Travis felt right. He felt like he fit. He felt like life could not be much better.
Carefully he dressed, remembering the old, familiar, happy routine: jock, garter belt, left shinpad, right shinpad, socks, pants, skates, but not laced, shoulder pads, elbow pads …
“New sweaters this year!” Mr. Dillinger announced as he pushed in through the dressing-room door with a pile of white hockey jerseys over his back.
“All right!” cried out Andy.
“Yes!” shouted Sam.
Smiling to himself, Mr. Dillinger went around the room, hanging the new jerseys from the lockers of the dressing players.
Travis checked his anxiously and was relieved the “C” was still over the heart. He looked over at Sarah and Nish. They both had their “A”s, for alternate captain. And Sam had one too.
Sarah and Sam gave each other a thumb’s-up. Nish, as usual, was scrambling to dress. He’d goofed around until everyone else was ready to head out and he hadn’t even put on his skates.
Travis tied his skates, reached back, pulled down the new sweater, and inhaled its newness and cleanness as he pulled it quickly over his head, kissing the inside as always. Then he put on his neck guard and his helmet, picked up his gloves, and was ready to go.
Nish was racing. Not even he wanted to take the chance of upsetting Muck at the first practice of the new season. He was tying his skates so fast his fingers were a blur. He reached up, without looking, and yanked the new jersey off its hanger and pulled it over his head. He hopped up, pulled on his helmet and gloves, and, grabbing a stick, headed for the door.
He never even noticed that Mr. Dillinger had replaced his usual number 44 with sequins. All lovingly sewn on in the shape of a heart.
THE END
Murder at the Winter Games
1
Travis Lindsay could feel the jelly bean inside his nose.
It was green – the perfect colour, a delighted, red-faced Nish had shouted out to the rest of the Screech Owls. Perfect, he meant, for the Snot Shot.
Travis’s assignment was simple. He was to plug his other nostril, tip his head back, and – with the help of his “aimer,” Fahd – blow out so hard he sent the green jelly bean flying across the wide hotel ballroom. Longest Snot Shot wins.
Travis had never been so grossed out in his life.
But then, he had to admit, how else should one feel at the Gross-Out Olympics?
Nish was like a circus master, completely in charge. His big red face looked like it had been plugged into a wall socket. He was sweating, his black hair sticking to his forehead as if he’d just removed his helmet at the end of a hockey game. He was wearing his Screech Owls jersey, the big 44 and “Nishikawa” stitched across the back, holding a cordless microphone and standing centre stage, conducting the proceedings to the delight of every peewee team in attendance.
The Owls were in Park City, Utah, where the ski events at the Salt Lake City Winter Games were held. They had been invited to the Peewee Olympics, a week-long international hockey competition that included teams from most places in the world that played the game.
The Owls had been delighted to run into players they already knew from other tournaments. The Portland Panthers were there, with big Stu Yantha playing centre and little Jeremy Billings on defence. The Boston Mini-Bruins were there, and the Long Island Selects, the Detroit Wheels, the Vancouver Mountain, and even the dreaded Toronto Towers.
The competition was certain to be great, but the greatest thing of all was that the gold- and bronze-medal games were going to be played at the famous E Center, site of the glorious Canadian men’s and women’s victories in the 2002 Winter Games.
And real, genuine gold- and silver- and bronze-plated medals were going to be awarded to the first-, second-, and third-place finishers.
The Owls could not have been more excited. Sarah Cuthbertson and Samantha Bennett were going to play on the same ice surface that Cassie Campbell and Hayley Wickenheiser had skated on, where Jayna Hefford had picked up her own rebound and scored the winning goal in Canada’s remarkable 3-2 victory over the American women.
Travis and his best friend, Wayne Nishikawa, were no different. Nish was already trying to convince Travis to try a “Mario Lemieux” and let a pass from Sarah slip between his legs so that Nish – like his hero (and “cousin”) Paul Kariya – could score a goal while everyone else was certain Travis would be shooting.
The Screech Owls’ goaltender, Jeremy Weathers, was going to play where his idol, Martin Brodeur, had performed so brilliantly when the Canadian men’s team won 5-2, the final goal scored by one of Travis’s favourite players, Joe Sakic.
The only Owl not so delighted – or at least pretending not to be – was Lars Johanssen, who said he felt ill every time he thought of the E Center and the shot from centre ice that went off Swedish goaltender Tommy Salo’s glove, his head, and his back before landing in the net and giving little Belarus a 4-3 win and knocking Sweden, the early favourite, right out of the Olympics.
Here, too, was where Edmonton ice-maker Trent Evans had hidden his famous loonie at centre ice so both Canadian teams would have a little special luck – a story that had become such a legend in Canadian hockey that the lucky one-dollar coin was on permanent display at the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto.
Nish, of course, swore he would have something buried at centre ice to bring the Owls good luck. He would not, however, tell them what he planned.
“Just make sure it’s not your boxer shorts,” said Sam. “We don’t want the ice to melt!”
Right now, Nish’s mind was as far away from hockey and centre ice and a gold medal as it was possible to get.
He was running the Gross-Out Olympics, an idea he came up with on the long bus ride to Utah. Somehow – Travis didn’t care to know the details – Nish had sold the Panthers and the Selects and the Towers on the idea since they were all staying in the same hotel.
And now, to great fanfare, the Gross-Out Olympics had begun. They would continue for the remainder of the hockey tournament, with Nish’s version of the gold, silver, and bronze to be handed out the same day the hockey medals would be decided.
Travis, much to his surprise, proved to be extremely adept at the Snot Shot; the jelly bean would shoot across the room as hard as if he’d thrown it. Perhaps it was because he was so small and his tiny nose made the perfect bazooka for a jelly bean. Perhaps it was because he had good wind and could release it with such a snort. Perhaps it was because he figured he’d rather do the Snot Shot than any of the other ridiculous Gross-Out Olympic games Nish had come up with.
There was the Fly on the Wall event, in which each team had to select a player they would duct-tape to the wall, with Nish holding Mr. Dillinger’s big old pocket watch to time who would stick the longest. Travis had been terrified they’d pick him, since he was one of the smallest, but the Owls had elected to go with little Simon Milliken, who was not only slightly smaller than Travis but had also readily volunteered.
Sam was up for the Alphabet Burp – a test to see which contestant could go deepest into the alphabet burping out each letter clearly enough for everyone else to understand. Sam, who seemed able to burp at will, had graciously agreed when the team chose her as their entry, though she insisted, “Nish is a better burper – too bad he doesn’t know the alphabet!”
There was the Slurp, where a player had to pull pantyhose over his or her head and eat a bowl of Jell-O by forcing the jiggling dessert through the nylon. Sarah insisted only she could do it, as she was the only Screech Owl who had brought pantyhose to Utah, and she had no intention of letting anyone else put them on over their head – particularly not Nish, who had been boasting he could eat more Jell-O than any peewee player in the world.
There was the Chubby Bunny, in which the competitors had to show how many marshmallows they could stuff in their mouths and still say the words “Chubby Bunny” clearly enough to be understood. Much to everyone’s surprise, the Owls’ leader s
o far in the practice sessions had not been big Andy Higgins or even Gordie Griffith, the team’s best eater, but Jesse Highboy, who was considered the lightest eater on the entire team. Jesse had managed to cram thirteen marshmallows into the sides of his cheeks and still say “Chubby Bunny” with great clarity. So he was the automatic choice for that event.
There was the Cricket Spit, the mere thought of which turned Travis’s stomach. Nish and Data had gone to a nearby pet-supply store and purchased a box of live crickets, claiming the team had a chameleon for a mascot. Nish was still searching for an Owl willing to see how many crickets they could land in a garbage pail by forming a funnel with their tongue and firing the little bugs from a specified distance.
There was the Frozen T-Shirt contest, in which tournament T-shirts were to be soaked, then frozen, then tossed, rock solid, into the arms of players who then had to get them over their heads. First one to get completely into an ice-cold shirt wins. Dmitri, to everyone’s surprise, had volunteered for the contest. “My family originally came from Siberia,” he told the Owls, “so we’re used to putting on frozen clothes.”
For the grand finale, Nish said, he had devised the greatest event of all – a game he would neither name nor describe but one he claimed would “separate the men from the boys, the women from the girls, the brave from the cowards, and the winners from the losers.”
“Ready!” Nish barked into the microphone.
Travis stretched out on the floor and laid his head back. Fahd had his hands cupped and ready, aiming Travis like a cannon for the big shot. A shot too low would hit the floor too soon; a shot too high would be wasted. It had to be exactly the right trajectory for the best distance.
Next to him, Jeremy Billings, the Portland Panthers’ Snot Shot competitor, laid his head back into the hands of big Yantha.
The two remaining competitors in the event, Travis and Jeremy, looked like bookends, both small, both fair-haired, both quick to smile. They had been, by far, the best of the shooters, each winning his early rounds handily.
“Remember,” Nish shouted, his red face dripping sweat, “this is for the gold medal in the Snot Shot!”
“Go, Trav!” Data shouted from the sidelines.
“Jeremy rules!” one of the Panthers shouted.
“Get set!” roared Nish into the microphone.
Travis closed his eyes and pinched tight the empty side of his nose. He put all his attention on the expulsion of air. The aiming he’d leave to Fahd, who claimed to have worked out the physics with Data and knew exactly what trajectory the jelly bean should take.
“GO!” Nish screamed, the mike screeching with feedback as he practically shoved it down his throat.
With every ounce of his existence, Travis blew. He heard his own hard burst of breath, heard also Jeremy Billings’s wind explode from his lungs. He opened his eyes and waited for the telltale sounds.
Ping! Ping!
Skip! Skip!
He heard the two jelly beans land on the parquet floor at almost exactly the same time: it was impossible to say which had landed first or which had landed farthest from the two human cannons.
He would hear the jelly beans sliding, spinning … then silence.
A roar went up from the Portland Panthers.
Travis knew instantly. He had lost. Jeremy had blown his jelly bean farther.
“Jeremy!” one of the Panthers shouted out.
“Panthers rule!”
“Je-re-my! Je-re-my!”
Travis pushed himself up into a sitting position. He could feel Fahd’s hand gripping his shoulder.
“I screwed up,” Fahd was saying. “I screwed up. I aimed you too high, Trav.”
Travis turned and looked at his friend. Fahd looked forlorn, like he’d just blown a breakaway in a real tournament.
Travis couldn’t help but laugh. “Fahd!” he said. “Get a grip – it’s a jelly bean!”
“I’m so sorry,” Fahd continued, not even listening. “It’s all my fault.”
Other hands were on Travis’s back now. Sarah’s hand, patting. Sam’s hand, slamming. Dmitri. Lars. Liz. Data. Andy, Simon. Jesse. Willie. Derek. Gordie. Jenny. Wilson. Jeremy.
“Good try, Trav,” Sarah was saying.
There was another hand reaching for him over the Owls. Travis took Jeremy Billings’s hand and gripped tight.
“Great try,” Billings said, smiling sheepishly.
“Congratulations,” said Travis, laughing.
“Maybe we’ll meet again in the real gold-medal contest,” Billings said.
Travis nodded, but before he could speak, the publicaddress system crackled and sputtered and Nish – who clearly considered his Gross-Out Olympics the true gold-medal challenge of the tournament – was well into his announcement.
“Lay-deeees and gennnnull-mennnnn …,” Nish roared in his absurd Elvis Presley voice. “Thank you … thank you very much … The results of the gold-medal event in the Snot Shot … the winner, by a nose…”
2
“WEIRD,” said Sam.
“Weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Travis could not disagree. But he dared not say anything – even whispering was dangerous. They could so easily be caught, and he had no appetite for going through the embarrassment of explaining why he and Sam and Sarah were hiding behind the potted plants in the most elegant hotel lobby in all of Park City.
They had sneaked into the Summit Watch, a luxury hotel so perfectly situated that guests merely had to step outside the door to line up for the lifts taking skiers high up into the mountains.
They had come here because Sam, who would talk to anyone, had been gabbing to one of the players on the Hollywood Stars – a peewee team from California that was a complete unknown to all the other teams gathered at Park City.
The kids had heard rumours about this team. It was supposed to be filled with the children of movie stars and rock stars, the richest peewee team in the world, with its own private rink, its own luxury bus, and – though no one truly believed it – its own charter jet for distant tournaments.
Sam, who read People magazine the way some people study the Bible, had picked the player out immediately as he came strolling down Main Street with his parents. The kid was decked out in the nicest team track suit the Owls had ever seen. It was pitch black, but with a sun exploding on the back, and, in what appeared to be solid-gold thread, “Hollywood Stars” stitched across the shoulders as well as a bright gold number on the right arm and the player’s first name on the left.
The player Sam talked to was called Keddy, according to his arm. Keddy confirmed not only that they were the Hollywood team Sam had been reading about, but that their star player, Brody Prince, was coming in late with his parents and was expected at the Summit Watch hotel within the hour.
Hiding out in the lobby had been all Sam’s idea. She had, Travis told her, “stars in her eyes,” but even he couldn’t help but feel the curiosity, the excitement, the anticipation of hanging around the lobby waiting for the arrival of the Prince family.
Troy Prince, Brody’s father, had been a huge rock star before going into acting, and now he was one of the biggest screen names in Hollywood. Brody’s mother, Isabella Val d’Or, was a supermodel and sometime actress, and was said to have been married at one point to Michael Jackson. She had, People magazine claimed, and Sam repeated, a weakness for bizarre men.
If Michael Jackson was weird, he had little on Troy Prince, who had been arrested so many times even the gossip columnists had lost track. The father had been arrested for bar fights, for carrying concealed handguns, for causing disruptions on planes, for beating up photographers, and, once, when he’d been a rock star, for appearing nude on a hotel balcony as thousands of fans gathered below to cheer him – only to be mooned by their idol.
As the years had gone by, and Troy Prince’s fabulous wealth had mounted thanks to his music and films, he had become more law-abiding but no less weird. He appeared at the Oscars i
n dark sunglasses and a surgical mask. He wore rubber gloves when greeting fans for fear he’d pick up germs off their hands. He once, Sam claimed, had gone a solid year without speaking to a soul and, at one point during this quiet year, had even financed a multi-million-dollar silent movie intended to cash in on nostalgia for the early years of film but which had bombed horribly. It hardly mattered. Troy Prince was now a billionaire from his song royalties and investments.
But his strangest quirk of all – according to People magazine – didn’t strike Travis as peculiar at all.
He was a hockey nut.
Troy Prince was born in England, not Canada. He grew up with soccer, not hockey. But apparently one night, before he was to play a sold-out concert in Chicago, he stayed after a sound check to watch a hockey match between the Blackhawks and the Toronto Maple Leafs, and got completely hooked on the game.
He’d become so obsessed he’d even gone to the Wayne Gretzky Fantasy Camp – a week-long hockey school for adults – and had hired a former NHLer to help him learn to skate better. He’d then built an NHL-sized rink in Hollywood with dressing rooms equipped with a sound system in every stall and hot tubs instead of showers.
And when his son Brody had shown an interest in the game, he put together a team of youngsters, completely outfitted them, and then hired a former NHL coach, Buzz Blundell, to teach the kids the fundamentals.
According to the rumour, Blundell had three assistant coaches, all with pro-hockey backgrounds. One was said to be a special video coach who was hooked up to Blundell via headphones and who stayed in a large trailer in the parking lot, where he could monitor a series of cameras set up around the rink. Here, he was able to break down video replays, analyze them, and then instantly report back to Blundell during the actual game, so the head coach could make adjustments on the fly.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 5 Page 9
