On Friday night, the Screech Owls played at home against Orillia. Mr. Lindsay drove Travis down to the rink, as usual, but for once neither father nor son said a word. Travis had never felt less like playing a hockey game in his life.

When he reached the dressing-room door, he thought, at first, he must be early. Normally, as soon as the door was open just a crack, he would be greeted by the squeals and shouts of the Owls getting dressed for a game. But this time, as he shifted his bag and sticks off his shoulder and backed in through the dressing-room door, there was no sound from inside.

And yet the dressing room was half full. Sarah was there, already dressed but for her skates and sweater. Fahd was there. And Lars, sitting quietly with his Owls sweater hanging above him. Mr. Dillinger was busy at the back of the room, sharpening Sarah’s skates.

Travis came in and set his bag quietly on the floor. He rested his sticks against the wall and moved to his own seat. Still, no one had said a word. He looked over at Sarah, who was biting her lip. She pointed back at her sweater. She wanted him to see something.

Travis looked at his own sweater, number 7, hanging at the back of his stall. There was a new little crest sewn on it over the heart, just to the side of his C. It was a small four-leafed clover, with the number 6 in the centre.

Data’s number.

Travis looked back at Sarah, who jerked her thumb towards Mr. Dillinger, busy as ever at his sharpening machine. Of course, Mr. Dillinger would have had the crests made, would have stitched them on himself and hung the sweaters up without a word. Good old Mr. Dillinger.

Soon the team was all there, each player entering in silence, then sitting in silence. Some even with their helmets pulled on. There were two sweaters still hanging up untouched. Data’s number 6, of course, but also number 3: Nish.

Still no one had said a word.

The door opened and Muck came in. And right behind Muck–with his arm in a sling poking out through the opened zipper of his Screech Owls jacket–was Nish. Nish’s cast had a green four-leafed clover painted on it, with a number 6 in the middle.

“We have a new assistant coach, tonight,” Muck announced.

Nish beamed from ear to ear and took a ridiculous bow in Sarah’s direction. Sarah rolled her eyes.

“And we have another one who can’t be with us,” Muck added.

He said nothing else, just turned and walked out, staring straight ahead. For once, Fahd didn’t have to ask the obvious: who? It was Data–tonight the Screech Owls were playing for Data.

“Let’s go!” Sarah suddenly shouted, jumping up and pumping a gloved fist in the air. She grabbed her stick from the wall and slammed it, hard, into Jenny’s big goalie pads.

“Stone ’em, Jen!” Sarah shouted.

“Let’s do it for Data!” Andy called.

“For Data!” Lars yelled.

“Data!”

“Data!”

“And Nish!” someone called.

Travis turned to look. It was Nish calling for himself.

Nish shrugged sheepishly, and Travis smiled. He swung his sticks back as he plucked them from the wall, and tapped his good friend lightly on the shins.

“For Data and Nish,” he said.

 

What was it about this game of hockey, Travis wondered, that sometimes everything could feel wrong–even the way your feet fit into the skates–and a day later everything could feel exactly right? He felt this Friday night as if skating had somehow become the natural way of human movement. He felt as if the ice were at his mercy; he was in no danger of slippery corners or too great a distance. If he reached for the puck, it seemed to reach back for him, puck and stick blade seemingly magnetized. He put his first two warm-up shots off the crossbar.

Muck and Nish and Barry worked the bench. Ty was out of town, so Nish pretty much handled the defence on his own, taking signals from Muck and using his good arm to tap the backs of sweaters to indicate line changes.

When Sarah’s line was out, Muck wanted Sarah to go in hard with one winger on the forecheck and try to stop the good Orillia defence before they could get out of their own end with the puck. The other winger was to lie back around the blueline, hoping to intercept any pass that Sarah and the other winger might force.

Travis was first in on the top Orillia defenceman, and he came in hard, skating as well as, if not better than, he’d ever skated before. Was it because of their day of shinny in the open creek? Was it because of Data? He didn’t know; all he knew was that as soon as he saw where he needed to be, he was there. He flew into the Orillia end, racing towards the other team’s best puckhandler. He had no idea how he knew, just that he knew. He came in hard and then dragged his right skate just as the defender tried to slip the puck between Travis’s feet. The puck caught, and Travis, instantly, came free with it on the other side.

He kicked the puck up onto his stick, dug hard to turn towards the net, and then deked back again to the near side of the net, forcing the Orillia goalie to shift tight to his post. A quick little pass across the crease and Sarah had buried the puck with a quick snap of a shot.

First shift, and the Owls had already scored.

The Owls on the ice mobbed Sarah but she shook them free. She hurried to where the linesman was digging the puck out and held out her glove for it. He handed it over with a smile. Perhaps he thought it was her first-ever goal.

“For Data,” Sarah said when she got back to the bench.

She handed the puck to Nish to hold for her. Nish took the puck in his good hand and jammed it into his pocket.

“Ouch!” Nish yelped, and yanked his hand out, fast. His thumb had caught on something. It was already beading blood.

Mr. Dillinger quickly grabbed a towel to press against the cut. He dabbed quickly and looked carefully at the damage.

“Not deep,” he said. “I’ll get a bandage.”

Travis’s line was back out for another shift. When they got back, Mr. Dillinger was just finishing up. With the scissors he carried on his belt, he snipped off the last wrap of bandage.

“Great!” Nish said. “Now I’ve got no hands!”

 

If they thought the game against Orillia would be easy, they were wrong. The Owls had scored first, but the Orillia goalie had no intention of letting in any more goals after Sarah’s.

Travis had rarely worked harder in a game. He skated well and had plenty of good chances, but it was as if a huge plywood board had been nailed over the other team’s net. He was robbed twice on glove saves. Dmitri failed on two breakaways.

Something was wrong with Owls. They were giving fine individual efforts, but they weren’t working like a team. Travis thought it was as though they were missing something–and then he shut his eyes and shook his head hard.

They were missing something: Data.

Inspired by their goaltender, the Orillia players slowly mounted their comeback. Playing magnificently–everyone working together–they tied the game in the second period and went ahead, to stay, early in the third. Muck pulled Jenny in the final minute, but even with an extra attacker the Owls could not get past the splendid Orillia goalie.

The game over, the Screech Owls headed for their dressing room in silence, heads down. Travis felt he had failed Data even more than he had failed the team. They had wanted to take him a win, but instead they had lost, and Orillia were now the top team in their division.

But at least they had the puck from Sarah’s one goal. It wasn’t much, but it was something to take to Data.

Sarah asked for Data’s puck, and Mr. Dillinger had to reach into Nish’s jacket pocket to get it.

“Watch your hand,” Nish warned, holding out his bandaged thumb as proof of the danger.

“Okay,” Mr. Dillinger said, “I got it.”

Mr. Dillinger carefully pulled out the prized puck and flipped it to Sarah, who caught it easily.

But Mr. Dillinger wanted to find out what it was that had cut Nish’s fingers.

“You’ve got something caught in here, son,” he called.

Carefully, Mr. Dillinger pulled a sliver of shiny metal out of Nish’s pocket.

“That’s what I cut my hand on!” Nish shouted.

Mr. Dillinger blinked at the piece of chrome, turning it over and over. He handed it to Muck, who took it and carefully looked himself.

“Looks like a piece of trim,” Muck said.

“Off a car,” Mr. Dillinger said.

Nish shot a surprised and excited look at Travis.

A clue.