Sam and Sarah were in the dressing room, kneeling at opposite ends of Nish’s new equipment bag, when Nish stepped out of the washroom, his hair freshly watered down and parted for the practice. Both girls had their heads buried in the open bag, and both, at the moment he appeared, sat back and, eyes closed, made a grand display of drinking in the air from the bag.
“Ahhhhhh,” Sam said, inhaling deeply. “Like a garden of flowers!”
“Like a spring shower,” Sarah agreed. “We could call it ‘Breeze of Nish’ and sell it.”
“Get outta there!” Nish shouted, blood racing to his face. “Or I’ll give you a breeze that’ll peel paint off the walls.”
“Such a charmer,” Sam giggled as she and Sarah backed away and Nish took up his usual seat in the corner farthest from the door.
The bag in front of him was an Owls equipment bag, but the number, 44, was scribbled on in grease pencil rather than stitched. Mr. Dillinger had scrambled to replace Nish’s destroyed hockey equipment, and he’d done an amazing job. Carrying extra skates in the general equipment bag had paid off; there was a pair of size 8s that Andy had outgrown but which fitted Nish almost perfectly. There were extra pads and gloves and a pair of pants that Mr. Dillinger had stitched up. Mr. Dillinger even produced new team socks for Nish and a new sweater. Not his old 44, of course, which had been destroyed in the explosion, but 22. “Some people say you’re only half there, anyway,” Mr. Dillinger had joked, and even Nish had been forced to laugh.
But he was hardly happy now.
“This isn’t me!” Nish had moaned when he was finally suited up.
“Thank God!” Sarah and Sam had shouted out at the same time.
“I’m missing my ‘A,’” he whined.
“We can fix that,” said Mr. Dillinger. He pulled out a roll of tape, cut three strips, and stuck them on to form a quick assistant captain’s “A.”
“And I’m missing my lucky shorts!” Nish groaned, almost in tears.
“Lucky us!” shouted Sam.
“I’ve worn them since Lake Placid!” he muttered.
“When?” Travis asked, eyes widening in disbelief.
“Lake Placid,” Nish repeated.
Travis, like every other Owl in the room, did some rapid mental calculations. Months had passed since the tournament in Lake Placid. Hundreds of games and practices. Surely he hadn’t worn the same pair of boxer shorts in every one of them!
“You must have washed them?” Fahd asked, equally incredulous.
Nish shook his head. “Only a fool would wash off good luck,” he groaned.
“It’s a wonder Washington is still standing!” laughed Sarah.
Nish said nothing. He leaned back in his stall, closed his eyes, and stuck out his tongue in the general direction of everyone in the room.
Muck threw one of his “curve balls” into the practice. After they had worked on a new break-out pattern and taken shots at Jenny and Jeremy, Muck had them all toss their sticks over the boards and onto the bench floor while Mr. Dillinger struggled out from the dressing room area with a large, open cardboard box.
“Everyone take one!” ordered Muck. “And no reloading!”
Travis looked at Nish, who scowled back. What was Muck up to?
Lars’s hand was first into the box. He pulled out a green, clear plastic water gun, water dripping from the plug and trigger. Wilson got a blue one. Sarah got a red one. Hands plunged into the box, each one emerging with a cheap, filled-to-the-brim water gun.
“Have fun,” Muck said, and stepped off the ice, hurrying up the corridor towards the Owls’ dressing room before anyone could think to take a shot in his direction.
“What’re we supposed to do with these?” Nish asked, holding his up like he’d never seen one before.
“This!” Sam shouted, squirting him straight in his open mouth.
She took off down the ice, Nish chasing. Bedlam broke out at the bench as Owls began firing at Owls. Screaming and yelling and laughing, they chased each other around the rink, trying to get a shot in.
Andy and Simon went after Travis, but he was too agile a skater for them to nail him with a good blast. He twisted behind the goal. He used the net for a shield. He scooted out and towards the blueline and then turned back so fast his skates almost lost their edge.
Everywhere, the Owls were twisting and turning and ducking and trying to cut each other off. Travis slipped back behind the net again, jockeying for position as Simon came in from the left.
Travis faked one way, then turned back on Simon, blasting him as he twisted and coiled back along the boards.
Travis realized what Muck had done. They were playing – but they were also practising! They might not have sticks or pucks, but they were still working on hockey skills. Twisting and turning along the boards was not unlike cycling in the corners. Racing for the net was not unlike looking for a scoring chance. Trying to cut off a player who’d just sprayed you and was now racing down the ice was not unlike trying to read the ice to make a check.
It made Travis laugh to think how brilliant Muck could sometimes be. The Owls would be convinced this was nothing but messing around – and yet they were probably learning far more about hockey than they were about water pistols.
Nish, naturally, ran out of water first.
When the others realized this, they turned on him as a team. Nish cowered in the corner with his hands held up helplessly to block the spray of more than a dozen water guns. Finally, the last spurt went down his neck, and Nish rose up in a rage and began blindly chasing the scattering attackers.
They were saved by a shrill whistle from the bench. Muck’s whistle. Everyone stopped dead in their tracks and turned to glide towards the bench where Muck was standing, whistle still in his mouth, face red with anger.
Beside Muck was Mr. Dillinger with the box that had held the water pistols, and behind them was the Secret Service leader, earplug still in, teeth still snapping on his chewing gum. He looked stern.
“Put ’em away, kids,” Mr. Dillinger said. “Security says you gotta hang ’em up.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Sam, as she tossed her empty pistol into the box.
“Water pistols,” Muck said quietly through clenched teeth, “are apparently a ‘security breach’ in this rink.”
“Just while the tournament’s on, Coach,” the gum-snapper said. “We have to confiscate them and they’ll be returned to you before you head back home.”
“Water pistols?” said Sarah.
Travis studied Muck. He knew that the quieter Muck spoke the more upset he was bound to be. He also knew that Muck hated to be called “Coach.” It was an American thing, he always said. Hockey was a Canadian game, and his name was the same whether he stood behind the bench or out in the parking lot: Muck Munro.
“Any kind of pistol, miss,” the man said. “Replicas, facsimiles, toys – whatever. One of my men sees one of these being pointed, and we shoot first and ask questions later, understand?”
Nish didn’t. “Like what?” he asked. “ ‘Are you using hot or cold water?’ ”
“Don’t be smart, mister,” the man said. “I have authority to suspend any team or player from this tournament we deem to be a security risk – and you’ve already got one count against you, do you not?”
Nish flushed deep red. He said nothing more.
Mr. Dillinger took the last of the pistols, folded the flaps of the box, and handed it over to the security head, who tossed it to an assistant.
“Three times around,” Muck said to the Owls. “Skate it out of you. Let’s go now!”
Muck blew his whistle sharply three times. The man with the earplug winced, and Travis grinned to himself. Muck rarely blew his whistle, and never hard. This was just his way of taking a shot at the security head. Good for Muck!
Travis skated with Sarah, the two of them talking about the absurdity of the situation and laughing, again, at how helpless Nish had looked when the team had him down in the corner and was spraying him at will.
“Look over there,” Sarah said suddenly, tilting her head towards the opposite side of the ice.
A kid their age – curly red hair, blue eyes – was standing so close to the glass at the visitors’ doorway that his breath was fogging it up.
He was in full uniform, holding his helmet in one hand and a stick in the other. He stared at the Owls as they left the ice.
“Earplug’s watching him,” said Sarah.
Behind the youngster, studying him with fierce concentration, was the Secret Service head, the man who chewed gum like a beaver going through a branch.
Travis giggled. Earplug was a perfect nickname for him.
Beyond Earplug stood another three men, each facing in a different direction, each standing on the balls of his feet as if he might, on a moment’s notice, have to tackle someone.
Travis and Sarah stared back.
“Guess who the kid is,” Sarah said.
Travis knew – the President’s son, the centre for the Washington Wall.
He was so close to the glass it was almost as if he were trying to push through.
Travis understood. All his life, a hockey rink and especially a clean, untouched ice surface, had been his own greatest escape. It must be worth even more, he realized, to the son of the President of the United States.
Sarah took off her glove and waved to the boy.
Unsure, the boy lifted his hand and gave a quick wave back.
Behind him, the Secret Service man snapped his gum and scowled.