There were thirty-four seconds left on the clock, the same amount of time remaining when Paul Henderson had scored the goal to give Canada a win over the Soviet Union back in 1972. There was singing in the stands. Swedish flags and Canadian flags waving, everyone on their feet for the countdown. Travis could see Annika right against the glass in the Canadian end. She was blowing a kiss to Nish. Nish was pretending he hadn’t noticed, leaning over with his stick on his knees and fussing with his skate laces. But Travis could see that, every once in a while, Nish was stealing a peek to check what was going on behind the glass.

Muck wanted Andy’s line out for the final seconds. They were stronger defensively, but he also wanted Nish out with Lars, the two strongest Owls defencemen.

Travis drooped his glove over the boards and watched. His heart was still pounding. He was the hero, the Canadian hero, and he still couldn’t believe it. He looked up towards the face-off circle, where Borje Salming was just moving in to drop the puck.

The little puck had barely hit the ice when the Russian centre bolted for the bench and Slava Shadrin leapt straight over the boards. One moment he was landing on the ice, the next he was a blur across the blueline. There was no time for Muck to get Sarah out!

Lars was a great skater, the best on the whole team at moving backwards or to the sides, but he was helpless against such speed.

Slava took the pass and looped around Lars. He came in on Jeremy, cutting across the crease. Jeremy lunged for the poke check just as Slava dropped the puck into his skates, then kicked it back up as Jeremy’s stick bounced off Slava’s shin pads. A quick little backhand and the puck was high in the far corner of the net.

Tie game!

 

“I can’t shoot.”

Travis said nothing. He, like everyone else, was listening to Sarah Cuthbertson explain to Muck why she couldn’t take the first shot in the shootout. The two teams had played ten minutes of overtime without a goal being scored, and the reason was largely Sarah, who had checked Slava Shadrin so well he had not even managed one good shot on net.

But Sarah had paid a heavy price. Both her gloves were off. Mr. Dillinger had wrapped her wrists in towels, but the blood was seeping through. Sarah was crying. And if Sarah was crying, it had to hurt bad.

“Travis,” Muck said. “You’re up first.”

Travis had half wanted this, half feared it. He was going to have to take the first shot for Canada. There was absolutely no doubt who would be taking the shot for Russia.

He took a deep breath and looked across the ice. Slava was already out, circling, staring down at the ice, gathering himself. Travis wondered how this must look to the huge crowd: Travis Lindsay, skinny, goofy Screech Owl, up against Slava Shadrin, the greatest peewee hockey player in the entire world.

Borje Salming was conferring with the two goaltenders. Travis could tell that Jeremy was talking excitedly. The Russian goalie also seemed worked up. Borje Salming was nodding. Salming skated over to the Russian bench, talked with the coach, then came over and spoke to Muck.

“The goalies want to go back to the regulation puck for the shootout,” he explained. “It’s only fair.”

“No problem,” Muck said. He obviously wanted Jeremy to have every chance possible.

They would shoot in turn, starting with Slava and Travis. Then four more shooters for each team would follow. If the teams were still tied after five shots each, they would go into a sudden-death shootout, beginning again with the first two, Travis Lindsay for Canada, and Slava Shadrin for Russia.

Slava went first. He flew down the ice so fast Jeremy had trouble moving with him, and when he passed by, he reached back and tapped the puck into the open far side. A goal so seemingly effortless that Jeremy slammed his stick in anger against the crossbar. But all the Owls knew how impossible it had been. It was a great goal.

Borje Salming laid the puck at centre ice and blew the whistle for Travis to begin skating.

Travis felt like he was sneaking up on the puck. And when he reached it, it seemed the puck had grown to the size of a patio stone. It was as if it weighed more than he did. His arms were weak, his legs rubbery. He felt like he was once again wearing the spangenhelm and his neck muscles were giving way. He moved up over the blueline slowly, afraid even to stickhandle for fear he would drop the huge, heavy puck and skate right past it.

Should he deke? Shoot? He didn’t know and hadn’t any time to decide. He was instantly at the edge of the net, trying to put a backhand through the solid mass of the goalie’s pads, not a crack of daylight between the goalie and the post.

The puck dribbled off harmlessly to the side.

The Russian bench went crazy. Half the crowd cheered and whistled and sang. Travis skated, head down, back to his bench. No one looked at him.

The second shooters both failed, and so, too, did the third.

When the fourth Russian shooter failed, Muck chose Lars Johanssen to take the shot for Canada. It was a surprising move–a defenceman?–but Travis understood. They couldn’t use their best player, Sarah. And Dmitri had already shot and just missed a high corner. Lars had moves. And Lars was in his home country, with his family in the stands.

He came up the ice slowly, almost as if he were sitting in a chair relaxing. He didn’t seem afraid of stickhandling the big puck. He slowed up even more, seemed almost to stop, then accelerated quickly, catching the goalie for a second off guard. The goaltender moved with him, and Lars reached back with one hand on his backhand and tapped the puck in.

Tied, again!

The Canadian bench emptied and piled onto Lars. Travis was one of the first to reach him, and they went down together under a crush of bodies.

“Way to go, Lars!” Travis screamed.

“I tried my Peter Forsberg!” Lars shouted back, ecstatic.

 

The fifth Russian was stopped by a great butterfly move by Jeremy, leaving one final Canadian chance in the first round of the shootout. But who was going to take it?

“Nishikawa,” Muck said.

Nish skated all the way back to the Canadian net and slammed Jeremy on the pads. He took off his helmet and skated to the glass, leaned into it, and left a big smudge of a kiss for Annika. The crowd roared and cheered.

Nish then came flying down the ice and picked up the puck at centre. He hit the Russian blueline–everyone thinking deke–and suddenly wound up and let go the wildest, hardest slapper Travis had ever seen, a shot so hard that the follow-through knocked Nish to the ice.

The shot hit the goalie’s glove and kept going, the puck like a live mouse as it scurried up over the edge of the Russian’s glove and found the net.

Nish, still sliding along the ice on his back, hit the goalie next, the two of them crashing into the net with the puck.

Borje Salming’s whistle was in his mouth, and his cheeks were puffng in and out, but Travis couldn’t hear. He could see Salming’s hand though, and Salming was pointing into the net.

Goal!

Canada wins!