If the Owls had ever played a greater game, Travis couldn’t remember when. Every player seemed at the top of his or her game.

Data had been given a special place between Muck and Mr. Dillinger behind the bench and he cheered as loudly as he could. Muck never said a word. Not to Nish about his arm. Not to Travis about what Data had said. But Travis wondered how much Muck knew.

Sarah sent Dmitri in on a breakaway halfway through the first period for the first goal, then scored herself on a beautiful backhand deke. Travis got the third, and Wilson the fourth.

Late in the final period, with the Owls up 4–1, Travis noticed Nish wincing.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

But Travis knew the freezing was wearing off. Nish could barely hold his stick, but he wouldn’t quit.

Sarah won the face-off and dropped the puck to Wilson, who spun back and bounced a pass off the backboards onto Nish’s stick.

Nish started to rush. He moved out slowly at first, then jumped across the blueline, picking up speed.

Sarah was straight up centre, expecting the pass. But Nish held on. He carried in over the Orillia blueline and circled. He faked a pass to Travis, stepped into the slot, drew back his stick, and pounded the puck as hard as he could.

It almost went through the back of the net! Travis, circling at the side of the net, watched the twine spring and then shoot the puck back out as fast as it had come in.

The whistle blew; the referee was signalling a goal.

Nish was already halfway to the bench, crouching over to cradle his arm.

“Get–me–the–puck,” he said to Travis, grunting with the effort.

Travis skated to the linesman, who was coming back with the puck. “Don’t blame him,” the linesman said as he handed it over. “Hardest shot I ever saw in peewee.”

Travis skated back to the bench. He held the puck out towards Nish, who was bent double, holding his arm. Nish looked up, shook his head.

“For–Data,” he said. “Give–it–to–him.”

Travis skated further down the bench and handed it to Data. Data took the puck in his good hand as if it were an Olympic gold medal.

Muck shook his head. “Nishikawa can play this game when he wants to,” he said.

“Too bad we can’t freeze his brain, too,” Sarah said under her breath.

The Screech Owls had won their rematch. When the final horn blew, the Orillia team lined up and shook hands, and then, in a move Travis had to admire, they skated to the Screech Owls’ bench, where they took turns tapping their gloves against Data’s outstretched hand.

As Travis watched he realized Data was still holding on to Nish’s puck. He had never let go.

 

There was still one small matter of unfinished business. Before the Zamboni came out, the doors nearest the stands opened and all the Maple Leafs Legends and Flying Fathers came down onto the ice to an enormous cheer from the crowd.

Paul Henderson and Frank Mahovlich were carrying a huge rectangle of cardboard, but none of the peewee players on the ice could see what was on it. Muck and Mr. Dillinger were wheeling Data out of the home bench and onto the ice, where the photographers were waiting.

Mr. Dillinger pushed Data up to centre ice, where, with a grand flourish, Paul Henderson and Frank Mahovlich turned the big cardboard rectangle around for everyone to see.

It was a giant cheque, made out to something called The Larry Ulmar Foundation.

The amount was for thirty thousand dollars.

Again the crowd roared its approval.

Travis looked back towards the bench and saw that Muck was leaning over and pulling a stick free. It was the one he’d traded with Paul Henderson.

Muck walked cautiously back over the ice, clearly trying not to limp too badly. He went over to Data and laid the stick across his lap. Data looked down at it, carefully turning the stick over and over with his one good hand.

It had been signed by all the Maple Leafs Legends and the Flying Fathers!

So that was it, Travis thought. Muck didn’t want a souvenir for himself. He wanted something special for Data, something other than money that would remind him of his special day.

Travis wondered if Muck had signed it too. He hoped so. Muck had belonged with the Legends–this day, anyway.

Data took the stick and waved it at the crowd. Everyone cheered.

With Muck’s help, Data turned the stick over so he could hold the blade, and he then–very slowly, with some difficulty–lifted the stick so the handle was pointing directly at his team.

It was Data’s salute to the Screech Owls, his team forever.

 

THE END