Mr. Dillinger had the skate sharpener open, and he had Sarah Cuthbertson’s skates out. Travis could make out the little number “98” Sarah had painted in white on the heel–the number chosen to honour the year, 1998, when women’s hockey would become an official Olympic sport.

But Mr. Dillinger also had a hammer out, the hammer he sometimes had to use to straighten out a crooked blade. Travis couldn’t remember Sarah complaining about her blades.

Travis was unable to see Mr. Dillinger’s face. He could only see his hands, and what they were doing with Sarah’s skates.

Mr. Dillinger set the skates in the skate holder normally used for sharpening, but the machine was neither set up nor plugged in. He took the hammer then, and very carefully, very slowly, worked it along the blade, hammering hard at times, and then pulling the skate off and eyeing it down the blade.

It seemed he was fixing something. Perhaps, Travis wondered, Mr. Dillinger had noticed something that Sarah hadn’t mentioned. Or perhaps Muck had noticed something. Whatever, Mr. Dillinger worked over the skates for the better part of ten minutes before he made one final check of the blade line, seemed satisfied, and then put everything back in its place, including Sarah’s skates.

He then locked everything back up again, checked the room one last time, never even coming near the locker, and then went to the door, where he turned out the light, plunging Travis back into his coffin panic, and eased silently out the door. The key scratched quietly again, turned, and the door was once more locked solid.

It took another ten minutes or so for Travis’s heart to settle and some of his sight to return. It seemed strange to him: Mr. Dillinger coming up here late at night–Travis checked his watch, the digital numbers glowing 12:45–just to straighten out Sarah’s blades. That was dedication.

 

Travis was wide awake when the kids returned to let him out. He had heard the rink attendants arrive before 7:00 a.m. and he knew then that his ordeal was over. He had survived the dark! He had been buried alive and was still alive! He felt prouder of himself than if he had scored a hat-trick in the final game. Well, maybe not quite that proud, but…

The key scratched again and Travis knew it would be Derek and the others. He was already out of the locker and waiting for them when they burst in, their faces so uncertain that he wondered if perhaps they were expecting to find a body hacked to pieces by a chainsaw instead of their friend who had just proved something important to himself, but couldn’t tell anyone about it.

“You okay?” Sarah asked.

“Fine.”

“No goblins,” Nish giggled. Travis ignored him.

“Anything?” Fahd asked.

“I don’t know,” Travis said. “I’m not sure. Derek, you got a key on that ring for the skate box?”

Derek fiddled with the keys. “I guess so. Why?”

“I don’t know. I just want to look at something.”

Derek found the right key on the third try. The padlock came off, the lid up, and Travis, without explaining, reached in for the skates with number 98 painted on the heel.

“What’re you doing with my skates?” Sarah demanded.

“Just checking.”

Travis held the skates up to the light and turned first one, then the other, upside-down. With his eye, he traced the line of the blade and saw what he had been afraid he might see: the blades were badly curved. Deliberately bent by a hammer. Sarah wouldn’t be able to skate the length of the ice on them. If she tried to turn, she’d either dig in and fall flat or slip away and crash into the boards.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah asked.

Travis handed her one of the skates. The other he gave to Nish.

“They’re crooked!” Sarah shouted.

“Somebody’s bent them!” Nish added.

“Who would do something like that?” Derek asked.

Travis had no idea how he would tell him.

“I have to talk to you, Muck.”

It would be wrong to suggest that Travis had never done anything so difficult before in his life. He had, barely an hour earlier.

Travis had only described what he had seen, with no suggestions, no accusations, nothing. But Derek had seen through it immediately. Derek had burst into tears in the equipment room and Sarah, also crying, had tried to comfort him, but Derek had shaken her off and, without another word, fled the room, slamming the door behind him as hard as he could pull it.

They had probably taken too much time to put the skates back and the locks on. When it came time to lock the door up again, they found they had no key–Derek had run off with it. And when they hurried outside to see if they could still catch him, he was nowhere to be seen. Nor was he back at the hotel. It seemed he had run away.

Travis had found the coach at the gift shop where Muck was buying a copy of USA Today and a pack of gum. Muck took him out into the sun room by the main entrance–no one there but a bellman dozing in the sun–carefully opened the gum and handed a stick to Travis and took one himself, slowly chewing as if the flavour mattered more than whatever Travis had to say to him.

“Okay,” he said, “shoot. What is it?”

Travis found he could barely speak. Even with the sweet gum in his mouth, his throat was burning as if he were about to cry. But no tears came; nor, at times, would any sound. Muck waited patiently, saying nothing, slowly chewing and then snapping his own gum. Finally, Travis got it all out. The camera, the keys, the locker, what he had seen, the skates, Derek, the keys…

Muck took it all in without even blinking. When Travis had finished Muck sat, looking very tired, and stared for a long time at Travis, who figured he was about to get into trouble for the keys and for staying out all night.

Muck stared, shook his head, and smiled. “Hockey does strange things to people, Travis.”

Travis had no idea what he meant.