The Screech Owls were not scheduled to play the Toronto Towers until 2:00 p.m. in the big rink, the Olympic rink, the rink where the U.S.A. had won the Olympic gold medal in 1980, the “Rink of Dreams” according to the post cards in the souvenir shops. That gave them the morning to get the camera out and examine the videotape. They had to wait until Mr. Dillinger went up to the rink to unlock the room, and then they would have to figure out how to get the camera without him seeing.

It was simpler than they figured. The whole team knew of the camera, but only three would go up to the rink to get it. Norbert, of course, because he would be responsible in the end if they got caught or if the camera somehow got damaged. And Derek, because he had taken the keys and would also be in trouble, and because he had the most believable reason for being there, even if it was only to hit his father up for a few dollars for the arcade. And Travis should go, they decided, because he was the least suspicious of all the kids. If they sent Nish, alarms would go off in the mind of everyone who saw him. Nish, giggling, loved the idea that he was too dangerous to send.

The three boys, with Norbert carrying a shopping bag for the camera, got to the rink shortly after Mr. Dillinger had taken his keys and set off to begin preparing for the game. He was working a lot of hours for the team, sharpening skates, repairing equipment. Travis had never seen him so serious or caught up in his work. No jokes, no kidding, no pranks. He seemed to be taking the sabotage personally: as the one in charge of the equipment, he was probably blaming himself for letting it happen. But what could he have done, Travis wondered, stand guard twenty-four hours a day over the room?

Travis felt sorry for Mr. Dillinger. Here his son, Derek, was having the tournament of his life–almost entirely due to Sarah’s problems–and he couldn’t enjoy it. He had stopped whistling. He wasn’t singing. Travis wished all this would just go away so they could have their old general manager and trainer back.

Mr. Dillinger was sharpening skates when the boys came along. The Screech Owls were, perhaps, the only peewee team in the world with their own skate-sharpening equipment, but Mr. Dillinger had suggested buying it and Muck had agreed and, after working more midnight bingos than the parents wished to remember, they had earned enough money to purchase a unit that could fold up into its own suitcase and be pulled out and set up in less than ten minutes.

Muck, who often said, “You’re only as good as your equipment,” was delighted. Mr. Dillinger had worked with the entire team to find out who liked what and who played best with what kind of sharp. Dmitri, the quickest, liked his blades sharpened immediately before every game and ground so deep he could stop on a pin–a dime considered too much space for him. Nish, who liked to block shots, wanted a thin edge so he could slide more easily. Travis liked sharp skates, but not sharpened too deep, because he liked to work the corners and needed the flexibility. Muck figured the sharpening machine was worth a dozen goals a year to the Screech Owls. And a dozen goals a year, he said, could be the difference between first place and last playoff spot in the league.

“Hi, Mr. Dillinger,” Travis said, as the boys came along.

“Hi, there, Trav–” Mr. Dillinger looked up. He nodded at the others. “Norbie. Son.”

“You need any help, Dad?” Derek asked.

“Naw, not unless one of you wants to stand here for half an hour grinding Dmitri’s skates down to his knees.”

The boys all laughed. They were glad to hear Mr. Dillinger joking again.

“Anything happen?” Travis asked.

Mr. Dillinger smiled. “Just as I left it.”

“Good.”

“Let’s hope that’s the end of it.”

“See any of the Panthers around?” Derek asked.

Mr. Dillinger considered for a moment. “I don’t think so. I don’t know whether I’d recognize them if I saw them. You still think they’re the ones messing with Sarah’s equipment?”

“Maybe.”

Mr. Dillinger went back to his sharpening. “You might be right. You might be wrong. Maybe we’ll never know…Travis, will you run in and grab your blades for me?”

“Sure.” This was the opening they needed.

“And get Sareen’s, too. Muck’s thinking about starting her against the Towers.”

“Got ya.”

Travis and Norbert went into the dressing room while Derek stayed with his father, pretending to make conversation but really making sure Mr. Dillinger didn’t follow the other two. It took Norbert less time to gather up the camera and equipment than it did for Travis to root his skates out of his bag and find Sareen’s. They came out just as Mr. Dillinger was finishing up Dmitri’s second skate, running a thumbnail along the edge to check it. He shook his thumb, wincing at the sharpness.

“Good. Thanks, Trav.” Mr. Dillinger took Travis’s skates and looked down at the bag Norbert was carrying at his side. “You been shopping, Norbie?”

The boys froze. If he asked to see what Norbert had bought, he would find out about the camera. If he found out what the boys had done–taken his keys, more or less broken in, set up a camera to spy–then heaven only knew what he would do about it. And what would Muck, with all his lectures about “sneakiness,” have to say?

But Norbert was quick with an answer. “My mom made me buy some sweat pants.”

“Good, good–okay, see you boys later. You be here forty-five minutes before we’re on, okay?”

“Okay!”

“See you later, Dad.”

“See you, Son.”

They gathered in the health club off the pool area. No one ever seemed to be there working out, and no one was there this time, as they had been hoping. The entire team waited as Norbert flicked on the camera and checked through the viewfinder to see if there was anything on the tape. Norbert stared, checked switches, checked the tracking count, then lowered the camera and looked up.

“We caught something.”

“What?” Nish practically shouted.

“Don’t know. Just know that something set off the activator. There’s about thirty seconds of tape run off.”

The players’ excitement rose and they pushed in closer.

“There’s only one viewfinder!” exclaimed Norbert. “I can’t show everybody. Back off, okay?”

“Back off!” Travis repeated.

“We need a big-screen TV,” said Nish. “Like they have in the sports bars.”

“How would you know what they have in sports bars?” Wilson asked.

“I know.”

“Biggest screen in the world was at the 1937 Paris Exposition,” said Willie Granger out of nowhere. “Bigger than an Olympic ice surface.”

“Just everybody back away,” Sarah said impatiently. “Let Norbert check it and he’ll tell us what we’ve got.”

They backed off, waiting. Norbert raised the camera, the machine shaking from his nerves, and slowly he pressed the buttons first to rewind and then play the videotape.

“Hurry up!” shouted Nish. No one paid him any regard.

Norbert stared for what seemed like an eternity. The camera shook, the team waited.

“Someone came into the room!”

“Who?” Nish shouted for everyone.

“Can’t see–only a back of someone moving across.”

The team groaned as one.

“Wait, there’s more!”

They waited, afraid to breathe. Finally, Norbert sighed deeply and lowered the camera. The rubber around the viewfinder had made a red circle around his eye: it looked like he’d been punched, and when he spoke, he sounded like it, too.

“It’s Mr. Dillinger.”

“Damn!” Again, Nish spoke for all.

Travis felt his hopes sag. Of course, Mr. Dillinger must have been up to check last night. Travis had hoped the mystery would finally be solved so the tournament could continue without incident. He had hoped, in a way, that it would turn out to be someone they hadn’t even thought of. Not Mr. Brown, because that would be hard on Matt, and not the Panthers, because that would be, well, that would just not be fair. No one played hockey that way, by hurting the other team’s best player.

But all the ingenious activator had caught was Mr. Dillinger going about his business, unwittingly triggering the camera as he came in to make sure the Owls’ equipment had all been aired out properly.

 

Travis walked up to the arena with Nish and Data and Wilson. They arrived more than an hour early, eager to get a feel for the game that was coming up against the Toronto Towers. They knew they had to win to make the finals, because they were tied with the Panthers at one win, one tie each, and the Panthers were scheduled to play the relatively weak Devils later, which should mean an easy win for the Portland team.

The Towers had a win and a loss and would have to win against the Screech Owls to make the final four. Another team, from Montreal, already had two wins and a loss, so there was no avoiding the importance of the Screech Owls’ next match. If the Towers beat the Screech Owls, then Toronto might advance to the finals. The first-game tie with the Panthers was going to be of little help to the Screech Owls if today they added a loss.

When Travis walked in, he saw Muck walking toward him with a serious look on his face. His first thought was that there had been more trouble. But Muck wanted to speak to him about something else entirely, something completely unexpected.

“I’ve already called your parents, Travis,” Muck said. “And they say the decision’s yours. There’s an area scout from the Bantam AA’s here and he’s asked for permission to speak to you and a couple of the other players. All I said was I’d present his case to the parents and player. And that’s all I’m doing.”

“What’s it mean?” Travis asked.

“Maybe nothing. Maybe something. They can draw from a wider range than us and it’s one of the best teams in the province–I know the coach pretty well, he’s a good man–but it’s tough to make and tough on parents. Both time and money. I think they play about 120 games a year if you count tournaments and exhibitions. But they’re interested in you if you’re interested in them.”

“I don’t know.”

“You want to hear what he has to say?”

“I guess so.”

“The arena manager’s set aside a room for him. He’s there now with the others. Just down past the washrooms, first door on the left.”

Travis stared at his coach, trying to read Muck, but Muck was unreadable. It was impossible to say how he felt about this. It was almost as if it was none of his business, but it was all his business. He was the coach, after all, and Travis one of his players. Still, Travis couldn’t play peewee forever. And if he ever wanted to make the NHL and see his sweater hanging up there with Terrible Ted’s in Joe Louis Arena, then he’d have to leave Muck at some point. Perhaps this was it.

Muck turned to go, his expression giving away nothing. Travis didn’t know whether Muck thought it a good idea or a bad idea. But that was Muck: he wouldn’t say. It would be the player’s decision. The player’s and the parents’.

Travis headed back down the corridor. Mr. Dillinger was coming the other way, singing one of his stupid songs–something about a purple people-eater–and he gave Travis a shot in the shoulder as he passed. Mr. Dillinger knew.

Travis knocked at the closed door.

“Come in,” a big voice called.

Travis pushed the door open. Inside, he saw the big voice belonged to a small man who was standing up and setting down a clipboard with writing on it. On chairs pulled around him were Dmitri Yakushev, Matt Brown, and Derek Dillinger. Maybe that was why Mr. Dillinger had been singing.

Dmitri was there for obvious reasons. Skill and speed. Matt Brown, Travis supposed, would have caught their attention through sheer size and his shot. And Derek, of course, was having the tournament of his life. Even if Sarah Cuthbertson had been able to play as she could, she wouldn’t have been here. Next year Sarah would be leaving for good.

“You’re Travis Lindsay,” the big voice boomed. He seemed to be informing Travis rather than asking.

“Yes.”

“I’m Pierre LeBrun. I’m with the Crusaders, Bantam double-A. You probably know Donny Williams, who was with Muck’s gang two years ago.”

“A bit.”

“He’s with us now. We like where he comes from. We like Muck’s system. We like what we’ve seen here from you fellows this week. Have a seat, Travis.”

Travis sat, and listened. Mr. LeBrun offered information, nothing more. The Screech Owls’ players fell under the recruitment area of the Crusaders. The Crusaders were, as Muck had said, one of the best organizations around. Sweaters and socks and skates supplied. Some sticks supplied. Tournaments last year in Toronto, Lake Placid, Quebec City, and Vancouver. Tentative plans for a trip to Finland this coming winter.

Finland. Travis could hardly believe what he was hearing. Finland. Home of Teemu Selanne. Home of Jari Kurri. International competition. He was already halfway to the Detroit Red Wings!

“I’ve already met briefly with your coaches,” Mr. Lebrun told them. “And they have no problems with what I’m about to propose to you.”

He waited a moment, smiling, the boys waiting.

“If you four are agreeable,” Mr. LeBrun continued, “we’d like to send you invitations to attend our fall camp. I can’t guarantee you you’ll make the team, but from what I’ve seen here this week, I wouldn’t want to bet that you won’t.”

Travis looked at the others, who were also looking around. None of them had ever heard such talk before. None of them knew what to say.

“Can I send you invites, then?” Mr. LeBrun asked.

“Sure,” said Derek, his voice shaking.

“Okay,” said Dmitri, his voice the same as always.

“Great,” said Matt.

“Yeah,” said Travis.

Yes, indeed.