“Number seven – white!”
Travis didn’t need to hear it again. He knew what the referee’s call meant. He’d been closest to the puck when the Djurgården defenceman had put his hand over the puck in the crease. The penalty-shot call was automatic.
“A penalty shot has been awarded to the Screech Owls,” the PA system crackled throughout the arena. “The shot will be taken by number seven, Travis Lindsay.”
Travis got shakily to his feet. It wasn’t because of the hit that he felt wobbly.
He skated slowly to the bench, where Muck was leaning over, a big arm open for Travis to skate into. If only the arm would open up like a cave and swallow me, thought Travis. If only they’d called out number nine for Sarah, or ninety-one for Dmitri, or even forty-four – no, twenty-two! – for Nish. Anybody but me! But outwardly Travis managed to remain calm. Muck’s big arm around his shoulders helped.
So did Muck’s voice, so soft and reassuring.
“There’s a secret to the penalty shot, you know,” Muck said.
“What?” Travis asked, desperate to know.
“Shoot,” Muck said, and smiled down at him. “Some guys get so excited they forget to shoot. Just shoot the puck and see what happens.”
Travis nodded. He felt like he couldn’t talk.
The linesman was placing the puck at centre ice. Only the officials, the Djurgården goaltender, and Travis Lindsay were on the ice.
The referee blew his whistle and swung his arm to indicate it was time.
Travis circled back on his own side of centre. He could hear the crowd cheering. He could hear his teammates thumping their sticks against the boards.
He picked up the puck and felt it wobble at the end of his blade. He almost lost it immediately.
He dug in. He hadn’t noticed how much snow was on the ice, but they’d played the entire game and there had been no flood. Now it seemed there was snow everywhere! The ice was chopped up and gouged and the snow seemed to have piled up so deep in front of him he needed a plough to get through.
He felt his legs turn to rubber, his stick to boiled spaghetti. He felt his hands weaken, his shoulders sag. He felt his brain begin to race like a motor at full throttle. He felt his eyes go out of focus, his hips stop moving, his spine collapse, his brain spring apart like the rubber in a sliced golf ball.
He was on a breakaway – a penalty shot in an international tournament – and he was screwing up!
Time had never gone so slow, and at the same moment so fast.
He looked up. The Djurgården goaltender seemed completely at ease. He had come out to cut off the angle, and now was reading Travis perfectly and wiggling his way back toward the net, always with the angle right, giving away nothing.
What do I do? Travis wanted to shout. Deke him?
Blast away?
Fake the shot and try and get the angle?
Go five hole?
Backhand?
Forehand?
He wanted to stop dead in his tracks, turn to the bench and scream, “MUCK! WHAT DO I DOOOOO?”
But there was no time. The referee was skating alongside him now, watching. The little Swedish goaltender was wiggling back into his crease and still had given Travis nothing to shoot at.
There’s too much snow!
The ice is too bad!
I need to circle back and come in again!
It was too late. He was in too close. He decided, at the last moment, to go backhand, and flicked the puck over from his forehand.
The puck slid away from him!
Travis jabbed at it. He hit the puck badly with the blade of his stick. It skipped towards the corner. He lunged, swinging madly at the puck and catching it with the heel of his stick.
The puck shot towards the net, narrowly missing the post – but on the wrong side!
The whistle blew, the Djurgården bench erupted – Travis started to turn away from the net, lost his edge, and fell, sliding into the boards.
He could hear people in the crowd laughing.
He got up, knocked the snow off – See, he wanted to yell, look at the snow! – and headed back to a bench where no one was cheering, where hardly anyone was even looking at him.
He had failed the Owls.
Sarah gave him a sympathetic smile, but it wasn’t what Travis needed. He needed a second chance.
Muck had his big fists jammed deep in the pockets of his old windbreaker. He was half smiling, half shaking his head.
“Shoot next time,” Muck said in his very quiet voice.
Travis nodded. Inside, he was bawling.