“Sarah’s sticks are missing!”

The voice was Ty Barrett’s and it was coming from outside the dressing room, but everyone inside heard him. He was talking to Muck, who had just stepped outside to see how far the Zamboni had got with the ice cleaning. Muck swore–unusual for Muck, meaning he was very, very upset.

Sarah had heard as well. She had just finished tying her skates and pulling on her sweater and had her helmet, ready to strap on, in her lap, when Ty’s voice burst in through the door. She didn’t say a word, just shut her eyes and leaned back against the wall. Travis could hear her let her breath out slowly.

“Give us a break!” Nish shouted from behind his mask.

“How could they be ‘missing’?” Jesse asked no one in particular.

The door opened and Muck came back in, his jaw working furiously but no sound coming out. He had no idea what to say himself. He signalled for Mr. Dillinger to come with him, and Mr. Dillinger, shaking his head and blowing air out of his mouth, hurried from the dressing room to consult. The players could hear more swearing, both Muck and Mr. Dillinger.

Muck returned again, followed by Mr. Dillinger, his face now red and angry-looking.

“Someone’s made off with Sarah’s sticks,” Muck said very matter-of-factly. “She’ll have to borrow. Travis, you’re a left. You have extras?”

“Two.”

He turned to Sarah, her eyes now open, glistening slightly.

“You can try Travis’s. If you don’t like them, try some other lefts. We’ve got no choice.”

 

Someone who doesn’t play the game would never understand, Travis thought as the Screech Owls warmed up Sareen to start her first game of the tournament.

A hockey stick has a personality, Travis figured, and it gets the personality from the owner, the one who tapes it and bends it and handles it and feels it. Changing sticks in hockey is like a batter heading to the plate with a shovel in his hands, or a basketball player heading down the court in church shoes. It doesn’t feel right, and when it doesn’t feel right, it usually doesn’t work right.

He had given two of his sticks over to Sarah and she had tried them but obviously was not content with them. Sarah liked to taper the top of her stick; Travis liked a big knob of tape. Sarah liked a fairly straight blade for playmaking; Travis liked as big a curve as he could get away with for roofing shots and corner-work. Sarah liked a short stick for in-close work; Travis liked one that stood to the bottom of his chin so he could get all his weight behind a slapper.

The only player who liked his sticks like Sarah was Dmitri, but Dmitri was a right shot. She tried one of Matt’s sticks and one of Jesse’s, but then came back to Travis’s as the best of a poor choice. She seemed sadly discouraged during the warm-up.

The game went poorly. Sareen was so nervous she let in the first shot, a long dump-in from the other side of the blueline. And Sarah could not hang onto the puck at all. This time, however, Muck refused to juggle the lines to compensate. He seemed determined to go with Sarah at first-line centre no matter what.

But the team was paying for her lack of stick control. With Dmitri at top speed heading in on right, she sent a pass that would normally have meant a breakaway but, thanks to the big curve, caught slightly and went behind Dmitri, throwing him offside.

And later, with Travis parked all alone at the side of the net and Sarah with the puck in the slot, the Screech Owls lost the tying goal when Sarah backhanded the puck and it went looping off the other side of the curve into the corner and out of harm’s way.

The Toronto Towers, knowing they must win to have any chance of going on in the tournament, fought ferociously and were up 2–0 at the break. The first goal had been Sareen’s fault, the second had been Travis’s fault. He had thought Nish had control of the puck and broke over the blueline toward centre, only to have Nish checked off the puck. The Towers’ defenceman pinched, picked up the puck, and hit a winger sitting on the far side of the net for a perfect one-timer. The goal light was flashing as Travis, feeling like a fool, was still on the other side of the blueline.

Finally, at the break, Muck had had enough. He put his arm around Sarah as he told her that Derek was yet again moving up onto the line and Sarah, fighting back tears, her lips trembling, had nodded that she agreed. Muck gave her a little hug as he let go.

The juggling worked again, just as it had for the first game. Sareen settled down and didn’t let another goal past her. Derek played his heart out, scored once and set up Dmitri on a clean breakaway, which he cashed in. The score was tied 2–2.

Matt Brown scored the go-ahead goal on a Screech Owls power play, hammering a shot in from the point that seemed to tip in off a Toronto player’s skate toe. And the Screech Owls’ fourth goal was scored by Travis–but it was hardly one for the highlights.

With two minutes to go in a game the Towers had to win, they had pulled their goaltender, and Derek, stealing a puck inside his own blueline, had hit Dmitri for a second breakaway. But Dmitri, sometimes generous to a fault, had slowed down, drawn the one defender to him, and laid a perfect, soft pass to empty ice so it was sitting there, waiting, when Travis arrived at the front of the empty net. He could have scored with a bulldozer.

 

When they came off the ice after the handshake, Mr. LeBrun was standing to the side of the rubber mat leading to the dressing room. He congratulated each player as he or she passed, with a special tap for the four with whom he had met, and a victorious punch to the shoulder of a sheepish-looking Derek Dillinger.

Mr. Dillinger, carrying the water bottles and first-aid equipment a few steps behind, beamed as he passed Mr. LeBrun and the scout said, “You got a good one there.” Mr. Dillinger knew; the whole team knew. Mr. Dillinger was glowing red when he came into the dressing room.

“All right, listen up!” Barry Yonson yelled when the clatter of falling sticks had subsided and everyone was in their seats and beginning to pull off helmets and gloves. Muck wanted to speak to them.

“You can thank your lucky stars that was Toronto and not the Panthers,” Muck told them in his usual quiet voice. “Most of you played like house-league atoms out there.”

The players knew it was true. Even considering what had happened to Sarah, the Screech Owls had stunk. Had it not been for Derek’s inspired play when he was moved up to replace her, and Sareen shutting the Towers out in the second period, they might have been packing up to go home.

“Pick up your sticks as you go,” Muck said. “Mr. Dillinger’s going to lock them up in the van overnight. And Sarah, you go with Mr. Dillinger downtown. He’ll take you to pick up some new ones, okay?”

Sarah smiled. She’d be able to play in the final. “Okay,” she said.

“Alllll rightttt, Sarah!” Nish shouted.

“Yesss!” Derek added.

Good for Derek, Travis thought. He knows if Sarah comes back, he drops back. He knows who the real first-line centre of the Screech Owls is. He knows what a team means.