Travis was beginning to understand why he had such a bad feeling about the new centre, Andy Higgins. He seemed to swear a lot–much more than necessary–and he sometimes smelled of cigarette smoke. But neither of those points troubled Travis. Most of the kids swore a bit. And some of them–even Nish, his best friend–thought smoking was okay, even if they didn’t do it. No, what really bothered Travis was that he believed Andy Higgins was stealing.

He’d noticed things before. Data brought his older brother’s tape deck to the dressing room and said it was the Screech Owls’ to keep; his brother had moved on to a CD player. They were each supposed to bring in a tape for playing before and after games. Just like the pros. Travis had saved his allowance and bought the Tragically Hip, and some of the others had brought in a variety of other tapes: Counting Crows, some rap, the Barenaked Ladies, and even, to a loud chorus of boos directed Fahd’s way, Michael Jackson.

One tape apiece. Except for Andy Higgins. He’d brought in close to a dozen. All brand new, all still in their wrappers. Most were recent hits and, naturally, they got the most play, which had the effect of putting Andy in charge of the team tape recorder and making him instantly popular. But not with Travis. He’d figured out that Andy had to have spent roughly $150 to buy those particular tapes, and that hardly seemed like allowance money.

Now, in Toronto, Andy was walking around the dressing room flicking a lighter at everyone. It was brand new, with the CN Tower on it. Just like the ones Travis and Nish had seen in the hotel gift shop. But they would never have sold a lighter to a thirteen-year-old kid. He could have swiped it, however, and that’s exactly what Travis thought he had done.

Travis left the dressing room and went out to clear his head. The Little Stanley Cup was being played in more than a dozen Toronto arenas, and the Screech Owls had come to play their first game in St. Michael’s Arena, where so many NHLers had played their early hockey. He walked alongside the glass display case near the snack bar, looking at the old photographs under the sign “THE TRADITION LIVES ON”: Red Kelly, Joe Primeau, Tim Horton, Frank Mahovlich, Dave Keon.

And then, Terrible Ted himself. Ted Lindsay, with the crooked smile and the hair that looked as if it had been parted with a protractor. Terrible Ted Lindsay smiling back at Travis Lindsay, his distant relative. Travis wondered if perhaps he would one day play here for St. Mike’s? He imagined himself moving on to play in the NHL and being inducted into the St. Mike’s Hall of Fame, right alongside Terrible Ted. Travis couldn’t think of anything he wouldn’t trade to get there–well, maybe except for Doug Gilmour’s stick.

When Travis returned to the dressing room, everyone had started to dress. Nish was sitting wrapped in his towel. He had his shorts hanging off the blade of his stick directly in front of a hot-air vent.

“They can’t still be cold!” Travis said.

“Damp,” said Nish. “I catch the guy who did this, he’s good as dead.”

“The guy who did that is probably already dead from touching them!” Wilson shouted. Everyone laughed. Everyone but Nish, who just said, “Very funny.”

Travis couldn’t tell whether he was really annoyed or enjoying the attention. It was always difficult to say with Nish.

The Owls’ assistant coach, Barry, stuck his head in the door and told them to hurry up. The room went silent as the team got down to the serious work of dressing. What Barry meant, but would never say, was that the boys should hurry so the girls–Jennie, Liz, and Chantal–could join them in time to put on their skates and get ready for Muck’s pep talk.

Travis always liked these moments best. He loved dressing. He felt, at times, like a machine being assembled: underwear, protector, garter, left shin pad, right shin pad, socks, attach socks to garter, pants on loose, skates on loose, watch until Nish closes his eyes and begins rocking back and forth–Nish’s way of getting ready–then tighten skates, tie pants, tighten belt on pants, shoulder pads, elbow pads, neck guard, lay sweater in lap, think, pull sweater over head and make hideous face at Nish when hidden by sweater, wait, then helmet, click on face mask, gloves, stick, and ready. Always the same order, always the same timing. A machine waiting only for someone to flick the switch.

Flicking the switch was Muck’s job. He always said something–never too complicated, never overly critical, like a teacher’s last words before an exam. In Round One of the Little Stanley Cup, the Screech Owls would be playing the Junior River Rats from Albany, New York, a peewee version of the minor pro team with the best sweater and cap logo Travis had ever seen: a snarling rat holding a hockey stick.

The three girls came in, Jennie walking stiff-legged in her goalie pads like a robot, Liz and Chantal bouncing lightly on their skates. Travis smiled quietly to himself. He had noticed the “bounce” lately, and not just from the girls, but from Nish and Dmitri too, and, he had to admit, even from himself at times. The bounce was a signal: you were a hockey player.

Muck came in. Muck always dressed as if he were going down to Canadian Tire to pick up some wood screws. No fancy hockey jacket with badges all over it. No tie. No clipboard filled with notes. Nothing. Just Muck. Just the way he’d always been.

“Okay,” Muck said. Instantly the room went silent. Muck never had to raise his voice, that’s how much respect the players had for their coach.

“This is a team we haven’t seen before. I don’t expect they’re going to give us too much trouble, but by the same token I don’t expect us to do anything but play our game. That means what, Nish?”

Nish had been staring down between his knees, concentrating.

“‘Stay in position,’” Nish quoted. It was one of Muck’s favourite phrases, and Nish almost sounded like the coach when he said it. Travis knew why Muck had asked Nish; everyone knew who the worst offender was if a game was too easy. Nish would suddenly think he was Paul Coffey, rushing end to end with the puck.

“That’s right,” agreed Muck. “Stay in position. No dumb moves. No ‘glory hogs.’”

Nish looked up abruptly, surprised that Muck would use the same expression his teammates used when they were ragging on him. Muck stared right back, a small grin at the corners of his mouth.

“I want to see passing. I want to see you use your points. I want to see everyone–and I mean everyone–coming back to help out your defence and goaltender.

“Now let’s go.”