“Shortcut?” Earplug said, for the first time speaking in a nearly normal voice.
“The team bus is out back,” Travis said. “We always go through this way. It’s shorter.”
“You’ll go through this way no more, young man,” Earplug said. “The FBI and Secret Service have declared this off limits to the end of the tournament. Understand?”
“Yessss, sirrrrr!” Nish snapped back over his shoulder.
“You other boys act more like Kariya, here,” said Earplug. “And we’ll understand each other just fine. Now get out of here, the long way!”
“Yessss, sirrrrr!” Nish snapped again.
The four Owls gathered up their equipment bags and sticks and turned back the way they’d come, heading the long way around for the bus. Mr. Dillinger and Muck would be wondering what had happened to them.
“What’s with the ‘Paul Kariya’?” Lars asked Nish as they went through a door into the corridor heading toward the front entrance.
“First thing that came into my mind,” Nish said.
Travis shook his head. Life would certainly be a lot easier if only his friend would wait for the second, third, fourth – or two hundredth – thing that came into his twisted mind.
20
“Chase’s team beat the Panthers!” Lars shouted.
Travis couldn’t believe it. The Washington Wall beat the Portland Panthers? Impossible. But then he remembered – Billings still hadn’t been able to play. Without him, the Panthers were just another team. And now they were out of the tournament.
“The final’s at six o’clock!” Fahd yelled. “We’re playing the Washington Wall for the championship!”
“And they’ve just announced that the President can come!” added Lars.
There’d be more television coverage than the Owls had ever experienced.
All the Owls but one, that is.
One of them – or at least a significant part of one of them – was already a television star around the world.
Entering the MCI Center later in the afternoon was like entering an armed camp. The Owls had been amazed before by the security when Chase Jordan was playing, but that was nothing compared to this.
There were Secret Service men everywhere. There were metal detectors and X-ray machines and guards at every entrance and, once again, dogs to check every equipment bag.
“Good thing they don’t have sniffer dogs for streakers’ bums!” Sam yelled out.
“Shut up!” Nish snapped, his face glowing like the burner on a stove.
They’re going too far with Nish, Travis thought. I’ve got to put a stop to this.
But there was no time. The delay getting into the rink meant that they had to hurry into their hockey equipment, and Mr. Dillinger was in the dressing room sharpening a few of the Owls’ skates. There was no use trying to talk over the noise.
Nish had dressed in silence and was sitting in his usual corner in his usual fashion: head down on the tops of his shin pads, his eyes closed. Normally, Travis would have thought his friend was trying to “envision” the upcoming match, but this time he had the feeling that Nish was trying to escape.
The machine shut off.
I should say something, Travis thought. I should do it now.
But he was too late. Willie and Andy and Wilson were already back at it.
“Can you imagine if they did have a sniffer dog for streakers!” Wilson shrieked, still laughing at Sam’s joke.
“No dog’d take the job!” giggled Willie.
“It’d be worse than getting skunked!” laughed Andy.
Nish’s head was up. He looked furious.
He stood up, and with a swift kick of one skate, sent all the sticks flying off the wall in Andy’s direction.
“Hey!” Mr. Dillinger shouted.
But Nish was already at the door and out, slamming it hard behind him.
Should I go after him? Travis wondered. No. Give him a minute or two by himself. Deal with the team first.
“Lay off him, okay?” Travis said.
“It’s just a little fun,” Andy said weakly.
“I know,” Travis said. “But fun’s over. Can’t you see he’s had enough?”
No one said anything. Travis was afraid they thought he was being too pushy, that he was overreacting.
“He’s right,” Sarah said. “Let’s just let it go.”
Travis felt the air come out of his lungs. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding his breath. Thank heavens for Sarah.
“He’s still a butt brain,” Sam said.
I can’t argue with that, Travis thought. But he wisely said nothing.
21
Nish burst through the dressing-room door, slammed it behind him, and instantly wondered why he’d done it. He didn’t know which way to go. Back into the dressing room? Take off somewhere? Wait where he was until Muck came along?
He had that old out-of-control feeling inside him, almost as if his blood was boiling and steaming through his veins. He could still remember how, whenever he got this way when he was small – frustrated, angry, upset, his brain spinning, racing – his mother would simply pick him up, hold his arms tight to his body, and move somewhere quiet with him until he calmed down. He wished his mother was here right now. But she wouldn’t be able to pick him up any more. And she might find out he’d run off with the television remote …
He tried counting to ten. He tried holding his breath. He tried counting back from ten. He needed to move. He needed to shake the hot blood out of his veins and the spiders out of his stomach and the squirrels out of his head. If he didn’t move, he thought he’d explode.
Careful not to scrape his skates, Nish shuffled down the corridor towards the Zamboni chute just as Muck came around the far corner from the opposite direction.
Muck stared curiously at Nish. No one, not even Mrs. Nishikawa, understood Wayne Nishikawa better than Muck Munro, the coach of the Screech Owls. He’d known Nish for too long now. He’d seen him in every imaginable state of mind, including the one where he just had to get away and be on his own.
Muck decided to let him go, for the time being.
Travis had his head down, thinking about the game, when Muck came into the dressing room. Muck looked his usual self: casual, relaxed, more like he was about to go fishing than coach a team in a championship game. A championship game before the President of the United States.
Travis couldn’t stop a small smile from flickering across his face. Most coaches would have worn a suit under the circumstances. Most would be carrying a clipboard filled with nonsense, or chewing ice like they do in the NHL. But not Muck. Never Muck. Same old windbreaker. Same old pants. Same old boots.
“Nishikawa needs some private time,” Muck said matter-of-factly.
“We kidded a bit too much,” Sarah said.
Good for Sarah, Travis thought. If he had said it, it would have sounded more like “telling.”
“He’ll be fine,” Muck said.
“When’re we on?” Fahd asked.
“Zamboni’s finished,” Muck said. “We can go out any time.”
The Screech Owls started moving, but Muck held up his hand, palm out, and they stopped dead.
“A couple of things.”
Travis sat back, slightly surprised. Muck rarely talked to them before games, and most assuredly never gave anything like a “coach’s speech.”
“They’re a good team,” Muck said. “You already know that. They tied you in the early round. They’re very well coached and play exceptional positional hockey. But they do make mistakes. We stay in our positions and trust in their mistakes. When they make one, we pounce with our speed. Okay?”
“Okay,” Fahd said unnecessarily.
“Now there’s a lot of attention out there. Cameras. Reporters. Lots of people. They’re not here to see you. They’re here because the President’s coming later and the President’s kid is playing. I don’t want anybody thinking outside the ice surface, o
kay?”
“Okay,” Fahd said.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” Muck smiled. “The only one I really need to speak to isn’t even here.”
Nish could feel himself calming down. The squirrels were slowing in his head. The spiders were quiet in his gut. His blood was flowing rather than boiling over. Even his thoughts were back as close to normal as they ever got.
He just needed some space. Just a little time to himself and he could go back and join the team like everything was back to the way it used to be. If they said nothing, he’d say nothing. They could all just forget any of this stupid stuff ever happened.
Nish figured he needed something to distract himself. Something else to think about apart from Sam’s constant cracks and what might happen if the authorities found out he was the one who streaked the President.
The Zamboni room. He’d go in and check it out. Maybe talk to the driver about keeping ice down here in Washington where it could get so hot at this time of year. Something to take his mind off everything.
Nish stood at the door and tried to see into the Zamboni chute area, but the window in the door was papered over for some reason, as if they were trying to keep people out. Or at least from seeing in.
Nish knew the Zamboni driver wouldn’t mind. He was a happy old guy, always laughing and joking with the kids. Nish would just walk in and start talking to him. He leaned into the door.
The door opened too fast – almost as if someone had yanked it from the other side. Nish fell through the doorway, his skates scraping horribly across the concrete floor.
He felt something being slapped over his mouth just as he opened it to cry out. Something sticky – and terrible-tasting!
Duct tape!
And then pain – followed by darkness.
There was a quick knock on the dressing-room door and a man’s voice called out. “Ice’s ready! You’re on, Screech Owls!”
Muck checked his watch and shrugged. “I guess Nish is having a longer talk with himself than I thought,” he said. “He’ll just have to catch up to us. Let’s go!”
“Yesss!” shouted Sam.
“Go Owls!” called Sarah.
“Be smart!” Travis yelled.
“Go Can-a-da!!” shouted Fahd.
22
Travis hit the crossbar first shot in the warm-up. He felt good. The ice was in perfect shape. The rink was filled with far more fans than the usual crowd of parents and relatives. There were several TV crews as well, but none of the cameras was pointed in the direction of the Owls. All media attention was on the Washington Wall, Chase Jordan’s team.
Mr. Dillinger had found out that the President would be arriving around the third period. It was all he could manage with his busy schedule, especially with the White House Summit about to wind up. He’d watch the final period and then make the presentation.
Travis didn’t doubt for a moment that the crowd would be cheering for the Wall. Especially the television people. Footage of the President handing the trophy to his own son would be far more valuable than shots of the President of the United States shaking hands with some little kid from Canada.
It made Travis want to win all the more.
The officials were calling the teams to get ready for the faceoff. Travis looked desperately towards the door leading to the dressing rooms.
Still no sign of Nish.
Muck seemed equally concerned. He whispered something to Mr. Dillinger just before the opening faceoff, and Mr. Dillinger hopped over the boards at the visitors’ bench and headed back through the seats towards the exit.
He would be going to get Nish.
Everything would be all right.
The squirrels in Nish’s head and the spiders in his gut were gone, but now that he had come to, he had howling hyenas up top and crocodiles below. He was terrified he would throw up. With duct tape covering his mouth, he’d choke himself and die! He couldn’t see. He couldn’t yell.
He couldn’t move his hands. They must be wrapped in duct tape, too.
He had no idea where he was. It was cold and hard and damp, that was all he knew.
Perhaps it was the cameras, perhaps it was knowing the President of the United States was going to be there – whatever it was, the Owls were off their game and the Wall were on theirs.
The Washington team seemed driven to play hard. Maybe it was the idea of beating the Canadians at their national game. Or maybe they were just more used to all the attention that came from having Chase Jordan on their team.
Chase scored the first goal on a beautiful passing play with one of his wingers. They forced a turnover on Andy’s line and came in so fast that Willie Granger failed to get back in time, stranding Fahd to deal with the attack.
Chase hit his left wing early with a pass, Fahd went for the puck carrier, the winger flipped the puck back, and Chase one-timed it behind Jeremy.
Travis cringed on the bench. Fahd should never have fallen for it. Nish would have stayed to the middle, taking away the pass and letting them have the long shot if they wanted.
Where was he?
23
Metal, Nish thought.
Whatever he was on, it was metal. And tight, an enclosed space.
He tapped one skate against the wall to make sure. Hard, cold, wet metal. But what was it, and where was it, and why was he there?
Nish tried to piece together what little he knew.
What had he heard? Nothing. He’d pushed through the door, and the door had seemed to fall away. In an instant, he’d been down on the floor and the tape was ripping and then it was over his mouth and then everything went dark.
What had he seen?
Nothing.
Chase Jordan was having the game of his life. He’d scored twice and set up another by the time the first period was over. The Washington Wall were ahead 4–2. Only Sarah, on a backhand as she’d been tripped, and Jesse, on a wraparound that caught the Wall goaltender off guard, had been able to score for the Owls.
Travis knew what was wrong. The Wall were sending two forecheckers in hard to try to panic the Owls’ defence, while the third forward, usually the centre, stayed back around the blueline ready to pounce on any long passes the panicking Owls defence might try.
Travis also knew what was missing.
If Nish were on the ice, the Wall wouldn’t have been getting nearly so many chances. Nish knew how to get a puck out of his own end. He could carry a puck better than anyone but Sarah, and he had a good eye for the long breakaway pass to Dmitri or Travis on the wings. He also knew how to defend in his own end.
Travis had already seen Mr. Dillinger come back shaking his head, and he had caught the look on Muck’s face as the coach realized Nish was nowhere to be found.
So where was he? Travis asked himself. How badly had they hurt Nish’s feelings? Could he have left the rink?
No. He’d left his clothes and runners in the dressing room when he stomped out. Travis tried to imagine Nish, in full equipment, scraping along Pennsylvania Avenue, in his skates, around the Washington Monument and the long reflecting pool while office workers sat about in the sun.
Travis knew Nish had to be in the MCI Center.
But where?
24
The third period was underway, with the Wall ahead 5–4. Chase Jordan had scored his third goal of the game, and there had been a delay while a couple of dozen hats soared out of the stands and onto the ice to celebrate the hat-trick. The cameras had recorded every moment of it, even coming down onto the ice to film the workers piling the hats into a large garbage bag.
It seemed to Travis that nothing could stop the Washington Wall. Everything seemed to be working out for everyone: Chase was having the game of his life; the Wall were leading in the championship game; and the television crews were delighted with their story. All that was needed to complete the perfect day was for the President to arrive and present the trophy to his own son.
Perfect, Travis thought,
for everyone but the Screech Owls. They weren’t on their game. He liked Chase Jordan enough to appreciate what this must mean to him, but he couldn’t help but feel that this was not a true measure of the Owls.
They needed their top defenceman. Desperately.
But there was no sign of Nish. No word. Nothing.
Nish had never tasted anything so horrible. He was chewing the duct tape from the inside. His mouth must have been opened to scream when the tape was slapped over it. He could move his jaw just enough to bite into the tape and grind at it.
It tasted bad. But it was working. He had chewed a small hole in the cover, but not enough yet to call for help. All he could manage was a tiny squeak.
He thought he could hear something now, but the sounds were terribly muffled. He felt like he was inside a cookie tin. Some container of some kind. And somewhere beyond the cold metal walls was the sound of a crowd calling and cheering. He also thought he heard a buzzer.
He must still be inside the rink!
He chewed faster and harder.
Two minutes to go, and the Owls were still down by a goal. Muck called Sarah’s line out for the faceoff, and Travis leapt the boards, tapping Andy’s and Jesse’s shin pads as they puffed by to take their rest on the bench. All the Owls were giving everything they had, but it was doing no good. They needed someone to move that puck up.
They circled for the faceoff, Sarah choking up on her stick as she began to glide in for the puck drop. Suddenly there was a huge commotion in the crowd, and the linesman backed off, waiting.
Everyone in the rink, players included, turned their attention to an entrance to the stands.
An army of Secret Service men, led by Earplug, were moving down the aisle towards a seat just behind the Wall’s bench.
Earplug seemed even more nervous than usual. His eyes were darting every which way. His hand was tucked inside his jacket, ready at any moment to pull out his gun.
To Travis, it seemed unbelievable. More like a movie than real life. But then the stands broke into applause and cheers. Behind the first wave of Secret Service men, a tall grey-haired man in a dark blue suit moved athletically down the steps, waving and smiling.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 4 Page 31
