The third period was underway, with the Wall ahead 5–4. Chase Jordan had scored his third goal of the game, and there had been a delay while a couple of dozen hats soared out of the stands and onto the ice to celebrate the hat-trick. The cameras had recorded every moment of it, even coming down onto the ice to film the workers piling the hats into a large garbage bag.
It seemed to Travis that nothing could stop the Washington Wall. Everything seemed to be working out for everyone: Chase was having the game of his life; the Wall were leading in the championship game; and the television crews were delighted with their story. All that was needed to complete the perfect day was for the President to arrive and present the trophy to his own son.
Perfect, Travis thought, for everyone but the Screech Owls. They weren’t on their game. He liked Chase Jordan enough to appreciate what this must mean to him, but he couldn’t help but feel that this was not a true measure of the Owls.
They needed their top defenceman. Desperately.
But there was no sign of Nish. No word. Nothing.
Nish had never tasted anything so horrible. He was chewing the duct tape from the inside. His mouth must have been opened to scream when the tape was slapped over it. He could move his jaw just enough to bite into the tape and grind at it.
It tasted bad. But it was working. He had chewed a small hole in the cover, but not enough yet to call for help. All he could manage was a tiny squeak.
He thought he could hear something now, but the sounds were terribly muffled. He felt like he was inside a cookie tin. Some container of some kind. And somewhere beyond the cold metal walls was the sound of a crowd calling and cheering. He also thought he heard a buzzer.
He must still be inside the rink!
He chewed faster and harder.
Two minutes to go, and the Owls were still down by a goal. Muck called Sarah’s line out for the faceoff, and Travis leapt the boards, tapping Andy’s and Jesse’s shin pads as they puffed by to take their rest on the bench. All the Owls were giving everything they had, but it was doing no good. They needed someone to move that puck up.
They circled for the faceoff, Sarah choking up on her stick as she began to glide in for the puck drop. Suddenly there was a huge commotion in the crowd, and the linesman backed off, waiting.
Everyone in the rink, players included, turned their attention to an entrance to the stands.
An army of Secret Service men, led by Earplug, were moving down the aisle towards a seat just behind the Wall’s bench.
Earplug seemed even more nervous than usual. His eyes were darting every which way. His hand was tucked inside his jacket, ready at any moment to pull out his gun.
To Travis, it seemed unbelievable. More like a movie than real life. But then the stands broke into applause and cheers. Behind the first wave of Secret Service men, a tall grey-haired man in a dark blue suit moved athletically down the steps, waving and smiling.
Anthony Jordan, the President of the United States.
Some people were getting to their feet.
Travis didn’t know what do to. Stand at attention?
Without thinking, he began tapping his stick on the ice in salute. The rest of the Owls on the ice followed suit. The Owls on the bench stood and leaned over and rapped their sticks on the boards.
It was a wonderful moment. The cameras turned on the Owls and then on the Wall, all of whom began doing the same thing.
The President noticed and gave the Owls’ bench the thumbs-up, which Mr. Dillinger returned. Muck didn’t even notice. The puck was about to drop, and Muck was already lost in the play.
The President took his seat and the linesman moved back into position for the faceoff.
Travis looked up.
Chase Jordan was staring at him.
Chase winked.
The puck dropped.
“H-h-h-helpppp!” Nish called.
He could hear it well enough himself. But was the sound getting out?
He had chewed through and spat out enough of the foul-tasting tape to be able to call out. But any noise he made seemed to bounce right back at him.
Was there any air getting in? he suddenly wondered.
What if he died in here?