The Screech Owls played their first game against the Rideau Rebels at the Kanata Recreation Centre, a double ice-surface rink within sight of the peach-coloured walls of the Corel Centre. It was almost as good, Mr. Dillinger said, because this was where the Senators practised when the Corel Centre was unavailable. There was even an elevator for Data to use to get down to the dressing-room level.

Data had struck up a fast friendship with Sam. She seemed to know almost as much about Star Trek as he did, and on the bus the two of them argued endlessly about which was superior, Star Trek (Data’s choice) or Star Wars (Sam’s choice). The day after practice, when Sam stood outside the bus, heavy equipment bag slung over her shoulder, and shouted up to Mr. Dillinger “HIjol!”–Klingon for “Beam me up!”–she won Data’s heart forever.

Nish seemed unwilling to take any competition from Sam for the spotlight. On the night the Owls had a team dinner at the camp with the tournament organizers, it looked as if he was going to behave himself, until the visiting church minister suggested that, instead of a prayer before the meal, they go around the tables and tell the gathering one special thing in their lives for which they were particularly grateful.

“My grandparents,” said Travis.

“My country,” said Lars, who was fiercely proud of being from Sweden.

“My new friend and teammate, Data,” said Sam.

“Mail-order catalogues,” said Nish.

The minister, already moving his finger on to the next Owl, jumped back, his attention returning to Nish, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Why, son?”

Nish grinned. “I’m grateful for the lingerie ads.”

The girls on the team all groaned. Lars and Andy started giggling and couldn’t stop, finally ducking down and hiding underneath the tablecloth until Mr. Dillinger, his own face flushed red, went over and shooed them out. Travis looked over at Sarah, who rolled her eyes and spun a finger beside her right temple. Travis just nodded back. Good thing for Nish that Joe Hall hadn’t been able to make the dinner.

Travis thought he understood Nish’s bizarre behaviour, but Joe Hall was a puzzle. He seemed to be around, much of the time–then suddenly gone. They asked him where he lived, and he pointed up the river and said he had the first cottage on the shore around the point. But some of the Owls had gone hiking that way, and they had seen nothing. They asked him what level he’d played at–he had clearly been a superior hockey player–and all he’d said was “high.”

“Why’d you quit?” Fahd wanted to know. “Injury?”

That’s what Travis had figured. That’s what had happened to Muck, who still limped from the bad break that had ended his junior career and ended, forever, his dreams of making the NHL. Joe Hall didn’t limp, but it could have been something else. An eye? Concussion?

“No,” he said. “No injury.”

“Well, what then?” Fahd persisted.

Joe Hall stared at them a moment, as if unsure whether to tell them.

“I…,” he began. “I…just got sick, okay?”

Nothing more had been said. But it didn’t stop the team from talking about Joe Hall among themselves. Lars was fascinated by Joe Hall’s way of playing the game. “European,” Lars called it. “Russian,” Dmitri argued. But it was neither, Travis figured. It was old–like Joe Hall himself had said–the way “Rat” Westwick and “One-Eyed” Frank McGee used to play the game in this very city.

“Did you notice his stick?” Sarah had asked Travis after that first practice.

“No. What kind does he use?” Travis asked, thinking that’s what Sarah meant: Sherwood, maybe, or Easton, or Titan, or Nike.

“The blade’s completely straight,” she said. “I couldn’t tell whether it was right or left when I picked it up.”

“Straight?”

“As a ruler.”

Travis shrugged. Made sense, he figured, if you were going to use a lot of drop passes and back passes. He’d noticed himself how often the puck rolled off the backside curve of his blade. He just couldn’t be as accurate with back passes as he was with forward.

“What make is it?” he asked.

“That’s what’s really strange,” said Sarah. “It looks homemade–almost like somebody carved it out of a tree branch.”