For the entire ride back to town Travis wondered how to tell Nish that he thought he had seen Liam Fontaine before. He had no idea how he could say anything without making a complete fool of himself. What could he say? That he had seen the boy at the cemetery the night they had gone to The Blood Children: Part VIII. Nish wouldn’t believe him. And who would blame him? Travis couldn’t believe it himself.
It made no sense.
Nish, however, was thinking only about his movie. He babbled all the way about the “great setting” Old Man Fontaine’s place would make for a horror flick. Nish loved the dark, spooky house. Loved the dog’s grave. Loved Zeke Fontaine’s face – so much in fact that he was even toying with asking the old man if he’d like a part in his film.
Get real! Travis wanted to say. But he said nothing. He let Nish dream on. And he tried to force his own thoughts back to something more down-to-earth.
The Screech Owls were due to play the following evening in Brantford, home of the second-best team in the league, the Warriors. It was going to be a tough test for the Owls. If they could compete against the Warriors, they were a real lacrosse team.
Travis wondered if he had enough courage to try the stick Mr. Fontaine had given him.
The Warriors were everything Muck had warned them they would be. Big and tough and extremely skilled, if a bit slow on their feet. Mr. Dillinger seemed particularly worried and fidgeted terribly, almost as if he wished he had something useful to do – like sharpen skates. But Mr. Dillinger only had water bottles to fill and laces to worry about, and the lack of work just seemed to make him more nervous.
Travis, too, was nervous. He took the new – or was it old? – Logan out for warm-up and one of the referees came running over to check it out. Not because it might be illegal, as Travis first feared, but because he had recognized the make and wanted a closer look.
“You’re a lucky young man,” he said to Travis as he handed it back.
Travis wasn’t so sure.
The game began. Sarah won the draw easily, but was instantly flattened by a hard check from behind. The ball squirted to Travis’s side and he tried to scoop it up but lost it when it ticked off the catgut. A Warrior scooped it free, tossed it cross-floor, and sent in his winger on a break. He rolled right off Fahd’s check and scored easily on a bounce shot that Nish misjudged.
One shot, one goal.
The Warriors built the score to 5–0 by the time of the first intermission. Travis and the other Owls sagged against the boards, spraying water directly onto their faces and munching on orange sections that Mr. Dillinger had cut up when he ran out of other things to do.
Travis was disheartened. The Owls looked weak and disorganized and unskilled.
“Your speed,” Muck said. “Use your speed.”
Sarah got them rolling with a great rush up-floor in which she turned her back on the defence as they came together, crashed into them, and dropped off to Dmitri, who stepped around the falling defenders and beat the Brantford goalie on a sidearm.
Andy scored on a long shot that took an odd bounce.
Simon scored on a shot that tipped in off a Warrior’s stick.
The Warriors scored two more, and the Owls answered with two, one by Sam and the other by Travis on a low underhand that skimmed the floor and slipped right in between the Brantford goalie’s feet.
They were into the third frame, the Owls still down by two goals, when Wilson scored on a wonderful solo effort that took him up-floor and around the opposition net, sending in a high overhand lob that just cleared the goaltender’s shoulder before the clock ran out.
There was only a minute left in the game.
Sarah had the ball in her own corner. Two Warriors were on her. She huddled down and popped the ball free to Nish, who’d left his crease to help out.
Travis cut towards centre. “NISH!” he screamed.
Nish saw him and hit him perfectly. Travis took the ball, turned, and headed in.
One defender back.
Travis reached up and wedged the ball down hard into the pocket. He had tried the bounce play twice already. Once it had worked. Once it hadn’t. They might be expecting it again.
He dropped his shoulder.
The defender didn’t go for it, keeping his legs together to block any bounce.
Travis tossed his stick, high and spinning through the air, and stepped around the surprised defenceman. The stick seemed to move in slow motion. It hung suspended in the air. Travis could hear gasps from the crowd. He could hear his own feet slapping on the floor.
Moving in under the stick, he reached up with one hand and caught it. He jammed the stick down so the bottom of the handle rapped off the arena floor, jiggling the ball free.
A fake, a fake backhander, and he slipped an underhand shot in the short side.
The arena erupted.
The players on the floor mobbed Travis. The players on the bench bolted as the clock ran out and the buzzer sounded.
Travis had scored a thousand goals in hockey, including practices, exhibition games, and road games, but it was never like this.
Even Nish was on top of him, weighing about fifty extra pounds in his sweat-filled, stinking equipment. He had never smelled so sweet!
Now there were other hands pulling him free. Strong, big hands. It was Muck. He was smiling and shaking his head. “I guess I know where you got that.”
Travis smiled back. He looked for Mr. Fontaine, but the old man was already at the gate leading off the floor and away.
There was no use chasing him. The players were all holding each other and half dancing in the corner of the rink. They had only tied the game, but they had tied the Warriors.
They were a team.
A competitive team.
With only the championship now to go.