by David Skuy
Hilton interrupted his thoughts.
“A good start,” he said. “We took the body, skated well, and played smart in our own end. Frankly, I’m surprised how passive they’ve been. I can see their coach is having a word with his players. I can only imagine they’ll be coming out guns blazing this period, so be on your toes.” He looked at his clipboard. “Charlie’s line is out.”
Charlie went to centre. Schultz was really laying into his players. He could hear him yelling.
“That was the biggest piece of garbage period I’ve ever seen,” he said. “I’m embarrassed. I didn’t see a hit — not a single hit. You’re letting them humiliate you — and me! Where’s the toughness? Where’s the commitment? Guys will be sitting on the bench very shortly if that doesn’t change — and I mean immediately.”
He lowered his voice and Charlie couldn’t hear. A few Wildcats turned to look at him, which kind of weirded him out, like they were talking about him. Jake continued to stare after most had turned away. He had no time for Jake’s tough-guy act. He skated over to Pudge.
“Too bad he’s not our coach,” he said.
“I played for him for two years and trust me, this is nothing. He’s being nice. Wait till he gets worked up about something. It’s a whole other level of insane.”
“Can’t believe anyone would play with him,” Zachary said. “We’ve got to win this game. I can’t even think about losing to this crew.”
“Only possibility is victory,” Pudge said.
The referee skated to the circle. Jake came out for the draw. Jake was all business as he lined up. Charlie took a moment to check out his stance — shoulders square, well balanced, feet slightly wider than shoulder width. Hard to know what Jake was thinking. He decided to go forehand and send it over to Zachary. He and Jake leaned forward in anticipation, their helmets touching slightly. The puck dropped. Quick as a flash, Charlie slapped the puck to Zachary, following through with a shoulder. Zachary had timed it perfectly and picked up the puck on the fly, barrelling down the wing. Charlie sidestepped Jake and took off after him. After two strides he felt a sharp pain in his ribs — courtesy of a Jake butt-end.
“Out of my way, loser,” Jake said.
He couldn’t let Jake get away with that. He cut in front of him, and thrust his elbow into Jake’s chin.
“Enjoy,” he said, skating off.
Luckily the ref hadn’t seen it. Roscoe came over to cover him. Charlie pretended to slow down, and then turned on the jets and blew by. Roscoe slapped his stick in frustration.
Zachary had taken it to the outside. The left defenceman cut him off, so he hit the brakes at the hash marks looking to pass. Charlie powered into the zone pointing to the corner. Zachary waited until he was in the slot and slid the puck down low.
Charlie glanced to his left. The other defenceman was covering the front of the net. Jake and Roscoe were somewhere behind him — probably not by much. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pudge hanging wide near the boards. That was Pudge — always thinking ahead. Charlie backhanded the puck behind the net along the boards to Pudge, and prepared himself for a hit. He knew Roscoe would be coming hard. Sure enough, the right winger launched himself. Charlie jumped to his right at the last second. Roscoe barely grazed his shoulder, and slammed into the boards.
“Was that supposed to hurt?” he said to Roscoe, and headed to the front of the net.
Something struck him hard on the side of his head, the force of the blow sending him skidding to the boards. He felt strange, as if he was floating on a cloud.
“Maybe that’ll hurt.”
Charlie had trouble focusing. He knew that voice. Who was it?
Jake’s leering face came into view. “You’re out of your league, Joyce. We play for keeps.” He shoved a glove into his face.
A ref pulled Jake aside, allowing Charlie to regain his feet. Pudge and Zachary raced in.
“That was the cheapest shot I’ve ever seen,” Pudge thundered. Charlie had never seen Pudge so mad.
“Go eat a doughnut,” Jake snarled, and he pushed forward to get at Pudge.
Liam and Roscoe crowded close, and Scott and Nick joined the scrum.
“Can’t take a hit,” Liam taunted.
“Maybe Joyce needs a diaper change,” Thomas added.
“Maybe you guys need to repeat grade three again,” Scott replied.
Charlie was having trouble concentrating. He moved away to give himself a chance to clear his head.
Tweet! Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!
Both referees were blowing their whistles non-stop. Charlie barely heard them, the crowd was making so much noise.
One spectator lifted himself over the top of the glass. “Call a penalty once in a while, ref,” he bellowed. “You made this happen with your stupid calls.”
A group of Wildcats supporters began chanting, “Rebels suck! Rebels suck! Rebels suck!”
The referees began forcing the players to their respective benches, their whistles blasting away. Charlie was more than willing to follow. He needed to sit. His legs were tired, and he really needed a drink of water.
“Time to finish the job, prissy boy.”
He felt a glove punch him in the mask. He knew it was Jake — he just couldn’t see his face very clearly.
“You’re goin’ down, loser. It’s punishment time,” Jake snarled.
Charlie blinked rapidly to clear his head, but everything was still blurry. What was wrong with him?
Jake cuffed him on the side of his helmet. Charlie scrunched his eyes tightly and then opened them. For a moment he saw Jake clearly. He had his tough guy face on — eyes narrowed, a cocky grin, nodding slightly. He’d seen that face way too often. Charlie motioned Jake towards him with his glove. Maybe this was for the best. Settle it once and for all.
Jack threw a wild right cross without warning. Charlie ducked and drifted to his right. The sudden move made him feel sick to his stomach. He ignored it and fired a left jab. It connected, but not hard enough to slow Jake down. He answered with a series of left jabs to his face. Charlie backed up, trying to get some distance. Jack kept at him.
Charlie was scared. He’d fought before. This time something had sapped his energy. His legs were dead and he could barely hold his arms up. He tried to block Jake’s blows, but it was as if he had ten fists. Jake connected with several good shots to his head. Charlie bent low and held his right arm in front of his face, and peered underneath. Jake took off his right glove. Why would he do that? Charlie wondered. I’m wearing a cage.
Jake feinted with a left jab, and then brought a vicious right hook to his ribs. Charlie couldn’t move. The blow took his breath away. He struggled to stay on his feet. Without thinking he lowered his guard. A ref grabbed at Jake’s sweater, but before he could pull him away, Jake threw a final right hook into his jaw. All the strength in Charlie’s legs disappeared. He fell.
Jake raised both arms over his head as the ref dragged him away.
Charlie heard the crowd roar. The Wildcats banged their sticks on the boards. He really felt sick to his stomach. His ribs killed, and his head throbbed. The humiliation hurt far more, however. Jake had bashed him around like a little kid, in front of everyone. How pathetic. Great captain! He’d never live this down — never.
“Hey, Charlie. You okay?”
He couldn’t make out the face. “What?”
“Let me help you up. You sure you’re okay?”
It was Pudge. This was totally embarrassing. Julia was in the crowd and he was being helped like a baby.
Martin peered into his face. “Get up slow. You took some tough shots. Take it easy.”
“Let’s get him to the bench,” Pudge said.
Pudge and Martin tried to slip their arms under his. Charlie pulled away.
“I’m cool. I’m not five years old. I can skate.”
He headed to the bench, only to have Pudge spin him around.
“Let go,” Charlie yelled.
“That’s
not our bench,” Pudge whispered.
Unfortunately, the Wildcats noticed his mistake.
“You wanna come play for us now?” Jake called out. He was sitting on top of the boards. “You could be our team punching bag.”
He was the all-time loser. How could he go to the wrong bench?
“That’s your best idea yet,” Liam said, trading a high-five with Jake. “Maybe he could double as our team soccer ball too.
“I think the little boy is scared,” Roscoe said. “Don’t be mean.”
He tried to respond. For some reason the words wouldn’t come.
Scott came to his rescue. “Hey Roscoe. I forgot to congratulate you on being voted the biggest doofus in school. Well done.”
“Don’t forget Jake got the bed-wetting award,” Nick added.
The Wildcats’ coach stepped down from the bench. He leaned over the boards and pointed at them.
“Take your pretty pink sweaters and get into house league. Triple-A ain’t for the likes of you. I don’t know what the league was thinking when they let you set up this joke of a team. I’m tempted to come onto the ice and teach you all a lesson you won’t soon forget.”
Charlie felt someone brush past his shoulder. Hilton walked towards Schultz. The entire rink went dead quiet; even the referees watched the drama unfold. Hilton continued his approach until he was almost nose to nose with the Wildcats’ coach.
“I appreciate that this game got out of control,” Hilton said. “Maybe you think my players started it. Obviously, I don’t agree.”
“Joyce was cheap-shotting me all game,” Jake interjected.
Hilton ignored him. “Regardless of why this began, there is no excuse for you to try to intimidate my players. You’re the adult here. That was the first and last time you’ll ever threaten my boys. Understood?” Hilton kept his gaze fixed on Schultz.
Schultz shrugged and stepped down. “I’ve been coaching for twenty years. I don’t have to tolerate this garbage, and I certainly don’t have to listen to you.” And with that he turned his back on the Rebels coach.
“Can you make it back to our bench yourself?” Hilton asked Charlie in a low voice.
He wasn’t too sure at this point. “I don’t know,” he murmured.
Pudge slipped his arm under his and guided him over.
Jake leaned over the boards. “Joyce, don’t go. I wanna hit you one more time — it was that much fun.”
Charlie’s head was still pounding as he sat on the bench, and he felt completely exhausted, as if he’d played ten games back to back.
“What period is it?” he asked Pudge.
Pudge looked at him strangely. “Hey, Jeffrey,” he called out. “I think Charlie’s really hurt.”
His teammates crowded around.
“I’m good. I’m good,” Charlie said. “I just need some water.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Pudge asked.
He looked at Pudge’s hand. He was going to say one, and then thought it was two.
“Two,” he guessed.
“You think he got a concussion?” Zachary asked.
“I thought he was kinda dopey out there,” Nick said.
“You saw Jake’s cross-check,” Pudge said. “He bashed him right below the ear. That explains why Charlie could barely fight.”
“Only Jake would fight a guy with a concussion,” Scott said. He took a swig of water and spit it onto the ice.
“Move aside, gentlemen,” Hilton said.
Jeffrey pushed past the players, brought out a small flashlight from his medical kit, and flashed the light into Charlie’s eyes. “Can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?” he said.
“Why is everyone asking me that?” Charlie replied.
“Does that mean you know?”
“Three, I think.”
Jeffrey sighed. “We better get him to the hospital. He definitely has a concussion. Only question is what degree. He got hit hard by that kid’s stick.” Jeffrey turned Charlie’s head slightly and peered closely at his ear.
“Your grandfather will have to take you,” Hilton said.
“Is he here?” Charlie asked. He couldn’t remember anything — the period, the score, or who they played. Sleep was the only think he could think about. He closed his eyes.
“No you don’t,” Jeffrey said. “First rule of concussions is you can’t fall asleep.”
Charlie felt some water run down his neck and splash on his cheeks. It was cold, but he didn’t have the energy to protest.
“Jeffrey, help him into the dressing room and get his equipment off,” Hilton ordered. “Give me a call when you know how he is,” he said to Charlie’s grandfather.
A floating feeling took over as Charlie felt himself lifted from the bench. He wondered where he was.
“When does the game start?” he blurted.
23
BLAH, BLAH
“I’ll see you soon, Mom,” Charlie called out from the hallway.
“You’re still here? I thought you’d left already.”
“I guess … I … lost track of time.”
“I’m glad you finally decided to go. You shouldn’t miss your dance. It sounds like a lot of fun, and your friends will be glad to see you after three weeks at home.”
He hadn’t been back to school since the concussion, and he wasn’t that stoked about this dance. He knew Jake and his crew would give him a hard time about the fight, and his friends … well, they would be all embarrassed. If it were up to him, he’d stay home and watch TV. But his mom had been bugging him so much to go that he finally gave in.
“I’ll see you soon, Mom. I probably won’t stay too long.”
“Okay, dear.” She pointed at his feet. “Could you at least put on some boots? It’s supposed to continue snowing all night.”
His reputation was bad enough without looking like a doofus in snow boots.
“It’s like two minutes to school. I’m good. See ya.”
“Charlie!”
He headed off to school. For a week after the game he’d had a bad headache and felt dizzy a lot of the time. His head felt better now. It couldn’t be that bad to talk to a few people, then leave. As he walked along he had to admit it felt good to be outside. He never thought he could get bored with TV and video games.
His mom had been right about one thing — it was snowing hard. He picked up the pace, but the bottoms of his pants were soaked and he could barely feel his toes by the time he got to school. He could hear the music blaring as he slowly pushed open the gym doors. It hit him like a wall of sound. He’d been particularly sensitive to noise since the concussion. He forced himself to ignore it and went inside. He couldn’t ignore the butterflies in his stomach, however. Why did that always happen? It was only a dumb dance, and he wasn’t going to stay long.
A huge banner at the far end of the gym proclaimed: The 23rd Annual Beat the Winter Blahs Dance – Kick It! The DJ was organizing a large group of kids into two lines. Snacks and soft drinks were set up against one wall. A handful of dancers were off to the side, a strobe light making it look as if they were moving in slow motion.
On the far side of the gym by the bleachers he saw Pudge, Nick and Zachary. He watched the dancers as he made his way over to his friends — which is why he didn’t see Jake, Liam, Thomas and Roscoe next to the refreshments table. By the time he did, it was too late. Liam pointed him out.
“Joyce finally makes his big return,” he said loudly.
“About time the little chicken came back,” Jake mocked.
Roscoe laughed. “Be nice, Jake. You don’t want to make him cry again. Look — too late. He’s got tears in his eyes already.”
Jake and Roscoe high-fived.
Charlie’s heart pounded as he walked past. A few kids standing around laughed or turned to look the other way. He wanted to charge at Jake and wipe that look off his face.
His friends gave him a big cheer when they saw him. He punched fists all around and e
ndured some good-natured cracks about his soft head. Pudge held out his fist and Charlie gave it a punch and sat down. Scott emerged from the middle of the dance floor, busting moves his whole way over, his forehead glittering with sweat.
“Dudes, it’s worse than I thought. The ladies are fighting over me. The hip hop classes are totally paying off.”
That set them howling.
“Where are your tutu and slippers?” Nick said.
“Laugh if you want — these magic feet are in high demand. You losers can blend into the walls and watch.” He looked around. “Dance partner at six o’clock,” he said, nodding toward the doors.
Alexandra was standing next to Rebecca. Scott danced his way over, winking to his friends as he did. Charlie had to hand it to him. He wasn’t shy around girls — and he didn’t care what other people thought. Charlie could probably learn something from him. He cheered along with the others as Scott led Alexandra to the dance floor.
Nick elbowed Charlie.
“The dude can dance, I’ll give him that,” he said. “Maybe a few lessons would help me. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life watching every dance I go to.”
“I hear ya,” Charlie said. “I’ve never perfected my spins — not like Scott, anyway.”
That wasn’t entirely true. He’d never admit it to Nick, but when he was younger his mother had forced him to take dance lessons. He’d been pretty good at it too, but he stopped after a few years. In any case, he was too self-conscious to get out on the dance floor now.
Zachary tossed his cup into the garbage, basketball-style. “Can’t let Scott get all the glory,” he said.
The next thing, Zachary and Rebecca were dancing together.
Jonathon came by and sat next to Charlie. “How’re the rest of the Rebels doing?” he said.
