Jeremy Billings and Stu Yantha drove up together from Boston, where Jeremy was going to Harvard on a full hockey scholarship and Stu was playing minor pro hockey in the East Coast League.
Slava Shadrin had arrived from Gothenburg, Sweden, on the same flight that carried Lars and Annika, and Slava and Annika had gone to see the sights of Toronto while Lars went ahead of them to Tamarack. Lars and Dmitri had then driven back down in Dmitri’s car to meet Wiz, who claimed not to have skated since he took up the triathlon.
Chase Jordan came in from Philadelphia with a binder filled with photographs of the inner-city kids he’d been working with. One or two of them, he said proudly, were going to end up in the NHL.
Mr. Imoo arrived on a flight from Tokyo and took a bus north, showing up at Travis’s front door with his luggage in one hand and his hockey equipment and a battered stick in the other.
“Smart dog,” he kept saying after he’d been introduced to the highly excited Imoo. “Very smart dog – good-looking, too.”
Brody Prince came by Lear jet to the small airport south of Tamarack and was met by a black limousine, his arrival causing a near riot among the young high-school girls when word leaked out that the rising rock star was in town.
Edward Rose, now a well-known television broadcaster, was due in from London that night. Others, including J-P and Nicole Dupont from Quebec City, were scheduled to arrive all through the following day.
Data handled most of the final organization as the rest of the Screech Owls got together for their one and only practice at the new rink.
They had all shown up early, most of the Owls staking out their familiar positions in the dressing room and everyone kidding about as if they had last played together ten minutes ago, not ten years.
Travis looked around in delight: Sarah laughing with Liz and Jenny, Big Andy quiet as he dressed, Wilson joking and giggling, Jeremy stacking his pads in the middle of the room like he always did.
It was wonderful, but it wasn’t perfect.
Perfect would have been Nish in the corner, head down over his knees as he searched through his bag for his socks, the rest of the Owls complaining about the stench.
Perfect would have been Sam taking her shots at Nish, and Nish cracking back until everyone in the room thought the two of them absolutely hated each other.
Perfect would have been Muck, glowering at Nish as he gave his short little pre-game talk.
Perfect would have been Mr. Dillinger whistling as he went about his work, sharpening the skates and worrying about every tiny thing to do with the Screech Owls.
Now it was the Owls turn to worry about Mr. Dillinger.
Travis was almost dressed. He was looking at his jersey with the familiar Screech Owls logo on it when the door suddenly opened and someone large with short silver hair backed in through it.
It was Muck, carrying Mr. Dillinger’s old portable ice sharpening machine.
“Who needs a sharp?” Muck said.
“Right here, Muck!” Sarah yelled out.
Muck looked up as he laid the machine over the equipment box in the centre of the room. “Lord love us,” he said, his eyes wide. “Would you look what the dog dragged in.”
Muck had not seen Sarah since she won the gold medal and told a national television audience that Muck Munro had been the best hockey coach of her life.
“How are you, Muck?” Sarah asked.
Muck said nothing.
He stood up, walked over to where Sarah was sitting, leaned over, and kissed her on the side of her cheek.
He then stood up, his face flushing, and walked out of the room.
No one said a word.
No one could.