Sarah was back with her new skates. The carton they had come in was under her stall, the wrapping paper all around her, the skates, tongues flapping, on her feet as she stared down at her new equipment, delighted.

The dressing room was busy, alive. It had all come down to this one game. Panthers versus Screech Owls. For the Lake Placid Peewee International Championship. For the chance to take a victory lap on the same Olympic ice surface Team U.S.A. had skated on in 1980. For the tiny, gold-plated medals and Lake Placid tuques they were, rumour had it, going to be handing out to the victors.

And Sarah would be there to help them this time. There for the whole game, without anything to worry about for once. Travis felt wonderful inside, excited and happy and thrilled. The others were equally worked up. But Derek was dressing as if he was alone in the room, a hunched-over kid pretending to lose himself in the concerns of his hockey bag. Travis felt terrible for him, but happy that Derek was at least going to play. They would need him, too.

Muck came in and checked out Sarah’s new skates. He whistled, impressed. “No allowance for ten years for you,” he kidded.

“They’ll need sharpening,” Sarah said.

Muck strode to the centre of the room. He stopped, staring about as he always did before his pep talk. But it was too early for that. He would always do the pep talk just before they skated out onto the ice, just as the Zamboni was finishing up the flood. Never at this point, when they were just arriving to dress.

He smiled quickly at Travis, then stared long at Derek, who did not look up. Muck counted heads, satisfied.

“We’re all here now. So keep it down for a minute. I have something that has to be said to you.”

The players all stopped what they were doing. Even Nish. This seemed unusual to them all, not just to Travis.

“I have been talking to the tournament organizers,” Muck began. “This is, as you already know, an international competition. It falls under a joint agreement between the Canadian Amateur Hockey Association and U.S.A. Hockey. A number of restrictions apply.”

Nish’s mouth was as open as an empty net. What was Muck going on about? The other kids were all staring up, completely silent, waiting for him to make sense.

Muck watched Derek as he spoke. “One of those restrictions is that each team must have a qualified trainer with certified first-aid training at the bench. If you don’t have the proper helmet you can’t play. Don’t have the proper neck guard, can’t play. Same thing about the proper trainer. There’s only one person affiliated with the Screech Owls who has all the training necessary and all the right certification. But only one person. It isn’t me. And it isn’t Barry or Ty.”

The whole room could sense Derek lifting his eyes from his shin pads. It was almost as if he were just now entering the room, as if up until this moment he had been missing, as if someone had been in his stall but it was not the Derek Dillinger they knew.

“Mr. Dillinger?” Fahd asked.

Muck turned, nodding. “That’s correct.”

“But he’s off the team!” Nish blurted out.

Almost as one, the team turned and stared, Nish glowing beet-red and wincing.

Muck stared at Nish, not at all upset. “Technically, you’re not quite right, Nish. He resigned from the team. We always have the option open of refusing to accept his resignation.”

Derek’s eyes were closed. He was covering his ears, shaking his head.

Muck continued, loud enough so Derek had to hear. “It’s a simple choice. No certified trainer, we can’t start the game. And it’s Mr. Dillinger or it’s nobody. None of the other parents has it. And I, for one, happen to consider him one of the best I’ve ever worked with.”

Derek caught at the mention of this. His hands came down. He stared at Muck, dumbfounded.

“He’s the best skate sharpener I’ve ever had,” Sarah said.

“Me, too,” added Dmitri. Dmitri was beginning to panic that he wouldn’t have his fresh sharp for the game.

Muck turned to Sarah. “You’re the one who should say,” Muck said. “You give me the word, and I’ll see if I can find him.”

Everyone turned to look at Sarah. She closed her eyes a moment. Travis could see her jaw working, her teeth grinding as she thought. She opened her eyes, swallowed, and began nodding.

“I think so,” she said.

On the other side of the bench, Derek’s head went down, shaking.

 

Travis and Nish could not resist. Wearing only their long underwear, their garters, athletic supporters, shin pads, and socks, they scurried along the corridor to the bench area and sneaked out to watch.

They could see Muck climbing up through the crowd, the parents surprised to see him. They gathered tight against the wall with him when he called them over with a quick wave of the hand. They could hear nothing, but they knew Muck was giving them the same story that he had just told the players.

Travis couldn’t fight the thought: Is it really true? Was there such a rule? Did neither Muck nor Ty nor Barry have the right training? And if there was such a rule, how did the tournament committee find out that the Screech Owls were without a proper trainer? Or did Muck go to them instead of them coming to him?

There were a million questions in Travis’s mind, none of them answerable, none of them even questions he wished to share with his teammates. It was almost as if he and Muck had a special understanding now, ever since the incident with Derek down by the water. And Muck had looked at him in a certain way before beginning his speech about Mr. Dillinger.

If Muck had fixed it so they had to invite Mr. Dillinger back, why? Because Muck figured he had learned his lesson? Or because Muck figured all the parents, including, and especially, Mr. Brown, had learned a lesson that couldn’t be learned by a quick punch in a parking lot? Muck was a mysterious man to the players. They liked him, they loved him, but they didn’t pretend to understand him.

And how would Travis himself feel about Mr. Dillinger coming back? He had thought the world of Derek’s father before all this. But maybe this had all happened because Mr. Dillinger got mixed up. He got far too carried away with the thoughts most parents–just look at Mr. Brown–had all the time. Only Mr. Dillinger had a way to make them happen. It was wrong, but at least he had admitted it was wrong.

Travis figured he would let whatever happened happen. He could see the parents breaking up high in the stands. He could see Mr. Boucher pointing someone out to Muck. He could see Muck walking over to the other side, where Mr. Dillinger sat by himself, his elbows on his knees and his chin in the palm of one hand.

“He’s going to get him,” Nish said.

“Maybe he won’t come,” Travis said.

“He’ll come,” Nish said.

Nish was right. They watched Muck talk for a while and then they saw Muck reach down and take Mr. Dillinger by the arm and pull him to his feet.

Muck then turned and began walking away, back down to the dressing room. Mr. Dillinger, it seemed, had no choice but to follow.

 

Everything began to happen very fast after that. Mr. Dillinger came in, looking terribly sheepish, and immediately set about doing his work, just as he always did, except there was no whistling, no singing, no kidding around.

He took Sarah’s skates and sharpened them as carefully as the Screech Owls had ever seen him sharpen before. He worked for a while, came back with them, had Sarah run a thumbnail over them, but he was still not satisfied with his work. He then took the skates back and sharpened them as carefully as if they were about to go on the feet of Wayne Gretzky himself. Then he brought them back, showed Sarah that he had even cut out and taped a small “98” on each heel, slipped them on her feet and tied them. When he looked up and Sarah quickly smiled a thank you, it seemed Mr. Dillinger was going to float away.

He put new tape on the equipment box and loaded the table up with three different flavours of gum. He filled the water bottles, set the warm-up pucks in Guy Boucher’s trapper, and ran for a bucket of ice from the maintenance office. Mr. Dillinger was back.

But Derek wasn’t. Not yet. He would neither look at his father nor acknowledge his presence. Travis understood. It would take time, if even time could heal what had happened. It was, in a way, easier for Sarah to forgive than for Derek. Mr. Dillinger was his father.

Muck came in and stood in his usual spot as the Zamboni made its last circle. “You expect a speech?” he said when he had their attention. “I have nothing to say to you. You know who you are. You know how good you are. You know who you’re playing. You know what you have to do. Now let’s get out there and do it.”

“Let’s get ’em!” Nish shouted.

“One last thing,” Muck said just as everyone was rushing to line up behind Guy. Everyone stopped in his and her tracks.

“Derek, you’re going first line again,” Muck said.

Derek turned, in shock.

“Take Travis’s spot.”

Travis never felt so happy to be demoted in his life.