“Next game? You guys don’t have a chance. The Winter Hawks are in first place. They’ll kill you.”
For someone who hated hockey so much, he sure kept close track of what happened in the Western Hockey League. I knew why too. I’d heard he once wanted to play pro, and he’d been good enough to do it. But he was afraid of getting hurt, so he never made it. Maybe it was easier to be mad at me instead of himself.
“We have a chance,” I said.
“Tell you what,” he said. “If you guys win, the entire class gets a free day. No English lesson. But if you lose,” he added, “you...” He thought for a few seconds, his caterpillar eyebrows moving up and down.
Then he smiled a nasty smile that showed too many yellow teeth. “If the Rebels lose, McElhaney, you sing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ over the intercom to the entire school.”
“You have a deal,” I said. “And we won’t lose.”
chapter four
When we stepped onto the ice to play the Portland Winter Hawks, I had more to worry about than singing a stupid nursery rhyme over the high school intercom. We really needed to win this game to keep the Hurricanes from getting too far ahead of us in the standings. Not only that, but we had heard there would be a Boston Bruins scout in the stands. This close to making it to the National Hockey League, you hated to make mistakes.
The first two and a half periods went better than we could have hoped. We were actually up 3—2. All we had to do was hang on to the lead for the final nine minutes of the game.
The Red Deer crowd really got into the game, which made it more fun for us. The Centrium was one of the newest arenas in the league, and when it had a full house, a close game seemed like a Stanley Cup playoff final.
Rowdy, the Rebels’ mascot, was a guy in a deer costume with dark glasses and big brown antlers. Rowdy was having fun too. Little kids followed him from section to section in the stands. He had the fans cheering and clapping and hollering.
Then I heard a different yell from behind me.
“Scum-sucking hosebags!” It takes a lot to snap me away from the game, but this guy sounded like a shot moose.
I turned my head slightly to look. Yes, it was stupid. Coach Blair says never let the fans get to you. If they notice that you’re noticing them, they’ll keep yelling all the way into next year.
But this guy was as bad as a foghorn. A fat foghorn with a round face and a wart on the end of his nose. He yelled so loudly that most of us on the bench turned around and looked up—just in time to see him dump cola on me from a huge plastic cup. The cola splashed across my helmet and shoulders.
The crowd noise grew as some nearby fans noticed. Our assistant coach yelled for security. The guys down the bench screamed. And above all of this noise, I heard it.
“Mac!”
Jewels Larken, our backup goalie, yelled again. “Mac! Incoming!”
Incoming meant a shift change without waiting for the whistle to stop play.
With cola dripping down the visor of my helmet, I hopped over the boards. My skates were moving even before I touched the ice. As I cut to cover my position at the far side of the ice, I tried to catch the flow of the play. Unfortunately, ducking the cola had taken my eyes from the game. It took me several seconds to figure out what was happening.
I went into my mental checklist of all the players on the ice. It was a way for me to make time seem slower. It was also a way to keep me from feeling panic, something that was always much closer to me than anyone knew.
Their right defenseman had the puck behind their net. Check. Their other defenseman was in front of their net. Check. Their center was swooping in from my left to go behind their net and pick up the puck. Check. Hog, our left winger, was chasing their center and going deep as the single forechecker. Check. So far so good. Their right winger was already in motion at the blue line and straddling it as he cut straight across toward me. Check. We needed our center to fill the gap at the top of their face-off circle and block the up-ice pass. No center! Where was Mancini at center? And where was Shertzer to cover the winger ahead of me?
My checklist was blown to shreds.
Maybe it had happened because of the cola thrown at me—Mancini and Shertzer had tangled while trying to get onto the ice. For the few seconds it took them to unscramble, we were on the wrong end of a five-on-three.
Their left defenseman busted straight up the ice toward me. Their right defenseman took advantage of the confusion by stepping out from behind the net and firing a long pass up the middle. He hit their right winger, who was already in full stride and suddenly a step ahead of my partner, Jason.
And just like that, in the flip of a heartbeat, they had the three-on-one, leaving Jason and Hog behind, with Mancini and Shertzer still trying to clear the players’ bench.
It was only me against their two wingers and left defenseman.
Their right winger cut up the ice toward me with the puck. Their left winger hugged the boards to draw me toward him. Their defenseman trailed the play.
I skated backward as they moved on me like a trio of sharks. A part of me felt the roar of the crowd. Another part saw Mancini and Shertzer finally on their feet and skating hard to catch up. But I knew I’d be alone. In this league, you can’t give anyone a head start, least of all the Winter Hawks.
Now I was inside our blue line. I had my hockey stick in my left hand and pointed at one guy. I held my right hand at chest level, pointing at another, to remind myself of their positions.
Stay even with me guys, I silently pleaded to them. Make the mistake of letting me keep the middle.
Only in my wildest dreams. They made no mistakes. The puck handler cut wide, the other winger dropped and their trailing defenseman crisscrossed.
Now I had to make a choice. Should I guard against the pass and let the puck handler go in alone? Or lose a half step to stay with the puck handler and set him up for a wide-open drop pass, with another guy busting in to pull our goalie in two directions?
I hesitated and that made my choice. The guy with the puck somehow found another burst of speed and pumped past me. That mistake left me with only one choice. I had to go for the puck, not cover a pass.
I spun and dove.
All my eyes registered was the puck. If I could sweep it first, I could follow through and no ref would call it tripping. But if I missed the puck and tangled with the winger’s skates—penalty shot.
My breath bounced from my lungs as I strained and—bingo!
Even above the roar of the crowd, I heard the thunk of my stick blade against hard rubber, and the puck slid harmlessly into the corner. Then his skates bit into the shaft of my stick, and he fell down on top of me. We both tumbled into the goalie and net. The sweet shrillness of the whistle reached my ears to end the play.
When something like that happens, you don’t feel the bruises until the next day. Especially when your teammates help you to your feet and pound your back in glee.
I’d stopped a crucial three-on-one late in the game. The Boston Bruins’ scout had to have noticed.
But my herohood only lasted another seven minutes and sixteen seconds of electronic scoreboard time. Because that’s how much time passed before I was last man back at our blue line, backpedaling and stickhandling the puck as I got ready to pass it by their center and ahead to Hog Burnell.
It was a play I could make a thousand times blindfolded. Only this time, as I made a backward turn, I lost my balance and slammed onto my backside. It was such a hard and unexpected fall that my helmet crashed against the ice.
Their center scooped up the puck and blew past me. I didn’t even have time to try to trip him. There I was, alone and flat on my back as the Winter Hawk center scored the game-tying goal in front of 6,200 fans.
The only good thing was that we didn’t lose in overtime. But we didn’t win either. The score remained tied, 3–3. We only earned a single point in the race to make the playoffs.
I knew my mistake had taken the win awa
y from us. I had also played horribly in overtime, falling at least once every shift on the ice. After the game I showered in miserable silence, alone in a crowded dressing room.
When I left the dressing room, I was still alone. Instead of heading for the parking lot and my old pickup truck, I walked into the stands. My steps echoed in the emptiness of the arena.
Barely an hour earlier, our team had lived and died with each shot on the net. Now the lights were dim, the scoreboard dark, the ice shiny and quiet.
Anyone watching might have decided I was trying to figure out how I had managed to trip over my own skates. Unfortunately, I already had the answer to that.
On my left skate, one of the rivets that held the blade to the boot had been removed. Another rivet had loosened itself during the game. It hadn’t loosened enough to move the blade much. But it was enough to wobble me when I least expected it—enough to make me fall when I made a sharp turn.
I wasn’t sitting alone in the stands trying to figure out why I had fallen. I was wondering who would have removed the rivet. And why.
chapter five
“Sure, I can see the rivet is gone.” Teddy shrugged. “But that’s a long stretch from saying someone actually took the rivet out.”
I hadn’t slept too well after last night’s game. Nor had I been able to keep my mind on school during the day. Still, there was one good thing. Our tie meant I didn’t have to sing over the intercom. Now it was an hour before practice, and I had found Teddy, our trainer, in the team dressing room at the arena.
Teddy was short, as if years and years of road trips and dressing rooms had pounded him down to his solid, chunky shape. He had straggly gray hair, a gray mustache and ears that stuck out like handles on a teacup.
“And remember that guy who threw cola,” I said. “He couldn’t have picked a worse time. Guys coming off the ice. Guys trying to get on the ice. Maybe it wasn’t an accident. And maybe Jason’s cockroaches weren’t an accident. You’ve got to admit that was strange too. All of this is hurting us on the scoreboard.”
He shook his head. “Mac, you’ve got some kinda imagination. Maybe you should stop reading all them books on the bus.”
“Come on,” I said, handing him my skate. “Look at the plastic where the rivet was. See where it’s rough?”
He held the skate up to the light and squinted at the plastic. After a few minutes he handed it back to me. “You got a point. Those could be snip marks from a pair of pliers or cutters.”
“I told you.”
He put up his hand to stop me before I got too wound up. “And they could easily not be snip marks but just banged-up plastic. That happens too, you know.” Teddy rubbed a dirty hand across his stubbled chin. “Maybe you dropped them a couple of times and knocked the rivet off.”
“This is me,” I reminded him. “I don’t drop skates.”
He laughed. “You’re right. Not the kid the newshounds have nicknamed Computer.”
He grinned some more, showing broken teeth. Teddy had been—as he would often tell us—a goalie in the old days. Before protective face masks.
He continued, “Computer, me and the boys got a bet going. Next time a puck or skate cuts you, we figure ice water’s gonna come out of your veins instead of blood.”
“My skates, Teddy.” I didn’t like hearing about the bet. I’d worked hard all season to make sure no one knew about the panic I felt every time I laced on skates. Brains will overcome the panic, I’d told myself again and again. Dad had always said brains would overcome almost any problem.
And if people wanted to believe I had no fear, I’d gladly let them. But what would happen if the panic finally struck and I couldn’t play high-pressure hockey anymore? Would I still be able to stand in this team dressing room and shoot the breeze with a trainer who had seen everything in fifty-odd years of hockey?
There were practice jerseys piled in one corner, ready for laundry. Lockers stood half open—no one needed to worry about theft on this team. Equipment was hanging everywhere with the hope it might be dry before practice this afternoon. The smell of old sweat and new sweat mixed with the welcome sharp spearmint of the muscle ointment we all used. Sticks leaned against one wall. A chalkboard hung on the other.
This room was the inner workings of Junior A hockey, something everyone on the team had fought for years to reach. I didn’t want it taken away from me because I suddenly fell apart on the ice and began to play like an idiot. And I didn’t want anyone to know about my fear of playing like an idiot.
So I pointed again at the blade and repeated myself. “Rivets, Teddy. One snipped off and the other loosened.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “So maybe I might agree this damage got done on purpose. Then what?”
I stared at him. “Then what? Then we protest to the league or something. I don’t know. But it isn’t fair that—”
“Mac,” he told me, “we all saw you fall. It cost us a win. Stuff happens.”
I held up my skate.
Teddy made a snorting noise. “You gonna get the skates checked for fingerprints?”
I felt myself flush.
“Look,” Teddy said. “You’re a big, good-looking kid. Not real dumb. And a great player. The world’s ahead of you. If you run around putting the blame on other people, you’ll get a bad name. People don’t like whiners. That might be enough to keep you out of pro.”
How could it be whining when it just wasn’t fair that someone wrecked my skate? I opened my mouth to argue, but I saw the hard look on Teddy’s face and snapped my mouth shut.
He noticed me change my mind. He patted me on the shoulder. “You learn quick, kid. That’s what I like about you. Keep your mouth shut and play hard. Tomorrow night’s game in the Hat will give you a chance to make up for last night. In the meantime, leave your skates with me and I’ll be sure they get fixed.”
Then he flicked on the grinder and bent over to sharpen a skate blade against the granite wheel. I took the hint that he was finished talking to me.
As I walked away, I decided I would keep my mouth shut. No sense in looking like a whiner. But I had a few questions I wanted answered. So while I kept my mouth shut, I’d make sure I kept my eyes and ears wide open.
chapter six
Mighty Ducks—the movie, not the NHL team—filled the television screen, and most of the guys groaned at the funny spots, which was a good indication of how many times we had seen it during our road trips on this bus.
Groans or not, being able to watch videos on the bus was one of the great things about playing in the WHL. Especially compared to road trips in the leagues we played in when we were younger. In those days, a road trip meant long hours on a beat-up, creaking, groaning bus. Night was the worst, when the passing countryside was just a blur of darkness broken by occasional farm lights.
But in this league, the long distances went a lot quicker. We rode a luxury bus with plenty of room to stretch and with a television and VCR mounted high at the front of the aisle. Good thing too. This trip to Medicine Hat to play the Tigers took more than four hours. And the Tigers were one of the closer teams to Red Deer.
Usually I ignored the video movies and lost myself in books—mysteries, sports, you name it. I would often be surprised to look up and discover we had arrived. Today, though, I couldn’t concentrate on reading, not with the folded newspaper under my seat.
So I groaned along with everyone else when Coach Blair stood and reached up to push the on/off button of the television. Coach Blair was a big man who looked even bigger and tougher in his dark navy double-breasted suit. His short brown hair had streaks of gray already, although his bio sheet said he was still in his thirties. When he grinned, his face stopped looking like it was a chunk of mountain. But when he frowned, it looked like the mountain was going to fall on you.
He wasn’t smiling now.
“Save your groans for the trip back,” Coach Blair said as the screen went black, “because if I don’t get a hundred and ten perc
ent from every player tonight, you can expect a double practice tomorrow.”
We shut up.
He let his eyes travel up and down the aisle, looking each of us square in the face before he spoke again. “You’ve all seen the newspaper.”
More than a few players looked around to see what I might do. Jason Mulridge and Hog Burnell came closer to being my friends than anyone else on the team. Those two had made a point of showing anger at the newspaper article. A few others had half-nodded in agreement. The rest had said and done nothing. Which shows that trouble is a quick way to figure out who is on your side and who isn’t.
Coach Blair made a point of not looking at me as he spoke. He held up a copy of the same paper I had beneath my seat. “I do not, repeat, do not believe what they’re writing about us in the local paper,” he said. “We’re going to prove them utterly wrong. This team is not a team of chokers. We will not fold under pressure. And when all of you skate hard, nobody beats us.”
He waved the folded newspaper at us. “I’m not saying beat the Tigers tonight or else. They’re a tough team on home ice. And sometimes games are decided by bad refs or a wrong bounce—nothing you can prevent. But if we lose because we get lazy, you can expect to skate till you throw up in tomorrow’s practice.”
He stared hard, waiting to see if anyone dared to comment.
We didn’t.
“Good,” he finished. “Now start thinking about the game.”
In the silence that followed, broken only by the humming of the bus’s tires, I tried to follow Coach Blair’s instructions. But I couldn’t. Not with his reminder about the newspaper article.
In the same way you can’t resist lifting a bandage to check a new set of stitches, I had to see the newspaper again. I pulled it out from under my seat, even though I knew what I would see.
The headline said “Folding Act Begins Again?” No matter how I tried, I could find nothing good in a single sentence.
I set the paper down and stared out the window at the open fields of the flat prairie north of Medicine Hat.
Rebel Glory Page 2
