position switch was a good idea. And how much it stunk when the team split up into sides.

  The Cougars were about winning games. It was as simple as that.

  Did it really matter who scored the most goals?

  Well, of course it did.

  And Bosko was probably right about coming out on top.

  But there had to be another way I could beat him.

  “I’ll probably have the most assists,” I told him.

  “Is that a challenge?” he asked, with a laugh.

  “Oh, yeah.” I smiled back at him. As long as the team was working together, a little friendly competition couldn’t hurt.

  * * *

  As the game went on, the Seagulls fans were easy to spot in the crowd, mostly because they were all wearing the light blue and white team colours.

  But they were also easy to spot because they were getting totally mad every time we scored.

  Which was a lot.

  Bedhead still seemed a little freaked out in the net, but the practice at home had definitely helped. He was managing to not only stay alert, but make saves.

  Like, seven during the third period.

  “You’re doing awesome,” I told him, when Dad called a time-out. “Maybe even better than Chris.”

  “Seriously?” he asked.

  I nodded. “You’re quick.”

  “And fearless,” Patrick added.

  “And awake,” Jeff laughed.

  When the clock finally ran out, we had won the game, 11–4.

  “So,” Colin said, when we all piled into the Cavanaughs’ van for the drive home. “What position am I going to play in the next game, Coach?”

  I held my breath, waiting for Dad to say he had to stay a defenseman.

  Would Colin point out that I never had to switch?

  Why didn’t Dad just make me try something new, so it wouldn’t be an issue?

  “I’m thinking we should move you back up to the front line,” Dad said.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding.

  “Sweet,” Colin said, leaning back in his seat.

  And it was sweet. We won the game, the team was united, and we were going to kick some serious butt against Courtenay next Saturday.

  Things were finally back on track.

  Chapter Seventeen

  On Sunday, I went for a jog with Dad in the morning, which was something we’d never done before. It was nice and quiet, and I really liked hanging with him. So much had happened in the past few weeks, it was cool to just be alone together.

  “I’m glad everything’s kind of settled down,” I told him, after we’d been at it for a few minutes.

  “What? Oh, you mean the Cougars?”

  “Yeah, things were getting kind of weird, you know?”

  “I do know,” Dad said, in between breaths.

  “It’s been pretty cool having you as a coach, Dad,” I told him.

  “All the time?” he asked, chuckling.

  I thought about how to answer. “Maybe not every second of it, but most of the time.”

  “I’ve enjoyed it, too,” he said. “I really think this could be one of your best seasons.”

  We jogged in silence for a couple of minutes.

  “Is it pretty fun, coaching?” I asked.

  He was quiet for a second. “There have been some surprises along the way, so it hasn’t been exactly what I expected.”

  Me neither.

  “But it’s been great to get out on the ice again,” he added.

  We ran for about half an hour, then headed back to the house.

  “Hey Dad,” I said, wanting to get to the bottom of something that had been bugging me. “Why did you let me keep my position and move Bosko?”

  I really didn’t want to hear that the guys were right and he was playing favourites.

  But then he said something even worse.

  “He’s a more adaptable player,” he said, with a shrug.

  “What?” I choked.

  “You’re both great at right wing, Nugget. That goes without saying.”

  “Then why are you saying it?” I asked.

  “Look, you two have very different styles. You like a steady game plan, without a lot of shake-ups, while Bosko flies by the seat of his pants a bit.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that at all.

  “So, you’re saying he’s better.”

  “No. I’m saying he’s more open to change than you are, and that’s what backing up a position is all about. I figured it would take less time for him to learn a new position, and that’s true of all the guys I moved.”

  “So, he’s smarter,” I muttered. “Like we didn’t already know that.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with who’s smarter or better, son. This way, we got two of the Cougars’ top players on the ice at the same time by having just one of them switch positions.”

  I thought about it for a minute.

  It didn’t sound so bad when he put it that way.

  * * *

  When we got home, Mum had left a note, saying she was grocery shopping. Wendy was on the phone in the kitchen.

  Surprise, surprise.

  Dad signalled for her to hang up, but she only glanced at him for a second and kept talking.

  Bad idea, considering she was grounded.

  “Off the phone,” Dad told her.

  “What?” she mouthed. She tried to look confused, but she was a terrible actress.

  “Hang up the phone, Wendy.”

  “I’m in the middle of —”

  “Now,” he said, and she saw that he meant business.

  “Fine,” she snapped. “Look, I have to go.” She hung up and glared at Dad. “I can’t believe yo
u.”

  “Hey,” he shrugged. “It’s all part of the punishment.”

  “I seriously hate this family,” she shouted, running upstairs.

  Dad sighed, then looked at me and smiled. “I remember how excited Mum and I were when she said her first word. And look at us now.” He laughed and shook his head. “Let’s get some breakfast going, Nugget.”

  “How about waffles?” I asked.

  “Can you make them?”

  “No. Can you?”

  “No. How about toast?”

  “Toast always works,” I told him.

  I grabbed all the jams, jellies and peanut butter out of the pantry while Dad set out plates.

  “Teamwork,” I told him, when I dropped the bread into the toaster slots and he pushed the button.

  Of course, we ended up burning it, but that was okay.

  We were both willing to pretend it tasted good.

  After all, sometimes we guys had to stick together.

  * * *

  When my alarm went off on Monday morning, I was out of bed like a shot, ready for practice.

  I knew the guys would still be feeling the adrenalin rush from Saturday’s win, and that made me even more anxious to get to the rink.

  But when Dad and I got there, I couldn’t believe what I saw.

  Coach O’Neal was leaning on a cane, waiting for us.

  No way!

  I was excited to see him, which made me feel kind of guilty.

  “Coach!” I said, giving him a high five. “I thought you were stuck in a hospital bed.”

  “They did some laser surgery.”

  “Lasers?” I asked. How cool was that?

  “It turned out I’d chipped a bone in my back, so they smoothed down the sharp edges.”

  “But I thought you were out for ages,” I said. Of course, I was happy to see him and I wanted him to come back, but what about Dad leading us to the championship?

  What would happen to him?

  “I guess I’ll heal up pretty quick. I’m supposed to be getting some regular exercise, so I walked down here from the house this morning.” He cleared his throat. “I’d heard about how things were going and figured it wouldn’t hurt to check in on you guys.”

  “Sure,” Dad said. His smile looked more like a wince and I felt sorry for him.

  “That Esquimalt loss really tears at my gut,” Coach O’Neal said, shaking his head.

  “But we whaled on Nanaimo and Sooke,” I told him, defending Dad.

  Coach looked at me, then at him. “Have you got a minute to talk, Gord?”

  “Sure,” Dad said, looking uncomfortable.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out that they wanted some privacy, so I headed for the locker room.

  The whole way there, I worried that Coach was going to chew Dad out, and that he wouldn’t have a chance to explain the method to his madness.

  I slumped on the bench, next to my bag.

  What if Coach was rushing to get better because he was freaked out about what Dad was doing? And if Coach bumped Dad back to the stands, how humiliating would that be? What if Mr. Bechter had made some kind of a formal complaint?

  All of the questions were making me feel sick, but I couldn’t stop them from coming.

  No one had the right to put Dad down for all the work he’d done to help us.

  Not even Coach O’Neal.

  The more I thought about it, the madder I got.

  While I was stewing, Kenny and Patrick showed up together, all excited.

  “Coach O’Neal is here,” Patrick told me, grinning.

  “I know,” I muttered.

  “What’s wrong?” Kenny asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You want him back, don’t you, Nugget?” Patrick asked, dropping his bag next to mine.

  “Well, duh,” I said, quietly.

  Of course I wanted him back, but not if it was a slap in Dad’s face.

  I didn’t even finish dressing. Instead, I headed back out to the rink with my shoulder pads half on to see what was happening.

  Ever since Dad took over, I’d felt like I was on some kind of a roller coaster (or driving with Wendy). I was up and down every day, hoping nobody was mad at anyone else, or no one’s feelings were hurt, and basically worrying that the team wouldn’t keep it together.

  Dad had tried really hard to get us on track for the championship, and even though I didn’t agree with the way he’d handled everything, I was proud of him.

  Why couldn’t things have worked out better?

  The more I imagined what Coach might be saying, the more I thought about how I’d felt when Patrick stood up for Dad, and again when Bosko did it.

  I thought about all the times Bosko had shut the guys up when they were complaining. And how he’d dragged Tim and Curtis back to centre ice when they were being so rude. How he’d dropped them at Dad’s feet and threatened to go after Colin and Jeff.

  I couldn’t go back in time to do something then, but I had a pretty awesome opportunity to do something now.

  It was my turn.

  I spotted Dad and Coach in the main office and watched through the window as they talked. They didn’t look like they were arguing, but I couldn’t hear anything they were saying.

  I unclenched my fists.

  If I didn’t know what was going on, was it the right time to charge in and start yelling?

  Probably not.

  As I watched them, I tried to figure out what I should do.

  And what I should do was … something.

  I’d spent too much time watching other people do the dirty work.

  I took a deep breath and walked into the office.

  Dad turned to look at me. “We’re having a private conversation here, buddy.”

  “I know,” I said, looking at him for a second, then at Coach. “I just wanted to say that my dad has done an awesome job and —”

  “Jonathan,” Dad warned.

  “And even though we blew an easy game and we don’t like plyometrics and the guys weren’t getting along and I thought Dad might be crazy and Mr. Bechter probably gave you an earful already,” I took a breath and tried to ignore Dad’s mouth hanging open like a flounder, “and even though we’ve been running instead of skating and the team mums started heckling Dad —”

  “Jonathan,” Dad warned again.

  “I just want you to know that we’re a better team because of his coaching.”

  “I see,” Coach O’Neal said, nodding slowly.

  “And —”

  “I think you’ve said enough, son,” Coach O’Neal said. “Now your Dad and I need to finish our conversation.”

  I glanced at Dad, who just nodded.

  When I left the office, I replayed what I’d said in my head and started to panic. Maybe Coach hadn’t known all that stuff already. Maybe by trying to stand up for Dad, I’d actually made things worse!

  Nuts!

  When Dad came out a couple of minutes later, he didn’t look happy. But he didn’t look mad, either. In fact, he looked like I did when I was working on a tough Math problem.

  Like he was thinking pretty hard.

  “What’s going on?” I asked him.

  Dad glanced over at me, surprised I was there. “Well, you’re supposed to be dressing for practice.”

  “I know. I meant between you and Coach.”

  “Nothing to worry about, Nugget.”

  But that only made me worry more.

  Double nuts!

  I’d blown everything for him!

  * * *

  Once the Cougars were all out on the ice, Coach O’Neal sat on the bench to watch us practise. It made me nervous for Dad, so I worked my tail off for the whole hour and I was glad to see the other guys did too.

  I didn’t have a chance to talk to Dad before Mrs. Cavanaugh drove me and Kenny to school, so all day I wondered what had been said in that office.

  Coach’s timing was crummy, considering we were winning, Dad was hap
py coaching the team and the guys had really come around. We were finally all on the same page, but the book was being slammed shut. Now Dad would have to go back to being just a fan, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, Coach had probably criticized everything he’d done for us.

  The whole situation stunk, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  * * *

  That night, when my family sat down to dinner, I hadn’t even taken a bite of my chicken when I asked, “What’s happening with the team, Dad?”

  He scooped some green beans onto his fork. “You mean for me?”

  “Yeah.” I paused for a second or two. “Is Coach back for good?”

  Dad nodded. “In a couple of weeks. Three, tops.” He popped the beans in his mouth and started chewing.

  I was disappointed to hear it, mostly because I was sure Dad’s feeling were hurt. But he was covering it pretty well.

  “Tell him the rest, hon,” Mum said.

  “The rest of what?” I asked.

  “Well,” Dad said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “He liked the fact that I’d added plyometrics to your practices.”

  “He did?” I asked, stunned.

  “Don’t act so shocked,” he laughed. “He said he was going to introduce that kind of training next season, but he was happy I’d gone ahead.”

  “And,” Mum said, nodding for him to say more.

  “And he asked me to be Assistant Coach when he gets back,” Dad said, with a shrug.

  A shrug, like it wasn’t the coolest news on the planet!

  “No way!” I shouted.

  “Can you like, not yell at the table?” Wendy snapped.

  I ignored her, excited that everything was suddenly turning around. All of my worrying was for nothing! Assistant Coach would be perfect. Dad could still help guide the Cougars to greatness, but Coach O’Neal would be the one who got blamed when things went wrong.

  Dad wouldn’t be arguing with parents or having debates about plyometrics. And best of all, he wouldn’t be leaving his coaching position all embarrassed that it hadn’t worked out.

  I couldn’t have come up with a better idea myself.

  It solved everything!

  But then I thought back to the look on Dad’s face when he’d left Coach’s office that morning. “But you weren’t happy after you talked to him.”

  Dad nodded. “Well, it was a lot to think about.”