Fahd turned the television on. He wanted to play the hotel’s in-house Nintendo, but Travis caught him before he switched it over.
“There’s the White House!” Travis almost shouted.
“So?” Fahd said. “It’s CNN. It’s always got the stupid news on.”
“Yeah, but that’s live – and it’s just around the corner.”
Fahd paused. “Yeah, weird.”
They watched for a few moments. It was a report of a big summit on the Middle East Peace Accord, and there were shots of limousines arriving and world leaders getting in and out. There was a clip of the President talking to the media out in the garden, the White House huge behind him.
Travis wondered what it must be like to live there – especially for a kid. Could the President’s son have friends over after school? Did he have a net set up in the basement like Nish did, and could he just jump up from his homework at the kitchen table – would he even have a kitchen table? – and run down and take shots until, as Nish’s mom always said, he’d “worked the heebie-jeebies out of his system”?
Travis knew he wouldn’t trade places for anything. His father might never be on the news, people outside of Tamarack might not know his name, but he liked his quiet little house and the fact that his father worried more about things like the lawn than whether he could stop bombs from going off in the Middle East.
“You can switch it,” Travis said.
Fahd fiddled with the control and the familiar Super Mario music came on. He would be lost for the next hour or so.
The telephone rang.
Travis rolled on his shoulders across the bed and dropped off the side, scooping up the phone as he fell. It was Mr. Dillinger.
“Muck wants the team down in the lobby,” Mr. Dillinger said. “Round up your roomies and get everyone down here.”
“Now?” Travis asked. He could see Fahd’s questioning stare.
“Right now.”
Muck was waiting for them, standing in the middle of the lobby with his fists jammed into his old windbreaker. He didn’t seem upset, but he did look serious.
Once everyone was there, Muck began.
“The Screech Owls have been asked if they’d do a favour for our hosts,” he told them. “I said I’d put it to a vote.”
“What is it?” Fahd asked unnecessarily.
Muck didn’t want to get to the point right away. “You know,” he said, “believe it or not, Wayne Gretzky was also a peewee player much like you guys.”
Travis blinked. Was Wayne Gretzky here? Was the all-time leading goal scorer in the National Hockey League coming to the tournament? Was his kid playing in it?
“Wayne Gretzky was so famous even as a peewee, he couldn’t live a normal life,” Muck went on. “One of the things his teammates used to do was swap jackets with him at the end of the games so he could sneak out without the other team’s parents screaming at him. Did you know that?”
“Yes,” said Willie Granger, the team trivia expert. No one else seemed to know.
“Mr. Dillinger and I have discussed helping out a youngster in this tournament. His team has asked us if we might consider including him in our tour plans – so he can fit in just like any other player and not be bothered by anyone.”
Mr. Dillinger held out a team jacket. He’d already stitched a number on the sleeve, 17, that no one else on the team wore.
Travis felt a shiver of understanding go up and down his spine.
“Who is it?” Fahd asked.
Muck cleared his throat.
“Chase Jordan. The President’s son.”
“Why us?” Nish squeaked from the back of the gathering.
“Why not us?” Muck asked. “We’re not even an American team. We’re from Canada. We plan on visiting the sights. We have our own bus –”
“Even if it is only running on five cylinders,” Mr. Dillinger added.
“– and, most important of all,” Muck continued, “we already have a player who has to be the centre of attention everywhere he goes.”
“Who’s that?” Nish squeaked.
Muck closed his eyes and, very slightly, shook his head.
“Well?” Mr. Dillinger said. “What do we say? Do the Owls take on a temporary player or what?”
“Yes!” shouted Sarah.
“Absolutely!” yelled Sam.
“Yes!”
“Yes!”
“Yes!”