“Very funny!”
Jeremy Weathers’s goal mask went flying across the room and slammed into the far wall.
There wasn’t a Screech Owl in the room not howling with laughter. Well, there was one. Wayne Nishikawa, CNN headline news, the “butt” of every joke in America.
“I just wanted you to know where you were sitting,” Jeremy called back to Nish as he scrambled to pick up his goalie mask.
“I know where I’m sitting!” Nish snarled.
“Right on the most famous big butt in America!” Sam roared, and the dressing room howled once more with laughter.
The President had issued immediate apologies to each participant in the Summit, and they had been accepted. The Summit was once again underway.
The President had even answered questions about the incident at his daily press conference, but most of the questions ended in giggles, and even the President couldn’t help but laugh a few times.
“When I declared my candidacy for President,” he said with a straight face, “there were people on the other side who said they didn’t want a bum in the White House.”
The White House press gallery groaned at the bad joke, and that appeared to be it for the infamous “White House Streaker,” as Nish had become known all over the world.
Only no one knew it was Nish. The Owls knew, and probably Muck and Mr. Dillinger knew, but all the reports had blamed it on one of the President’s rambunctious kids, and Chase, to his great credit, had said nothing to set the record straight.
Nish would neither confirm nor deny that he was the White House Streaker.
“You really think there’s another butt like that in the world?” Sam had asked.
“He had a mask on!” Nish protested.
“His face,” Sarah said, “is not important. Put that butt of yours in a police lineup and anybody would pick you out.”
“Sit on it!” Nish snapped.
Mr. Dillinger came whistling through the door, carrying his portable skate sharpener. He set it up in a corner, plugged it in, and began work on some skates.
No one spoke above the grinding whine of the machine as Mr. Dillinger expertly drew skates back and forth over the stone, the sparks shooting out behind like a miniature comet’s tail.
Muck came in just as the last Owls were fastening their helmets tight. He stood in the middle of the room and stared hard at Nish.
Nish looked up once, then went back to his pre-game ritual of laying his head down over the tops of his shin pads. Travis could still see that his friend was redder than usual.
Muck said nothing. He turned and looked at all the players, one after the other.
“You know this team,” he said. “Portland’s a great side. They have size and speed. Look out for the big centre, Sarah. They’re hurting, though. The little defenceman – I forget his name –”
“Billings,” Travis said. He still had the signed card he’d exchanged with the little defenceman back in Lake Placid.
“Billings,” Muck continued. “He’s out with an ankle sprain. He won’t be dressing.”
Travis felt a twinge of regret. He knew what Billings meant to the Panthers. He also knew that not having him on the ice would help the Owls considerably, but he considered the little Portland defender a friend even though they barely knew each other.
“One more thing,” Muck said. “We win this game, we’re in the finals.”
It was all Muck needed to say. The Screech Owls played as if possessed. Sarah was exceptional, shutting down Yantha, the big Portland centre, and scoring twice herself. Dmitri scored one of his “flying water bottle” specials, and Nish scored a beauty on an end-to-end rush.
The Panthers clearly missed Billings. With no one to get the puck out of their end or make the long pass, they weren’t nearly the team they should have been, and the Owls won easily, 6–2, with Sam and Derek scoring late in the game.
Travis had three assists and felt terrific. He knew, however, that all the glory went to the goal scorers. Perhaps he and Muck would be the only two who had noticed how well he had played.
They lined up to shake hands. The Panthers were on the verge of elimination. Either they won their next game or they were headed home.
Travis went down the line, bumping gloves with the various Panthers, including big Yantha.
He was about to turn away and head for the exit when he noticed one more player coming to shake hands. It was Billings, limping badly, an upturned hockey stick for a crutch as he made his way across the ice.
He was smiling. “I gave you first star, Travis.”
Travis high-fived the open hand presented to him.
“Thanks,” Travis said.
“See you next tournament.”
Travis nodded.
Someone else had noticed.