What was wrong with everyone? Travis wondered.
First, Nish had refused to listen to him on the long trudge through the snow back to the hotel. He wouldn’t believe for a moment that the key was Fahd’s. What proof did Travis have? he wanted to know. The key had no number on it. It didn’t even have the name of the hotel on it. It could be anyone’s, said Nish, even Big’s.
Sure, Travis wanted to say, Big really lives in a fancy hotel and just sells fake watches and hangs around underground parking garages for fun.
Travis was disappointed in his friend, but that was nothing compared to how he felt after he got off the telephone with the New York police. He’d managed to track down the policeman who’d investigated Muck’s “mugging,” but the man seemed absolutely uninterested in the case. Hotel keys were a dime a dozen, he said to Travis. People lost them all the time. Seeing a key in an old car didn’t mean a thing. Nor had the policeman seemed interested in Travis’s description of Big and Shadow and how one of them might have been the guy who clubbed Muck.
“Son,” the policeman said in a way that made Travis feel five years old, “a million people in this city might fit that description. Call me back when you get a signed confession.”
Travis lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. Perhaps the police were right. Someone may or may not have been in Data’s and Fahd’s room, but even if they had, nothing was taken. Someone did club Muck, but nothing had been taken from him, either. Perhaps Nish was right, too. Big wasn’t involved. Perhaps, for that matter, Big and Shadow had been at the theatre the other night – a musical, maybe, with the two of them standing at the encore to toss bouquets of flowers at the stars.
But somehow Travis didn’t think so.
The Owls had a game to play. Travis was disgusted with himself; he’d become so caught up in the world of crime and police investigations that he’d almost forgotten why the Screech Owls were in New York City.
They were in the middle of a big tournament. And they’d need Travis, the captain, concentrating on hockey if they were going to have a chance of winning.
They were to play a team from Chicago, the Young Blackhawks, in the same small rink where they’d played their opener. No Madison Square Garden again until they made the final – if they made the final.
The Blackhawks were a good, smart team – well coached, big, and mean. They caught the Owls off guard early, and within a matter of minutes the score was 2–0 for the Chicago peewees on only four shots. Jenny, whose turn it was to play nets this game, was also struggling.
“You’re quicker than they are,” Muck said to them before the next faceoff. “Better to be fast than big. Remember the last game.”
Dmitri got the Owls rolling first, with a fast dash up-ice to beat the Chicago defenceman back to a puck that just came short of icing. He pulled around the defender, scooped up the puck, and set up behind the Blackhawk net, looking for someone coming in.
Travis came in hard from the left side, Sarah down the middle. Dmitri faked to Travis and hit Sarah, who shot immediately, the puck bouncing high off the goaltender’s shoulder and fluttering in the air as it fell back to the ice.
It never made it. Travis’s stick flashed in front of the goaltender and picked the puck, baseball-style, out of mid-air and sent it into the far side of the net.
“Great play!” Sarah said as they mobbed Travis in the corner.
“Lucky, lucky,” Nish kidded as he poked a glove through the scrum and smacked the top of Travis’s helmet.
Travis grinned. He knew Nish was closer to the truth than Sarah, but he had meant to hit the puck, and it worked. It must have looked great.
The Owls tied it in the second period when Sam made a great rush up-ice. Just as she drew the Chicago defence in to check her, she flipped a backhand across-ice that little Simon Milliken picked up and rapped off the post. The rebound went to Andy, who hammered a shot that the falling Chicago goaltender barely managed to stop, and Mario, the ultimate garbage collector, was there to pick up the loose puck and lift it into the net.
Heading into the final minute, the two teams were still tied, with four goals each. Travis knew how badly they needed the win. It would give them a perfect record, and probably put them into the finals. A tie might leave it up in the air. A loss could mean elimination.
He skated quickly by Nish as they lined up for the next faceoff. “We win, we play in MSG again,” he said quietly as he brushed past.
Travis knew what those words would do to Nish. Nish would see himself back at Madison Square Garden. The championship game. A big crowd. Television. David Letterman. Nish scoring his “Pavel Bure.” A Hollywood contract. Action figures of Wayne Nishikawa under every Christmas tree. Dates with supermodels. Nish so famous he’d need real Oakleys to hide behind so he wouldn’t be mobbed – which would happen anyway, of course.
The puck dropped. Sarah took out her check and Dmitri picked up the puck and flipped it back to Sam, who was on with Nish for the final minute of play. Sam fired it cross-ice to Nish, who took the pass at full stride. He was over the blueline and headed for centre when he fired a quick, unexpected pass that flew by Travis’s left shoulder.
What’s he doing? Travis wondered.
But then he saw. The Blackhawk defenceman had moved up tight on Travis, setting for a turnover. He had clearly hoped to dive past Travis and knock the puck away and free, but Nish’s high pass had caught the defenceman completely by surprise. He was back on his heels, and when he tried to turn he fell.
The puck pounded into the boards and dropped to the ice, bouncing out perfectly as Travis sidestepped the falling defenceman and headed in on net.
Dmitri hammered his stick on the ice, looking for the pass. Travis hit him perfectly just as the far defenceman was turning for Travis, leaving Dmitri alone. Dmitri came in, faked, and dropped a long blind pass that landed perfectly on Sarah’s stick.
The Chicago centre dived, hoping to take Sarah’s skates out from under her. But Sarah was ready. She dropped the puck again, just as the Blackhawks centre tackled her and took her down.
The referee’s hand went up – but the whistle couldn’t go until a Chicago player touched the puck.
Sam picked it up in full flight.
Dmitri rapped his stick on the side of the net.
The Chicago goalie tried to play both Dmitri and Sam at the same time.
Sam shot, a hard slapper, that blew past the goalie on the blocker side, high and in off the elbow where the post meets the crossbar.
A moment, barely, before the horn blew to end regulation play.
Screech Owls 5, Young Blackhawks 4.
The players on the ice were first to mob Sam. Then the rest of the Owls and Muck arrived, slipping and falling along the ice.
“What a play!” Sarah was screaming.
“Awesome!” shouted Dmitri. “Great shot, Sam!”
“I set it all up,” whined Nish. “And I won’t even get credit for an assist.”
Block him out, Travis told himself. Just block him out.