There were more cameras waiting at the Colisée. The bus pulled up and the rush was on, camera operators rushing and pushing and sliding and slipping and pulling and shouting as they hurried toward the bus, desperate to angle the shot so they would get both the team as it left the bus and the painted message on the vehicle’s side.

Muck stood up in his seat at the front of the bus and turned to face his team.

“You walk out like you’re here to play a hockey game, nothing else–understand!”

Each Owl murmured that he or she understood. No one–not even Nish–was making light of this.

“Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t even look at anyone. Collect your equipment, and go directly to the dressing room.”

The players started moving. Travis felt as if he was going to throw up. There was a terrible pain in the pit of his stomach. He felt like crying.

“I’ll walk with you.”

Travis looked up. It was Sarah.

“Thanks,” he said.

With Sarah by his side, Travis collected his equipment and sticks and began heading towards the door.

“Voilà!” a man outside called, pointing.

Sarah descended the steps first and turned to wait for Travis. He tried to concentrate on her smile instead of the cameras, and jumped down quickly to stand beside her. She fell in beside him, their shoulders touching as they pushed through the gathering horde.

“Excusez,” Sarah said to one camera operator, smiling.

“Pardon,” Sarah said to another as she began to push through.

“Est-ce que vous pouvez reculer un peu, s’il vous plaît?” Sarah said, very politely. “Bonjour, madame, c’est une belle journée, n’estce pas?”

Travis’s first thought was that Sarah should shut up. Hadn’t Muck told them not to talk? But then he realized what she was doing; what effect her French, and her lovely accent, were having on the media. They were moving. They were confused: if Travis was the anti-French Englishman, then who was this sweet French-speaking young woman who obviously cared for him?

“Mademoiselle!” one of them called. “Une interview? C’est possible?”

“Non, merci,” Sarah responded with a lovely smile. “Il faut que nous jouons le match du hockey maintenant–peut-être après le match.”

Travis almost giggled. He wasn’t exactly sure what Sarah was saying to them, but he was sure enough they had no idea what to make of her.

So much for the French-despising Screech Owls.

 

 

“Stop!” hissed Travis.

He and Sarah had just entered the corridor leading from the Colisée ice surface to the dressing room when Travis turned back and caught a glimpse of a familiar head of curly hair.

Bart Lundrigan, the reporter.

Lundrigan was standing in the seats. He was facing a camera set up on a tripod. Behind the camera were lights shining in his face. Another man was down on one knee, working the dials on a machine.

Travis and Sarah dropped their equipment and crept along the Zamboni exit closer to where Lundrigan was standing. The reporter seemed to be listening to someone who wasn’t there, and then they noticed an earplug in his ear. He was nodding and smiling. He seemed very pleased with himself. Travis noted he now had a suit on, and a tie.

“That’s correct, Peter,” Lundrigan was saying. His speaking voice had changed. It seemed so practised now, so filled with confidence. “You wouldn’t expect to find such incidents here at an event like this, but there you go. It tells us something about our country, does it not?”

“Cut!” the man working the machine called. “We just lost the line to Toronto.”

Lundrigan turned, obviously annoyed. He was adjusting his earplug and fiddling with his hair when he caught Travis and Sarah out of the corner of his eye.

“Travis!” he called. “Hey, wait there a minute!”

The reporter yanked the earplug out and came running down the steps, two and three at a time. Travis and Sarah were trapped.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” Lundrigan shouted as he hurried toward them. “I’ve got to talk to you!”

Travis didn’t know how to respond. Sarah pulled his arm, but he stood his ground, still not willing to believe completely that this friendly, smiling man had done something so evil.

Lundrigan was smiling ear to ear. His eyes were smiling. He still looked like the nicest person Travis could have wanted to meet.

“You’ve seen the story?” the reporter asked.

“The coach showed it to me,” Travis said. He did not return the smile.

“I’m far more upset than you could ever be,” Lundrigan said. “Honest to God, I don’t know what happened. What they ran was not the story I filed. They reworked it on the desk, I guess. That happens in our business, but they’re supposed to clear any changes with us. They never called me.”

“You mean you didn’t write that?” Sarah asked, sceptical.

“Honestly, kids. I wrote a nice piece and included all the diary quotes. They took what they wanted, I guess, and made something wild out of it. I don’t write the headlines, either.”

“Can’t you get them to fix it?” Travis asked. He felt relieved. He hadn’t been wrong about Bart Lundrigan.

Lundrigan shrugged. He smiled sheepishly. “I can try,” he said. “But I can’t guarantee anything.”

Another voice filled the corridor.

“Don’t you think you owe this young man an apology?”

All three turned, surprised. It was Muck. He was walking toward Lundrigan, his hands down at his sides, but clenched tightly.

Travis could sense Lundrigan cringing. “I just did,” Lundrigan said.

“I mean a written apology,” Muck said. “Front page–same as your story.”

“Who’re you anyway?” the reporter asked.

“I’m the coach of this team, and I’m very upset with what you have done to this young man.”

Lundrigan was almost like a puppy confronted by a large dog.

“I just explained a minute ago to the kids,” he said. “It had nothing to do with me. They rejigged the piece and put that headline on it. I don’t write the headlines.”

“But you could write an apology,” Muck said.

“I will,” Lundrigan said. He was sweating, breathing hard. “I swear. But I can’t guarantee they’ll run it, okay?”

“You work for this paper but you wash your hands of what they do to your work?” Muck asked.

Again the sheepish grin: “Well, not usually–but sometimes they mess things up.”

“You ever play hockey?” Muck asked.

Lundrigan blinked, unsure what this had to do with what they were discussing here.

“A bit,” he answered finally, “but what’s that got to do with it?”

“Travis makes a mistake,” Muck said, “Sarah, here, doesn’t blame him. Same if she makes a mistake. We take responsibility for each other on our team, mister.”

“Yeah, well, that’s all well and fine, but there’s a big difference between a game and reporting–”

“Is there, now?” Muck asked. And with that he turned both Travis and Sarah around and marched them back to the dressing room.