“I’ve been doing some calculations,” Mr. Dillinger was saying as he stood in the centre of the dressing room.
The Owls were all dressed for the game against the Washington Wall. Nish was in his usual pre-game pose: helmet on, head bowed down to the top of his shin pads so it looked like he was sleeping. He couldn’t be, though. He was still doing that obnoxious tapping very lightly with the blade tip of his stick. Tap-tap … tap-tap-tap … tap-tap.
It was unusual for Mr. Dillinger to make any kind of a speech. He had a piece of paper in his hand and was checking some scribblings on it.
“Take this tournament so far,” Mr. Dillinger continued. “Go back two weeks in our regular season play. Add in the tournament we played over in Parry Sound, and we’re on a twelve-game unbeaten streak. Nine wins, three ties, and zero losses. A dozen games without a loss, Owls. That’s our best streak ever!”
“Not quite,” a muffled voice said from the corner.
Mr. Dillinger spun around to look at Nish, whose head was seemingly glued to his shin pads.
“What did you say?” Mr. Dillinger said, surprise in his voice. He began checking his figures.
“Nuthin’,” the voice barely mumbled.
“No, Nish – you had something to say,” Mr. Dillinger persisted.
Slowly Nish’s head came up. Even through Nish’s face shield Travis could see that his pal was turning beet-red.
“What was it you said?” Mr. Dillinger pressed.
Nish cleared his throat. “It’s just that the best streak is about to come,” he said in a sheepish voice.
Mr. Dillinger nodded, satisfied. “Attaboy, Nish! Thinking ahead as always. That’s my boy! Win this one, and it’s thirteen without a loss. Then fourteen, fifteen, sixteen … !”
Nish nodded happily in agreement.
Sarah and Travis looked at each other, shaking their heads in amazement.
Nish didn’t mean hockey.
He was thinking of the White House.
Nish the Bubble Butt, streaking the White House.
Muck told them the tournament was running a bit late. They should keep their legs loose, the coach advised them. Loosen their skates if they liked. The delay would be at least fifteen minutes.
Some of the Owls lay flat on their backs on the floor and raised their skates up on the bench. Mr. Dillinger was a great believer in keeping the blood flowing to the brain before a big game. No one knew if this were true or not, but most of the Owls didn’t want to take a chance.
Travis got up and shuffled out the door. He was too nervous to sit still. He hated delays. He always tried to finish dressing – with the sweater going over his head, him kissing the inside of it as it passed – just as Muck was coming in the door for one of his little speeches – if you could even call them that. Then they’d be up and away out the door almost immediately.
He walked along the rubber carpeting to the maintenance area. There was a swinging door there with a small window in it. On his skates, he was tall enough to look through it.
The Zamboni was already running. The driver had moved it to the entrance chute, and another worker was waiting with his hands on the lever that would open up the doors onto the chute the moment the buzzer sounded.
Travis heard the buzzer sound in the rink and a cheer from the small crowd for whichever was the winning side. Almost instantly, the worker jacked open the big doors, pushed them clear, and the Zamboni driver all but bucked the huge machine out onto the ice surface.
It had all happened in an instant. Travis was now looking at an empty Zamboni chute.
But only empty for a moment.
As soon as the machine left, another person came in and brushed right in front of the small window Travis was staring through. It wasn’t an arena worker – this was someone in a grey suit.
As Travis tried to get a second look, the grey suit shot across to the other side.
Earplug!
He was moving quickly. He yanked open the door leading to the compressor and the cooling pipes, and darted in. In a moment, he was back out. He checked in closets and equipment docks and pushed aside cabinets to look behind them.
Travis shook his head. A special security sweep before a peewee hockey game when they’d already checked everyone at the entrances? The President wasn’t even coming to this game.
Earplug checked to see where the Zamboni was on the ice, then pushed one of the cabinets up against the far wall, just beyond the drainage dock where the Zamboni sat when not in use.
He jumped up on the cabinet and reached above him.
Travis shook his head in amazement. Earplug was even checking the security video camera. Travis had noticed them earlier; little cameras in every corridor, panning from side to side, even outside the dressing rooms.
Earplug waited while the camera lens slowly panned away from him. Then he pulled a square block out of his jacket pocket, peeled off a paper covering that Travis realized was over sticky glue, and quickly set the block neatly into the corner of the wall so that it fit snugly and stayed there.
Travis was amazed at Earplug’s thoroughness – the small block was even painted the same blue-grey colour as the walls. It was barely noticeable.
Earplug watched as the camera lens panned back towards the block, struck against it, stayed there a moment, and then reversed direction.
Earplug watched the camera move, obviously satisfied. He hopped down, quickly moving the cabinet back to its original position, and checked the camera action again. It swept across the far side of the chute, hit against the painted block, shuddered slightly, then swept back.
What was with Earplug? Travis wondered. Was he so certain something bad was going to happen in the far corner of the Zamboni chute that the camera had to do double time over that spot? A bit much, Travis figured. But then, everything to do with security and the President, and even the President’s son, seemed a bit much to Travis.
He headed back to the dressing room for his stick. Earplug was already gone and the Zamboni was heading back towards the chute, the fresh new ice gleaming in the background.