Nish burst through the dressing-room door, slammed it behind him, and instantly wondered why he’d done it. He didn’t know which way to go. Back into the dressing room? Take off somewhere? Wait where he was until Muck came along?
He had that old out-of-control feeling inside him, almost as if his blood was boiling and steaming through his veins. He could still remember how, whenever he got this way when he was small – frustrated, angry, upset, his brain spinning, racing – his mother would simply pick him up, hold his arms tight to his body, and move somewhere quiet with him until he calmed down. He wished his mother was here right now. But she wouldn’t be able to pick him up any more. And she might find out he’d run off with the television remote …
He tried counting to ten. He tried holding his breath. He tried counting back from ten. He needed to move. He needed to shake the hot blood out of his veins and the spiders out of his stomach and the squirrels out of his head. If he didn’t move, he thought he’d explode.
Careful not to scrape his skates, Nish shuffled down the corridor towards the Zamboni chute just as Muck came around the far corner from the opposite direction.
Muck stared curiously at Nish. No one, not even Mrs. Nishikawa, understood Wayne Nishikawa better than Muck Munro, the coach of the Screech Owls. He’d known Nish for too long now. He’d seen him in every imaginable state of mind, including the one where he just had to get away and be on his own.
Muck decided to let him go, for the time being.
Travis had his head down, thinking about the game, when Muck came into the dressing room. Muck looked his usual self: casual, relaxed, more like he was about to go fishing than coach a team in a championship game. A championship game before the President of the United States.
Travis couldn’t stop a small smile from flickering across his face. Most coaches would have worn a suit under the circumstances. Most would be carrying a clipboard filled with nonsense, or chewing ice like they do in the NHL. But not Muck. Never Muck. Same old windbreaker. Same old pants. Same old boots.
“Nishikawa needs some private time,” Muck said matter-of-factly.
“We kidded a bit too much,” Sarah said.
Good for Sarah, Travis thought. If he had said it, it would have sounded more like “telling.”
“When’re we on?” Fahd asked.
“Zamboni’s finished,” Muck said. “We can go out any time.”
The Screech Owls started moving, but Muck held up his hand, palm out, and they stopped dead.
“A couple of things.”
Travis sat back, slightly surprised. Muck rarely talked to them before games, and most assuredly never gave anything like a “coach’s speech.”
“They’re a good team,” Muck said. “You already know that. They tied you in the early round. They’re very well coached and play exceptional positional hockey. But they do make mistakes. We stay in our positions and trust in their mistakes. When they make one, we pounce with our speed. Okay?”
“Okay,” Fahd said unnecessarily.
“Now there’s a lot of attention out there. Cameras. Reporters. Lots of people. They’re not here to see you. They’re here because the President’s coming later and the President’s kid is playing. I don’t want anybody thinking outside the ice surface, okay?”
“Okay,” Fahd said.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” Muck smiled. “The only one I really need to speak to isn’t even here.”
Nish could feel himself calming down. The squirrels were slowing in his head. The spiders were quiet in his gut. His blood was flowing rather than boiling over. Even his thoughts were back as close to normal as they ever got.
He just needed some space. Just a little time to himself and he could go back and join the team like everything was back to the way it used to be. If they said nothing, he’d say nothing. They could all just forget any of this stupid stuff ever happened.
Nish figured he needed something to distract himself. Something else to think about apart from Sam’s constant cracks and what might happen if the authorities found out he was the one who streaked the President.
The Zamboni room. He’d go in and check it out. Maybe talk to the driver about keeping ice down here in Washington where it could get so hot at this time of year. Something to take his mind off everything.
Nish stood at the door and tried to see into the Zamboni chute area, but the window in the door was papered over for some reason, as if they were trying to keep people out. Or at least from seeing in.
Nish knew the Zamboni driver wouldn’t mind. He was a happy old guy, always laughing and joking with the kids. Nish would just walk in and start talking to him. He leaned into the door.
The door opened too fast – almost as if someone had yanked it from the other side. Nish fell through the doorway, his skates scraping horribly across the concrete floor.
He felt something being slapped over his mouth just as he opened it to cry out. Something sticky – and terrible-tasting!
Duct tape!
And then pain – followed by darkness.
There was a quick knock on the dressing-room door and a man’s voice called out. “Ice’s ready! You’re on, Screech Owls!”
Muck checked his watch and shrugged. “I guess Nish is having a longer talk with himself than I thought,” he said. “He’ll just have to catch up to us. Let’s go!”
“Yesss!” shouted Sam.
“Go Owls!” called Sarah.
“Be smart!” Travis yelled.
“Go Can-a-da!!” shouted Fahd.