by David Skuy
Alexi hit his own pads with his stick, and jumped to his feet. He crouched down to show he was ready, “You get that goal,” he said. “Scoring is over for them.”
The next two minutes were complete and utter mayhem. The puck barely left Flemington’s end. The Terrence Falls players played like madmen, desperately trying to set up a good scoring chance. Flemington held on bravely, launching their bodies in front of shots and diving after every loose puck. With thirty seconds left, Terrence Falls was still behind by one, and the faceoff was deep in Flemington’s end to the goalie’s left. Hilton pulled Alexi, allowing Matt to join the attack.
Charlie circled around to stall for time, struggling to catch his breath. His spirits got a big boost when Pudge came out to take over left wing. Scott and Nick were on the point, with Zachary on the wing against the boards. He felt good about the six guys out there — each had proved himself to be a hockey warrior in this game. It occurred to him that they were all grade nines. He looked over at the bench. His older teammates were on their feet banging the boards and calling out encouragement. They were counting on them to tie it up, and proving to be unselfish by not complaining about ice time. Regardless of whether they scored, Charlie felt that for the first time they were a real team — all pulling together to try to win.
The referee blew his whistle and held the puck aloft. Charlie drifted to the faceoff and choked up on the stick to make it look as if he wanted to draw the puck back to the point. Before the puck was dropped, though, he glanced sharply at Zachary and hit the ice twice with his stick.
That signal meant Charlie would tie the centre up, rather than try to win the draw. Zachary would come over and dig the puck out for a quick shot on goal. Zachary anticipated the drop of the puck, swept across, and in one motion fired a bullet to the short side. The goalie got a piece of it with his left pad, deflecting it to the corner.
The Flemington defenceman got to the puck first, but Charlie, who had spun loose from the centre, was right on him. The defenceman panicked and shot the puck up the boards before his winger was ready, and the puck continued on to Nick, who trapped it inside the line. Nick blasted it back down along the boards, all the way around the net to the far corner, where Pudge was waiting.
Pudge got control of the puck, but he didn’t have a chance to pass it before Flemington’s right defenceman was on him. The two players battled for possession, but neither was able to knock the puck free. Matt joined them, along with Flemington’s right winger. Charlie looked up at the clock in frustration. Only twenty seconds remained. He skated behind the net to see if he could help. Pudge saw him, and, with a Herculean effort, bulled his way forward, dislodging the puck momentarily, which let Matt kick it free to Charlie.
Charlie snatched the puck and skated backwards with it behind the net, looking around to assess the situation. Zachary was banging with the left defenceman in front trying to establish position. The defenceman was a big, strong kid and gave no quarter. Charlie doubted Zachary would ever get his stick down for a pass. He would have to come up with something else, and fast.
Nick waved his stick in the air at the point, and Charlie was on the verge of passing it to him, when the Flemington centre moved over to block the passing lane. Scott drifted into the slot area, but he was quickly covered by the left winger. With ten seconds left, the crowd began to count down. When they reached seven, Charlie decided his only option was the wraparound. Unfortunately, Flemington’s solid positional play made that impossible. The right defenceman had raced over to cover the left post, and the right winger was covering the right post.
He heard the count reach five, and then decided to try something he’d seen an NHL player do once. Charlie came out the left side, as if he was going to go for the wraparound. The defenceman flopped to the ice to block his path, and then extended his arms and legs so Charlie couldn’t pass it in front anywhere. Charlie had no intention of passing, however. He flicked the puck high in the air, over the prone defenceman, to the very spot where he’d been covering, three feet from the top of the crease. He then jumped over the defenceman and twisted around in the air, so that he was facing the net. Charlie and the puck landed at the same time. The goalie had dropped to his knees to prevent Charlie from stuffing it in on the short side. That left the top of the net open. He swung his stick, and the puck sailed over the goalie’s shoulder, into the top corner. Charlie had passed the puck to himself and, as if by miracle, had tied the game with two seconds left.
The entire team poured off the bench and piled onto him. Everyone was banging on each other’s helmets and exchanging high-fives. Charlie was just trying to breathe, crushed under a pile of players. But he loved it all the same, and, like his delirious teammates, could hardly believe he had scored.
The referees broke up their celebrations to remind them that the game was tied. There were still two seconds on the clock, and then a five-minute overtime. If that didn’t settle it, there would be a shootout.
The late goal deflated the Flemington squad. For most of the overtime it looked like they were just trying to get it over with. They dumped the puck into Terrence Falls’ end almost as soon as they crossed centre, dropping back to play defence. That made it difficult for Terrence Falls to get anything going. The play was choppy as a result, with lots of turnovers and constant whistles. The buzzer sounded, ending the overtime, without either team coming close to scoring.
A referee came over to Hilton to explain the rules. “You need to pick three shooters. Have them wait behind the red line on the ice. Non-shooters stay on the bench. The shooters will go in on a breakaway from centre, alternating between each team. Whichever team gets the most goals wins. If it’s still tied after three shooters, then we keep going until one team scores and the other doesn’t. Understood?”
Hilton nodded and the referee skated away. He leaned over and said something to Tremblay, who whispered something back. After that brief exchange, Hilton announced who the shooters would be.
“Okay, fellas. This is the first group of shooters, and I want you to go in this order: Charlie, Zachary, Matt.”
Those three players stayed on the ice while everyone else filed onto the bench.
“Don’t try to make the perfect move,” Hilton told the shooters. “Just don’t get cheated. That’s the important thing. Watch the goalie and, by the top of the circle, you should know if you’re going to shoot or deke. If you shoot, shoot hard. If you deke, make it a strong move. Now let’s get this thing over with.”
They nodded in unison and shuffled to their spot behind the red line.
The referee came over to them. “You guys are the visitors for this game, so you go first.”
Charlie skated slowly to centre. He took a deep breath. He had decided what to do the second the coach called his name. His father had taught him long ago that one of the hardest shots for a goalie to stop on a breakaway is along the ice on the stick side. It’s also difficult for the shooter, because if the puck lifts even an inch or two the goalie can make an easy pad save. Done right, however, it’s nearly impossible to stop.
Flemington’s goalie was more aggressive than he’d been all game, and he came out to challenge Charlie. Charlie considered changing his mind, but his coach’s advice came back to him. Don’t get cheated. At the hash marks, Charlie drew his stick back and snapped a hard shot along the ice to the stick side. The goalie didn’t even move, as the puck streaked into the corner.
Charlie pumped his arm in the air. The other shooters skated over, rewarding him with several slaps to the helmet. Now it was Flemington’s turn. Their first shooter wasted no time. He carried the puck in at top speed, faked to his forehand, and lofted a backhand towards the top corner. Alexi was not fooled. He had come out to cut down the angle, and slid across in a butterfly to stop the puck with his right shoulder.
The Terrence Falls fans roared their approval, while the Flemington side groaned. Zachary was up next. He moved in, deked to his right, and slid the puck between the go
alie’s legs to pot the second goal. Flemington’s second shooter slapped the ice with his stick to fire himself up. He slowed as he crossed the blue line, drifting in and firing a hard shot at the five-hole between Alexi’s legs. Alexi flopped to the ice, and the puck hit him in the stomach.
He’d been as good as his word. Flemington hadn’t scored again.
Charlie was too stoked to react. Not so his teammates who pounded him on the helmet and chanted, “Ter-rence Falls! Ter-rence Falls! Ter-rence Falls!” Despite everything that had happened, they had earned the right to face Chelsea in the finals.
17
SHADOW
A large, round-faced man wearing a crisp, short white coat and a happy grin on his face greeted Charlie as he filed off the bus. Charlie guessed he was Bruno Moretti, the owner and main attraction of Bruno’s Bistro, one of Terrence Falls’ most popular restaurants, and also Pudge’s father. Bruno had generously invited the entire team for lunch after the game, an offer gratefully accepted by both coaches who thought it would be good for the players to stay together.
“I’ve made spaghetti with lots of tomato sauce,” Pudge’s father said, “but not too heavy. No meat. And I also made nice salad. And for dessert, fruit.”
“That’s terrific,” Hilton said, as they walked together into the bistro.
Bruno nodded graciously. “Ricardo, Tony, they’re here. Let’s bring out the food.”
A long table had been set up for them in the middle of the mainly empty restaurant. The players took their seats, talking about the Flemington game and the approaching showdown against Chelsea. Pudge’s foot was of great concern to everyone. It was beginning to swell up. He was limping noticeably, and had trouble putting any weight on it.
When Bruno saw Pudge, he clutched his hair and moaned and made a terrible fuss. “Oh my goodness, look at that foot. It’s the size of a watermelon. This is terrible, terrible. And just before the final. I saw you get hit, but never thought it would be this bad. Let me get some ice. That’s what we need. Lots and lots of ice. Tony, get me a bucket of ice and a towel.”
“Dad, it’s not that serious. Besides, I already put some ice on it after the game.”
“It’s probably a good idea,” Hilton said. “Let’s keep icing it, and see how it goes.”
“We’ll get you fixed up for the final,” Bruno said. “The Morettis are tough.”
Tony brought the bucket. Pudge was embarrassed by his father’s attention, but he dutifully let him wrap the ice around his foot. While that was going on, Scott asked the coaches how they were planning to shut down Chelsea’s high-powered offence.
“We have some ideas about that,” Hilton said. “Let’s have lunch and relax first.” He pointed at the kitchen as Ricardo and Tony came out carrying two large trays with steaming hot plates of spaghetti.
“Help yourselves to the parmigiano,” Bruno told them. “And we’ll bring out a few pitchers of pop and some water.”
He hit his forehead with his hand. “What was I thinking? Two trays are not enough for hungry hockey players. Ricardo, get two more, and lots of sauce. Coach, we got lots of fruit, too. I’ll get that now. Good for energy. They’ll need it against Chelsea. I saw them play before you. Good team. Very fast — very skilled. But we’ll win. We play more together.”
“I think you’re right, Bruno. And some fruit would be great. You’re being too good to us. Thanks again.”
“Nothing’s too good for the gold-medal team,” he said.
Hilton just smiled.
“Now what’s taking so long with that pasta? Ricardo, what you doing in there?” Bruno yelled. He went off to the kitchen to see for himself.
There was a lull in the conversation, as the players settled down to eat their lunch. Charlie was sitting across from Hilton, and he decided to take advantage of the quiet to ask a question — one he’d been dying to ask since he heard Liam say that Hilton once had a tryout with the Boston Bruins.
“Excuse me, Coach,” Charlie began. “Can I ask you a question?”
Hilton held up a hand. “We’ll get to our strategy against Chelsea in due course — don’t worry. Let’s enjoy this wonderful food, and then we’ll get down to business.
“It’s not about the game,” Charlie said hesitantly.
“Then ask away,” he said, taking a sip of water.
“I was wondering, and I think a bunch of us were wondering, what happened to your hockey career after Terrence Falls? I know you played junior, and did really well, but I don’t know much after that.”
Hilton pursed his lips, took another sip of water, and looked straight at him. Charlie instantly regretted asking the question. The coach clearly didn’t want to talk about it.
But then, suddenly, Hilton’s features softened, and he nodded slightly. “What, specifically, did you want to know?”
Charlie’s question had caught everyone’s attention, and all the players were waiting for their coach to answer. Speculating on his hockey past was a favourite pastime. His scoring records with the Watford Park Rangers had stood for over twenty years, until Karl Schneider broke them only the year before. Little was known about Hilton’s playing days apart from that. He was an intensely private man and he rarely spoke about himself.
“I heard that you were drafted by an NHL team.”
“I was,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s not much of a story. I was drafted by the Boston Bruins.”
“What round?” Charlie interrupted.
Hilton smiled. “The first round.”
Charlie was surprised to hear that. Liam had said Hilton hadn’t done anything. The first round was incredible — how many players could say that?
“So the Bruins drafted me, which was pretty cool because they were a very good team back then. It was after the glory days of Bobby Orr and Phil Esposito, but still they could play. I was only eighteen, and was still eligible for another year of junior, but the team invited me to training camp.”
“What was that like?” Charlie asked.
“It was quite the experience. The Bruins used to play in the Boston Gardens, a classic old arena. It had an amazing atmosphere — it was a thrill just skating in that building. And like I said, the Bruins were a solid team. They had guys like Rick Middleton, Raymond Bourque, Keith Crowder, Charlie Simmer, Kenny Linseman, Cam Neely.” He laughed. “You may not have heard of them, since none of you were born back then, but they were stars at the time.”
“I’ve heard of Bourque,” Scott said.
“Me too,” Charlie chimed.
“He played a long time,” Hilton acknowledged. “Anyway, given the talent on the ice, and the fact that I was so young, I never expected to make the team. But I lasted the entire training camp, and played in several exhibition games. We had a few injuries going into the regular season, and management decided to keep me up until the regulars returned.”
“So you got to play in the NHL.”
“I did. Not for too long, unfortunately. In my third game, I got hurt, and was never able to play again.”
He paused and took another sip of water. “Sorry that it’s such a dull story,” he joked, “but that’s what happened. Unlike some guys, I always took school seriously, and only had one year to get my high school diploma. I came back to Terrence Falls, finished high school, and then went on to university, where I studied to be a teacher — and the rest, as they say, is history.”
“How’d you get hurt?” Charlie asked.
“We were in Chicago. It was in the first period, early in the game. There was a scramble in front of the net. I was in the slot, waiting for the puck to come free. Someone shot the puck, I think it was Middleton, and it bounced over to me. I had to stretch to get it, putting all my weight on my left leg. I was way off balance, but still got the shot off. The second I let it go, however, I was submarined by a defenceman. He hit that left leg, tearing the ACL completely, and even breaking the kneecap. I had surgery the next day, but they couldn’t fix all the damage. Despite all the rehab �
� and I really went at it — I never got all my strength or flexibility back. The knee just couldn’t take the punishment of professional hockey.”
Charlie interrupted the silence that followed Hilton’s story. “Did you score on that last shot?” he asked.
“Actually, I did,” Hilton replied, with a hint of pride.
Charlie looked at him with a new sense of admiration. It was one thing to be an excellent English teacher and a superb coach. Getting drafted in the first round was also impressive. Scoring in an NHL game was another matter entirely.
“I read once that in the history of hockey only six thousand men have ever played in an NHL game. At least you’re one of those guys,” Charlie said.
“I’ve never heard that,” Hilton said. “I like the sound of it, though.”
Bruno came storming out of the kitchen holding yet another large tray of pasta. “Who needs more? Come on. I know some of you are still hungry. Put up your hand if you want a little extra.”
A few players held up empty plates and Bruno scurried to fill them.
“Eat up, boys. I’ve got lots and lots. Don’t be shy with Bruno. You need your energy.”
Bruno buzzed around the table, fussing over the players, encouraging them to eat, filling their glasses, and taking away the dirty dishes. He made a special effort to meet Charlie, asking about his mother’s café, and promising to try it out as soon as it opened. Charlie liked him. He seemed genuine and sincere, just like his son.
“Say, does anyone know how the other Terrence Falls teams did?” Pudge asked.
“I think our senior boys’ team got through to the finals,” Nick offered. “They play tonight after our game.”
“What about the girls’ teams?” Charlie asked.
Nick winked. “Any team in particular you wanna know about?”
“How about both of them?”
“Senior team lost in the quarterfinals. The junior team is playing before us for the gold medal.”
