The Drumheller rink was filled to capacity for the second straight day–but the crowd was hardly the same this time. This time the merely curious had stayed at home. The people of Drumheller had come out to see hockey, not the little kids who had played a part in what the papers were now calling the “hoax of the century.”
The crowd had gathered early. The big championship game was still two hours off, but they had come to cheer for the Screech Owls, and also to show them that in Drumheller they were not all like Kelly Block. They cheered the warmup and they clapped for the players coming onto the ice and they even cheered when Travis Lindsay, the little captain, succeeded in firing a puck off the crossbar and over the glass into the crowd.
The Owls were up against the Lethbridge Lasers, a fine team that had missed the championship round by a single goal. Since the Owls had struggled so badly, even against weak teams, the crowd expected the Lasers would have little trouble taking the consolation title.
Muck’s entire speech before the game, Travis figured, could be written down on a tiny scrap of paper and stuffed inside a fortune cookie.
“Same lines as always,” he said. “Jeremy and Jenny split the goaltending. Play your best.”
Nothing about “chemistry,” no fancy words out of a psychology textbook, no crazy theories–and certainly no hypnotism.
Sarah and Travis and Dmitri started.
They dominated the first shift, up and down the ice, with pinpoint passing and deft drop plays that sent Dmitri in for a superb chance, only to be turned back by a fine stacked-pads save by the Lasers’ goalie.
Halfway through the first period, Nish saw little Simon Milliken breaking for centre and threw a high pass that went over Simon’s shoulder like a football and dropped just ahead of him a second before he crossed centre ice. Simon was onside and had a clear break. He went backhand-forehand and then slipped the puck in on the short side as the goalie butterflied too late.
Screech Owls 1, Lasers 0.
It was clear there was not going to be much scoring. First Jenny and then Jeremy, who came in at the halfway point, played magnificently. The Lasers’ goaltender, staying in for the whole game, seemed unbeatable except for Simon’s lucky break.
Into the third period the Lasers finally struck when they turned a two-on-one into an open chance. Wilson, backpedalling fast, guessed it would be a pass and dropped to block it, but the Laser centre held fast to the puck and slipped it quickly across in front of Jeremy, and the winger fired it fast into the open side.
Owls 1, Lasers 1.
What a game it had become. The crowd was screaming with every rush. If this was a consolation match, Travis thought, what would the championship game be like?
Travis watched happily as Muck walked along behind the players the way he had a thousand times before. Mr. Dillinger was back, patting backs, rapping helmets, dropping towels around necks, slapping pants as players rose and leapt over the boards and into the play. Ty was once again Ty, whispering strategy to Muck and talking to the players about other things they might try, and complimenting them on the things they were doing right.
If I could spend the rest of my life on this team, Travis thought, I would. And then he realized what that meant.
Chemistry.
The Screech Owls had had it all along. It took Kelly Block to ruin it.
The consolation match ended in a tie, 1–1, and they announced an immediate ten-minute, sudden-death overtime. First goal wins.
Muck was at Travis’s back, leaning down.
“Don’t be afraid to carry,” Muck said. “They’re keying on Sarah and Nish, expecting them to have the puck.”
Travis nodded. He felt Muck’s big, rough hand on his neck. It was like a comforter.
Next shift, Wilson pounded the puck around the boards to Nish, who stopped, seeming almost to tread water as he stared down the ice, challenging the Lasers to forecheck.
Travis turned back sharply, rapping his stick on the blueline as he cut into his own end. Nish hit him perfectly.
A winger was chasing him, closing in on him fast. Without thinking, Travis did something he had only dreamed about before. Still skating towards his own net with the puck, he suddenly dropped it back so it passed through the checker’s skates. At the same time, Travis turned abruptly, picking up his own back pass as he headed straight up ice towards the Laser end.
He could hear the roar of the crowd. What sound would they have made, he wondered, if it hadn’t worked?
The roar of the Albertosaurus?
Travis moved over the red line, with Sarah ahead of him, slowing so she wouldn’t go offside. The Lasers were double-teaming her. Travis bent as if to fire a pass in her direction, then brought the heel of his stick down hard on the puck–sending it backwards through his own skates!
Travis cringed, praying that Dmitri would be there.
He was!
Dmitri had read the play perfectly. He took up the sliding puck and flew across the line, Sarah and Travis barely staying onside, each with one leg straddling the Lasers’ blueline.
Dmitri broke for the corner, spinning away.
Travis read the signal. Dmitri was going to drop the puck and take out his checker. They were cycling the puck–Russian style.
Travis headed for the corner, and the puck came instantly back to him. Dmitri had the checker under control–he’d have to be careful he didn’t get called for interference–and Travis looked back towards the blueline, certain of what he would see there.
A locomotive coming full bore: Wayne Nishikawa.
Nish was already poised to shoot, his stick sweeping back for the one-timer.
Travis held to the last microsecond, then sent the puck out fast. Nish had to time it perfectly. He brought his stick down hard.
The puck shot forward, then Travis lost it, then the crowd roared as one.
Travis spun, looking at the net. It was bulging with the puck. The Lasers’ goalie was fully extended, legs out, arms out, stick swinging wildly–but the puck was already by him.
We did it! Travis shouted.
The Owls poured onto the ice. Travis heard Sarah screaming in his ear.
“Trav! We won! WE WON!”
It looked as if the Screech Owls had won the Stanley Cup, not the consolation round of a small-town tournament. The entire arena seemed to explode, as if all that had happened to the Owls was now forgotten, as if everything in the world was now right once more and would never go wrong again.
Ty was running into the crowd of Screech Owls that had smothered Nish into a corner.
Even Muck was out on the ice, moving as fast as his bad leg would take him. He was holding both arms in the air, fists up high, a big grin from ear to ear. Behind Muck, Mr. Dillinger was pushing Data out onto the ice, Data’s fist pumping the air.
Travis and Sarah pushed into the crowd. Dmitri leaned over and smacked Travis’s helmet. It rattled his brain but felt like a caress. Travis threw his arm around Sarah’s shoulder and hugged. Jenny leaped onto their backs from behind.
They threw their gloves and sticks and helmets off, and pushed and shoved and cheered and screamed until, finally, they broke through to reach the Screech Owl who had scored the winning goal in overtime.
Nish was beet-red and covered in sweat, but there was no smile on his face, no life in his eyes. “What’s going on?” he asked Travis. “What’s everybody yelling about?”
“You, you stupid idiot–great goal! WONDERFUL GOAL!”
“What goal?”
“We won, you jerk. Don’t you realize what you’ve done.”
Nish shook his head, not comprehending. “I can’t remember a thing,” he said.
“What?” Travis yelled, unbelieving.
“I must have been hypnotized.”
And then Nish winked.
THE END