Nish was still throwing up in the bathroom. Fahd was staring blankly at the TV while he flicked through the channels without stopping. Lars was asleep, tossing and twisting under the covers and groaning every now and then as if caught in a nightmare.
Travis was lying on his bed, pressing the tips of his fingers to his throbbing temples and wishing he could just stay there until the last five or six hours somehow magically erased themselves.
There was a light rap on the door. Fahd put down the remote and stood on his tiptoes to see out the peephole.
“It’s Sarah,” he said. “And Jenny and Sam and Liz.”
“Let ’em in,” Travis said. The girls were sharing the room next door. Perhaps they’d even heard Nish retching.
Before they could say anything, there came one huge retch from the bathroom, followed by Nish coughing and choking and spitting, then the flush of the toilet and the tap turning on, hard.
They waited, no one saying a word. Fahd began flicking mindlessly once more through the channels, but no one complained and no one asked him to stop. They all stared at the flickering screen, grateful for any distraction.
The door to the bathroom opened, and Nish, a bath towel wrapped around his head, stumbled out and promptly bumped into Sam, who was sitting on the edge of the bed.
The towel unwound to reveal a shining, pink face, eyes swollen and bloodshot, black hair soaking wet. Nish must have had his head right under the tap.
“Feel better, Barf Boy?” Sam asked.
Nish flicked the towel in her direction, snapping it harmlessly in the air.
“Something I ate,” he mumbled. “Food poisoning, I guess.”
Sarah couldn’t help laughing. “Whoever got food poisoning from chocolate bars and Coke?”
“I eat other stuff!” Nish protested.
“No one’s ever seen you!” Sarah said, giggling.
“How’re you guys doing?” Travis asked.
“Not good,” admitted Liz. “I can’t get it out of my head.”
“Neither can I,” said Lars, now wide awake and disentangling himself from his sweat-soaked sheets.
The telephone rang, and Lars, who was closest, picked it up.
“Hello?” Lars said uncertainly. He nodded several times. Then said, “Okay,” and hung up the receiver.
The others stared, waiting.
“It was Mr. Dillinger,” Lars explained. “Muck’s lined up a game for us. We’re on the ice in an hour.”
“In an hour!” Sam shouted, as if it were impossible.
But in a flash everyone was in action – Lars stabbing his feet into his shoes, even Nish diving into the heap in the corner that passed for his luggage to pull out a clean T-shirt and extra socks. They weren’t tired. They’d slept most of the flight and, besides, the events of the past few hours had made relaxation impossible.
Muck was doing exactly the right thing, Travis realized. He was forcing them back into the world they knew best.
The Owls needed ice time.