Sam did her best to work the puck out. She rapped it off the boards, stepped around the first forechecker, and moved as quickly as she could up towards the blueline before flipping the puck ahead to Sarah.
Sarah spun just as she gathered in the pass, her sudden movement to the side throwing off her check. She had enough space to move and dug in hard, moving up over centre, stickhandling and looking for a play.
Dmitri broke hard, cutting from the boards towards the centre of the Wall’s blueline, and Sarah hit him with a perfect pass. Travis knew the play. If Dmitri was coming his way, he should go Dmitri’s way. The criss-cross, a play to throw off the other team if they were trying to cover each player.
Dmitri carried the puck in, and both Wall defence, momentarily confused, moved to check him at the same time.
Dmitri saw them coming and dropped the puck. But he kept going, “accidentally” ploughing into the two defence. One went down with Dmitri, the other lost his stick.
Travis was in free, with nothing between him and the Washington goal but a stickless defenceman.
The defender lunged and fell, hoping to gather the puck into his body. Travis tucked the puck and stepped around the spinning defenceman.
Completely free!
He looked up. The Wall goalie was skittering out to cut off the angle. Travis knew exactly what he would do: fake the slapper, maybe draw the goalie out even more, then hold and cut for an angle shot, hoping the goalie wouldn’t be able to recover and get back in time.
He raised his stick to fake the slapper.
The goalie went for it, driving hard towards Travis and going down to cut off the angles.
Travis held and swept around the goalie.
Empty net!
He had the tying goal. He aimed dead centre.
And suddenly his feet went out from under him.
“H-H-H-ELLLP!!!”
Nish could really yell now. He had chewed off and spat away most of the duct tape. He was yelling and screaming.
“H-H-HELP! … SAVE MEEEEE! … HHHELLLP MMMEEEEEE!!!!”
But nothing.
Nothing save his own desperate voice bouncing back at him.
He began to cry.
Travis, still down on the ice, could hardly believe it. He had turned enough to see who had tripped him, and he had heard the referee’s whistle. But he hadn’t expected this. It was a penalty shot! His second of the tournament! And the player who had tripped him was Chase Jordan!
Sarah was tapping his pads as he got to his skates.
“It’s up to you, Trav,” she said. “We need you here.”
The Owls needed the goal to tie. There were only forty-five seconds left on the clock. It was up to him.
Muck called them over to the bench. The other Owls would all have to be on the bench for the shot. Only Travis and the Wall goaltender would be on the ice.
The camera crews were all down at ice level now. They were acting like they were in charge, ignoring the referee and jumping over onto the ice to get the best shots. One crew was over at the Wall bench, the camera in the face of Chase Jordan, who was trying to ignore them.
Travis wished they would all go away. Why him? Why couldn’t it be Sarah or Dmitri taking the shot? Or Nish? No one would enjoy all the attention more than Nish.
Everyone was on their feet, even the President.
Travis looked up, trying to clear his mind.
All he could focus on was Earplug, chewing his gum so fast it was a wonder smoke wasn’t coming out his mouth.
“Lindsay,” Muck said in a quiet voice. He was smiling. “Just remember to shoot this time, okay?”
The linesman placed the puck at centre ice, and the referee blew his whistle, the signal for Travis to start skating.
It all felt so dreadfully familiar: too much snow on the ice, a forty-pound puck, legs like wet spaghetti, arms of lead, brain of marshmallow.
Travis picked up the puck and bore down.
Muck had said it all: just shoot the puck.
Travis felt instantly better. His speed picked up. The puck lightened on his stick.
He reviewed what had happened just before the foul. The goalie had fallen for his fake slapshot and Travis had tried to go around him. He’d be expecting Travis to try the same thing.
Travis pushed the puck over the blueline. High in the slot, he went into the same slapper motion.
This time the goalie stayed back, sure Travis would try to pull him out and get the angle on him.
It was one of Travis’s better slappers. The heel of his stick caught the puck flush, and he was certain he could feel the puck roll along the length of his blade and spring off the slight curve at the end. The puck rose about a foot off the ground and smashed – hard – into the pads of the goalie.
“No!” Travis shouted to himself, spinning away and raising his eyes to the rafters.
Failed, again.
But then he saw the cheers go up from the Owls’ bench.
Sarah threw her stick in the air.
Sam leapt up, screaming.
Fahd pumped his fists.
Travis turned back.
The puck had trickled through the goalie’s pads!
Tie game, 5–5.
They played out the final few seconds and the horn blew. The Presidential party was already headed for the Zamboni chute. But the championship game was tied. There would have to be sudden-death overtime.
The referee blew his whistle, consulted with the linesmen and then the off-ice officials.
He went over to both benches. “I’m ordering a flood,” he told Muck. “There’s too much snow on the ice to play.”
“Good,” Muck said. The Wall coach agreed.
All the players leapt over the boards onto their benches to wait out the quick flood.
“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” It was Earplug. He was screaming, hammering on the glass behind the office officials’ bench. He looked like he was about to burst.
“We can’t play on this,” the referee calmly explained. “I’ve ordered a fresh flood.”
“YOU CAN’T DO THAT!” Earplug roared. “THIS IS THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. HE HAS A STRICT SCHEDULE TO STICK TO!”
“It’s my call,” the referee said, clearly fed up. “It’s for safety reasons. These are peewee hockey players, not soldiers.”
“I’M ORDERING YOU RIGHT NOW TO PROCEED WITH THE GAME INSTANTLY!” Earplug screamed.
The referee shook his head. “You’re in charge of nothing here, pal, so relax. Five minutes, that’s all it takes.”
Earplug slammed his fist so hard against the glass Travis thought it would shatter. He stomped away towards the Presidential party. The President himself was busy talking to people in the crowd and shaking hands. He didn’t seem in the slightest concerned about a five-minute delay for a flood. If anything, he was welcoming the opportunity to do a little campaigning.
Earplug needs a vacation, Travis thought to himself.