The Duponts lived in a large bungalow well out of the Old City, on a street running down toward the ice-covered St. Lawrence River. The snowbanks were higher in this part of the city, much higher, and most of the houses had temporary canvas-and-aluminum “garages” to keep the snow off the cars, but apart from this nothing seemed out of the ordinary to the three boys in the back seat of the Duponts’ minivan. Travis had no idea what he had expected of his billets, but he was pleasantly surprised to walk into a home where he could smell cinnamon buns in the oven and “The Simpsons” had just come on the television.

The difference was that Bart Simpson was speaking French–“I thought Bart was supposed to be a dummy!” Nish joked–but other than that, they could just as easily have been in a home down the street in their own town. The Duponts had a yappy black mutt they called Puck, frozen burritos for the microwave, and fights over the TV remote control.

No one, however, had much interest in watching TV, for beyond the downstairs patio doors lay the finest backyard skating rink Travis had ever seen. There were spotlights off both ends of the house and, under the eaves, stereo speakers wired back into the house. The snowbanks were higher even than the boards at the Colisée, but it was the ice that most impressed the boys, so smooth it seemed to have been spread with a knife, not flooded each night with a green garden hose.

“Je suis un artiste de la glace–le plus grand de tout le Québec,” Monsieur Dupont told them as he showed off his rink. He was grinning from ear to ear, his chest puffng out the bulky parka he wore as they all stepped outside.

Travis turned to Nicole, who was rolling her eyes at her father’s bragging.

“He says he’s Quebec’s greatest ice-making artist,” said Nicole. “It’s not even the best rink in the neighbourhood, for heaven’s sake.”

The three boys all laughed. Monsieur Dupont stood waiting, wondering what his daughter had said to make their visitors laugh. “Quoi?” he asked her, and Nicole quickly said something reassuring to her father. Travis thought they had a nice relationship, father and daughter. He assumed Nicole had just told her father a slight fib, but where was the harm in that? He might have been upset if she had repeated exactly what she had said about his rink.

There was a big difference, Travis thought, between holding back something that might be taken the wrong way and throwing something out that would for certain be taken the wrong way, like Nish and his “cousin,” Paul Kariya.

“We’ll skate after we eat,” suggested Nicole.

Travis felt a slight tremor go up his back. He had hoped for a chance to show how well he skated. He skated much better than he talked.

They ate a wonderful meal, with fresh cinnamon buns for dessert. J-P and Nicole had a brief squabble about what music to skate to, and then they went down into the basement to get ready.

Travis was first out the patio doors, and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw what was awaiting him. The rink, it seemed, had become a painting, a frozen island of colour surrounded by the pitch black of night. The ice sparkled and shone; there was even a red line painted across the middle of the rink for centre ice!

He stepped out, glided on his left foot and pumped twice with his right, the little jump he always did when stepping onto fresh ice. He felt instantly at home. What a strange, wonderful country Canada was, he thought. People who can’t even talk to each other have a game that does it for them. From coast to coast they skate and play hockey, from the time they learn to walk until they’re older than Travis’s own father.

Travis loved real ice. He loved the way his skates dug a little bit deeper than they ever did on artificial ice. He loved how, on a sharp turn, ice chips sometimes flew; on an indoor rink there would only be a slight spray of snow. He liked the way air felt outdoors: fresh and sharp on his face, more alive than anywhere else.

Lars and Nish were also out now–Nish trying his fancy backwards skating around the nets at both ends, Lars just looping around slowly, taking it all in. He had a huge smile on his face.

J-P was on the ice, and instantly there was a new sound in the air: the sizzle of weight. J-P was just big enough to have a big-league sound to his cornering, and when he came out of the corners, chips and spray flew behind him. The perfectly smooth surface, Monsieur Dupont’s magnificent creation, was being destroyed, but Travis knew it was with his blessing.

There was another sound on the ice. Quick, sharp–the sound of Dmitri skating, Travis thought, although Dmitri wasn’t with them. He turned fast on his skates to move backwards so he could see. It was Nicole! She had on hockey skates, and she was whipping around so fast that Travis stumbled slightly as he shifted again to skate forward as she flew past. He hoped she hadn’t seen him nearly trip.

They played a quick game of shinny: Anglos versus Francos. The two Duponts, with J-P’s size and Nicole’s speed, more than held their own against the three Owls–but then, Travis thought, this was their rink, they knew it as well as the inside of their house.

Travis had the puck behind his net. He looked up and knew at once why he loved backyard shinny. No one cares. No one yells. No one corrects. Everyone was out of position. Everyone was simply playing.

He began moving up ice just as J-P came in on him, the older boy skating fast to panic Travis. Travis saw Nish off to his right, waiting. He had only one play, the back pass. It was Travis’s favourite move in street hockey, and even though he’d often tried it in practice, he’d never dared it in a real game. It was too risky, too much a hot-dog play. Muck hated it, and blew the whistle every time Travis tried it in practice.

But there were no whistles here. Travis moved to his left, then placed the puck on his backhand and whipped it, across ice, to Nish, who picked it up before J-P, whooping with surprise, was able to turn towards him. Nish instantly sent the puck back to Travis, who was free. He dug in deep, aware that J-P was chasing him. He could hear the growl of J-P’s skates, gaining ice on him.

Nish was hammering the ice with his stick for a pass. Travis skated up to centre, faked the pass and laughed as Nicole fell for it, sliding on her knees between him and Nish, who was still tapping hard even though Travis was now home free. Travis ignored him, skated in on the empty net, and ripped a snapshot in off the crossbar.

“C’est bon!” J-P shouted as he caught up to Travis. “Nice shot, Travis.”

Far behind, Nicole slapped her stick on the ice in acknowledgement. It had been a nice shot, and it had gone in exactly as Travis had hoped.

He felt something big brush past him. A shoulder knocked him slightly. It was Nish.

“Puck hog!” Nish hissed as he skated by. It was a whisper, but one that shouted with anger.

Travis smiled to himself. Of course: Nish had wanted to be the hero. He had wanted to roof the shot that won the admiration of the Duponts.

“Let’s whip!” Nicole shouted.

Nicole and J-P were stabbing their sticks into the snow nearest the patio doors. Then they cleared the nets off the ice, stacking them together at the far end. Travis and Nish and Lars stabbed their sticks into the snow too.

Nicole skated up to Travis and took his hand in her mitten. She got Lars to hold on to Travis’s other hand, and J-P then took Lars’s free hand and reached for Nish.

Around and around they skated, with Nicole leading the way. At every turn she built up speed until, finally, she all but stopped at centre ice and, holding on tightly to Travis, spun the line around her in an ever-faster circle, Nish at the far end gliding with the force of the spin.

“Now!” Nicole shouted.

J-P let go on his sister’s signal and Nish took off, flying.

“AAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEE!”

The force of the “whip” sent him barrelling down the ice towards the largest snowbank, where he hit head first–and stuck!

“HELLLLLLLPPPPPPPPPP!” came the muffled shout.

Laughing wildly, the other four raced to pull Nish free. His face was covered in snow, and Travis could tell he was on the verge of blowing up, but Nicole took off her mittens and, very gently, brushed the snow out of his eyes.

The snow on Nish’s face was melting fast, and Travis knew why; his friend’s cheeks were burning red. Not from anger. Not from embarrassment. From Nicole’s touch.

Suddenly Travis understood why he had been called a puck hog. He knew Nish too well not to see he was smitten with Nicole.

But then it hit Travis that so, too, was he.

“Travis’s turn!” Nish announced.

Travis was delighted to be next. They whipped him the same way, burying him to his shoulders, and Nicole also helped him with the snow, much to his delight.

Travis couldn’t stop smiling.

I have something to write about, he thought.