Travis wasn’t exactly sure when Nish had first noticed the cameras. He couldn’t have missed the crews running onto the ice to film the Owls piling on top of him. But it seemed to Travis that Nish must have seen them earlier; why else would he have tried his crazy play? Travis didn’t much care. It had worked. Nish had his Pavel Bure goal – and the Owls had the championship.
Nish put on a humble act when the cameras closed around him and the reporters began peppering him with questions. He called it a “lucky play” and gave credit to his teammates, but Travis didn’t believe it for a moment. Nish was in his glory.
“Maybe Letterman will call,” Sam said sarcastically as the rest of the Owls stood around watching Nish fielding questions.
“Guinness won’t be,” said Sarah, giggling.
She was right. Nish might have come to New York to moon – but instead he’d ended up a star.
After Travis had accepted the trophy, and medals were being presented to both teams, he noticed the camera crews talking with the organizers. Then just when it seemed he should pick up the trophy and hold it over his head for a victory lap of Madison Square Garden, the organizers, with the Wheels’ coach in tow, hurried over to Muck.
They talked briefly, Muck scowling but eventually giving one quick nod of his head. He came back to the Owls and called them all in around him.
“They’ve a chance to get on the network news apparently,” Muck said, unimpressed. “But the television people want to shoot a shootout. You willing to do that?”
It was clear from Muck’s expression that he himself didn’t want to. But Muck was Muck, never one to force his opinions on others. He was leaving it up to the team.
“You betcha!” said Nish, still beaming from his moment of glory. He couldn’t get enough.
“Sure,” said Andy.
“Why not?” said Sam.
Muck nodded once, curtly. “Fine, then,” he said. “I’ll let them know.”
The organizers seemed delighted. They immediately cleared the ice of everyone but two camera crews, one on each side of the slot area where the shooters would be coming in. Jeremy and the Wheels’ goaltender both took their positions.
The players all went back to their benches while the coaches made up their lists.
Sarah would shoot first.
Travis second.
Nish third.
Muck read down through the entire list. Travis was thrilled. He could feel his heart pounding. He hoped he scored.
Sarah scored easily, a beautiful tuck play as the goalie shot out his stick to poke-check her, and she simply let the puck slide into the net off her backhand.
The big Detroit centre scored on a hard slapshot that blew right through Jeremy’s pads.
The Owls were still congratulating Sarah when Travis, looking down the bench, noticed something very unusual.
Sam, who was far down the list, had her helmet and gloves off and was very carefully pickpocketing Mr. Dillinger’s first-aid belt.
She was taking out the scissors.
Muck tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re up,” he said.
Travis came out onto the ice to a nice round of applause for the winning captain. He loved it. If only the ice surface had been flooded so he could feel that glorious snap and sizzle when he made his turn.
He picked up the puck and wished there was no heavy snow on the ice. He was afraid of losing the puck, and he couldn’t stickhandle very quickly. His legs felt funny, like rubber one stride, like lead the next.
Travis came in, faked, went to his backhand, and lifted the puck as hard as he could.
Ping! Off the crossbar.
Travis heard the crowd groan. He slammed his stick in disappointment, but in truth he wasn’t that upset. It was just a shootout for fun, after all. It didn’t count. And as only hockey players understand, if you’re going to miss, the best way is off the crossbar.
As Travis skated back to the bench and his teammates shouted his name, Nish came over the boards.
Right behind Nish, giggling, sat Sam. She held up the scissors in one hand, and raised a thumb with the other.
Sarah was doubled over, laughing so hard tears were coming down her cheeks.
What was going on?
Nish made a grand circle before picking up the puck. It was as if he was on parade. He did some fancy stickhandling and took lots of time.
Both cameras were on him as he came over the blueline. They knew who this was – the kid who had scored the spectacular goal and won the game in overtime – and it was pretty obvious that if any footage made the network news, it was going to be of Nish.
But wait, there was something wrong with Nish’s pants! They seemed impossibly low!
Nish tried a fancy sidestep, and his hockey pants dropped right down over his skates.
He tripped and slid helplessly along the ice.
Travis heard two wild squeals of laughter down the bench. Sarah was high-fiving Sam, and Sam was furiously snipping the air with the scissors.
She had cut Nish’s suspenders!
Nish was still down, his pants around his ankles, both camera crews zooming in on the overtime hero.
He was going to be on network television.
And only a sweaty pair of boxers had kept him from setting a world record for mooning.
THE END