They’d decided to continue with the tournament. The men had been arrested and the kids had all been checked out at the Malmö hospital. The swelling was already going down in Travis’s eye, and Sarah’s wrists had been dressed and wrapped in clean bandages.

Sarah and Travis had sat out the next game against Gothenburg, but Dmitri and Lars and Nish were cleared to play. Nish wouldn’t have missed it for anything: a chance to be the hero in front of Annika and her friends.

The Gothenburg team had been excellent. They were all superb skaters, and most could handle the puck. But they weren’t very big, especially compared to the bigger Owls like Andy, Wilson, and, of course, Nish. With Annika calling out every time he stepped on the ice, Nish had played like he was the size of Eric Lindros.

By the final period, the Owls had pulled away. Dmitri had scored twice and Nish once, on a shot from the point. After scoring, Nish had even pretended not to hear the yells from Annika and her friends, skating back out to centre with his stick over his knees and staring up at the clock to wait for the scoreboard to change. Travis and Sarah had to laugh.

“It’s a wonder he doesn’t stop and comb his hair,” Sarah said.

Nish’s goal had proven to be the winner. The Owls’ record was two wins and a loss, which left them tied with two other teams for second place. The Owls, however, came out ahead, because they’d scored more goals. They were headed back to Stockholm for the championship. And they’d be playing the club with the best record in the tournament: CSKA, Slava Shadrin’s team.

 

 

Travis Lindsay stood at the blueline and shook. He had never been so excited in his life. He was playing for the International Goodwill Pee Wee Championship–a world championship. As high as he could see in the massive Globen Arena, the red seats were filled with fans. Thousands of them! And everyone was standing for the anthems, first the Russian and then “O Canada.” Travis shivered up the length of his spine.

He knew why so many people had come. The story was an international sensation. A thirteen-year-old hockey player had been kidnapped by the Russian mob. Other twelve-and thirteen-year-olds from Canada and Sweden had helped him escape. Lars Johanssen was a hero in Sweden. (“Maybe they’ll put me on a stamp, like Peter Forsberg!” he joked.)

Sarah was insisting on playing–though her wrists had to be dressed again just before the game and she was obviously still in pain.

The big story, however, was Slava Shadrin. If he was good enough to be kidnapped by ruthless mobsters–how good was he? The stands of the Globen Arena were filled with the curious. There were even television cameras!

Nish was in his glory. He had worked on his hair half the afternoon. If Slava had thousands staring his direction, Nish knew that at least one in the crowd was staring only at him.

“Behind the net!” Travis had screamed over the cheers as the anthem ended. He was surprised to see Annika had come all the way from Malmö with some of her friends. They were waving a huge Canadian flag.

“Yeah,” Nish said matter-of-factly. “I know.”

Travis had never seen Muck look so relaxed before a big game. He was smiling, which was unusual. Muck wanted Sarah’s line to start. “Remember,” he said. “This is a ‘goodwill’ tournament–you’re here to have fun. You’re also representing your country.

“And one more thing,” Muck said. He paused, grinning. “Don’t even think about arguing with this referee.”

Travis turned around. Across the ice the referee was stretching, one long leg extended to the side, his back to the Screech Owls’ bench. But Travis didn’t need to see the face to know who it was. The hair was enough.

Borje Salming!

Salming blew on his whistle to call the teams in for the opening face-off. He raised his hands to check the red lights at both ends. He smiled down on the two centres, Slava Shadrin and Sarah Cuthbertson, then winked at Travis.

Travis was in a state of shock as the puck fell.

Sarah won the face-off with her tricky little sweep move–pulling the puck out of the air just before it struck the ice–and before Travis knew it, it had rattled into his skate blades. He tried to kick the puck up to his stick so he could shoot it back to Nish, but he lost it in his skates and the Russian winger jabbed it loose and away.

Travis gave chase, but he was well behind the play. The winger hit a rushing defenceman, who clipped the puck off the glass so it skipped in behind Nish and, in an instant, was picked up by Slava Shadrin, cutting in like a sudden wind.

But so, too, was Sarah. There would be no quick goal this time. She laid her stick over Slava’s and leaned hard, driving him off the puck before he could shoot. Data, racing over to cover up for Nish, picked up the puck and iced it. The linesman blew his whistle.

Sarah skated back to the bench shaking her right wrist. She wanted a change. Andy’s line came out and Mr. Dillinger and Muck gathered round Sarah. She just nodded when they asked her if she felt all right. Nodded and stared straight ahead, over the boards. Travis, sitting beside her, wasn’t convinced.

Ten minutes into the game, CSKA caught the Owls on a quick shift change. Slava Shadrin came over the boards and picked up a loose puck and beat Jesse Highboy easily. He came in on Wilson, beat him, and got past Jeremy with a high wrist shot that pinged in off the crossbar.

Russia 1, Canada 0.

Muck put a hand on Sarah’s shoulder.

“Shadrin will kill us unless you stay with him,” Muck said. “Are you up to it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re on, then.”

Slava Shadrin’s skates had barely hit the ice when the Russian star discovered he had grown a new shadow.

The opposing centres flew about the ice together like two sparrows in a field, Sarah turning precisely when Slava turned. If Slava picked up a loose puck or a pass, Sarah immediately checked him, using her stick on his and pushing down with all her strength so he could neither stickhandle nor pass. With Sarah on him, all Slava could do was dump the puck.

Travis was amazed. He had never seen anyone work as hard as Sarah. Sweat was pouring from her face. And he could tell from the way she winced and shook her gloves as she sat on the bench that she was in pain.

Travis saw Nish circling for the puck. He saw Nish’s head come up for one quick look down the ice. Travis knew he wasn’t looking for a place to pass the puck. He was looking for an opening.

Travis curled at the blueline, cutting across ice to his off wing. Dmitri read the play perfectly and moved to Travis’s wing. Travis was now on the right, Dmitri on the left, as Nish broke straight up centre, carrying the puck.

Sarah saw what Nish was about to do, and she used her shoulder to ride Slava out of the play.

Slava’s coach was leaning over the boards, shouting “Interference!” But no referee, not even Borje Salming, was going to call that. Sarah’s pick was just a smart play.

Nish beat the first defence by letting the puck slide ahead and then quickly working his stick back and forth as if stickhandling. The defenceman fell for it and went for the stick blade, while the puck slid right by him and Nish looped around his side and was free.

It was now a three-on-one. Nish dropped the puck and ran right over the second Russian defenceman. More screams from the Russian bench. Dmitri picked up the loose puck and came in on their goaltender. He faked a shot and slipped the puck to Travis, flying in on his off wing. It was easy.

Canada 1, Russia 1.

 

It stayed that way until the break before the final period. Neither team could score. Slava couldn’t get free of Sarah, and Nish couldn’t lug the puck down the ice whenever he wanted any more. Both goaltenders were spectacular.

In the dressing room Travis could see that Sarah was in real pain. Her eyes welled up with tears just in taking off her gloves. The bandages were pink with bloodstains.

Mr. Dillinger had made ice packs with plastic bags. He applied the ice and then carefully dressed the tortured wrists again.

“You okay to play?” Muck asked.

Sarah nodded. “I’m fine,” she said. Travis noticed the little catch in her voice.

There was a knock at the door. Mr. Dillinger got it and signalled for Muck.

“The referee wants to talk to you,” he said.