The Rideau Rebels had easily won their next game against the highly touted Vancouver Mountain. The Mountain had, with the Rebels, been the early favourite of the Ottawa press, which meant that now all eyes were on the Screech Owls, who had unexpectedly managed to tie the powerful Rebels in game one. There were other teams in the tournament–including the New Jersey Li’l Devils–but none of the others was expected to challenge for the Little Stanley Cup.

Nish was in a wonderful mood. He’d come back to the camp to find his boxers down from the flagpole and returned to the tent. Even better, he figured he was about to go one-up on Sam, once Travis turned his camera in to the little shop down the road and got his photos back. He’d be delighted to show her what had terrified her at Canoe Lake: the very person she’d run to for comfort.

They arrived at the Kanata Recreation Centre early, and Joe Hall asked Travis if he could see him a moment out in the corridor. Had he noticed the camera? Travis wondered. Was he going to try to get it from him so the identity of “Tom Thomson” would remain a mystery?

But Joe Hall had no intention of talking about photographs. He had his stick with him–the strange stick that Sarah had noticed was as straight as a ruler and seemed somehow homemade. He told Travis to bring his stick along as well.

With Joe Hall leading the way, the two walked through to the smaller of the two rinks, which was not being used. It was cold and empty, with fog gathering in one corner of the ice surface on such a hot day. It made Travis think momentarily of the canoe in the mist, but Joe Hall didn’t want to talk about ghosts either, real or otherwise.

“I like what I see in you, Travis,” Joe Hall said.

“Thanks,” said Travis.

Joe Hall dropped a puck he had been carrying in his pocket. It sounded like a rifle shot in the empty rink. He stickhandled back and forth a few times, the straight blade as comfortable on one side of the puck as the other.

“You had a chance to win that opener for us, you know,” Joe Hall said.

“I guess,” admitted Travis. He knew what the coach was getting at. The drop pass to Sarah that didn’t work.

“I want you to stand on the blueline,” said Joe Hall. “And just watch something–okay?”

“Okay,” said Travis.

Travis hurried to the blueline, sliding easily in his sneakers. He wished he was in his skates. He’d feel taller, more himself.

Joe Hall began moving away from Travis towards the net, stickhandling easily. He moved almost as if daydreaming, the puck clicking regularly from one side to the other as he moved in and stared, as if a goalie were there, waiting.

Suddenly there was a louder click–and the puck was shooting straight back at Travis! It was right on Travis’s blade, but it had happened so fast it caught him completely off guard. Travis fumbled the pass, letting the puck jump outside the blueline.

“How’d you do that?” Travis asked.

“Fire it back,” said Joe Hall. “And this time be ready for it.”

Travis passed the puck back. Joe Hall again stickhandled back and forth, the steady click of puck on wood almost soothing. Then the louder click–and the puck was shooting back at Travis! He was ready this time, and could have fired a shot instantly.

“I still don’t know how you’re doing that!” Travis called.

“Come and see,” Joe Hall called back.

Travis skidded on his sneakers to where Joe Hall was waiting. Travis gave him the puck and he stickhandled a bit, then he brought the heel of his stick down hard and fast on the front edge of the puck, sending it like a bullet between his legs and against the corner boards.

Joe Hall looked up and flashed his amazing smile. “‘Rat’ Westwick came up with it,” he said. “He called it the ‘heel pass.’ He and ‘One-Eyed’ Frank McGee used to bamboozle other teams with it. They never knew when it was coming. Watch.”

Joe Hall retrieved the puck and stickhandled again, effortlessly, and then suddenly the heel came down hard on the puck instead of passing over it again, and the puck shot, true and accurately, right between Joe Hall’s legs and into the corner.

“Let me try,” said Travis.

He took the puck, stickhandled, and chopped down, but the puck stayed where it was.

“You have to hit the front edge,” said Joe Hall.

Travis tried again. This time the puck flew, but into his own feet. It wasn’t clean and straight like it was when Joe Hall did it.

“It’s your stick,” said Joe Hall. “Try mine.”

Travis handed over his new stick–Easton, special curve, narrow shaft, ultralight–and took Joe Hall’s from him.

It felt heavy. It felt wrong. He set the blade on the ice, and it looked to the left-handed Travis like a right-hand stick. As if the curve was going the wrong way. But it wasn’t a right stick either; it was perfectly straight. There was no name on it, only “J. Hall” pencilled near the top of the handle.

“Where’d you buy this thing?” Travis said.

“You can’t buy them,” said Joe Hall. He didn’t offer where it had come from.

Travis worked the puck back and forth. He lost it several times, being used to the cup of a curve that was no longer there.

“Try the heel pass,” Joe Hall said.

Travis did. The stick came down perfectly on the puck, and it shot straight and true between his legs. Joe Hall was waiting and timed a shot perfectly with Travis’s stick. The puck stuck high in the far corner of the net.

“Wow!” said Travis. “That worked perfectly.”

“You like to try the stick in a game?” Joe Hall asked.

Travis felt the stick again. It still didn’t feel right to him. “Maybe,” he said, looking up to make sure he wasn’t hurting Joe Hall’s feelings. “But I’m so used to mine.”

Joe Hall took his stick back and handed Travis his. “Suit yourself,” he said. “But you’ll never master the heel pass with that curved blade.”

Game two was against the Sudbury Minors, a gritty little team with tremendous heart but limited talent. The Owls jumped to a quick three-goal lead on a clean breakaway by Dmitri, a hard blast by Andy, and an exquisite end-to-end rush by Sarah in which she split the Sudbury defence and roofed a backhand as she fell into the corner.

Travis noticed almost immediately when Nish began to wander. Had Muck been here, he would have called Nish on it immediately, but Joe Hall was new to the team, and Mr. Dillinger and Data had other duties apart from trying to figure out when Nish was about to go off the deep end.

The first hint was on a play when icing was waved off and Nish picked up the puck in his own corner and failed to hit Sarah with the usual breakout pass. Instead, Nish started his old river-hockey routine, trying to stickhandle through the entire team so he could be the hero and score the goal. He made it all the way down the ice, moving superbly, but he cranked his shot off the crossbar. Which only made matters worse from then on. Now Nish was absolutely determined to score.

Travis could see Joe Hall’s frustration mounting. He told Nish to stay back, but Nish ignored him. The Owls were up 6–0 when Nish tried a stupid play. Turning his stick backwards, he tried to skate up the ice with the puck held by the knob of the handle.

Muck hated hot-dogging. Perhaps it was because Muck wasn’t here that Nish was getting so out of control, but he picked the wrong team to try to humiliate. The Sudbury team might have been a bit low on talent, but they lacked nothing in courage. Nish was barely over centre when the captain of the Minors hit him so hard he flew in a complete somersault. He landed on his skates, wobbling a bit before he crashed into the boards.

The referee was signalling charging. Nish should have been happy–it would have given the Owls the advantage–but he wanted revenge. He jumped to his feet and charged the Sudbury captain back. The crowd roared as Nish put his shoulder into his opponent. The big Minors captain never moved. Nish shook off his gloves, deliberately tossing them so they struck the other player. The linesmen moved in quickly before anything could happen. Nish was lucky the referee called him only for roughing–one blow would have meant an automatic game ejection.

Nish knew his shifts were over when he finally got out of the penalty box. He skated casually across the ice to the Screech Owls’ bench and yanked open the gate.

“Wrong door,” said Joe Hall, his lips tight.

“What do you mean?” asked Nish.

“The Zamboni doors for you, buddy. You’re through this game, and the next. We don’t need that.”

Nish’s mouth went so round it could have held a puck.

“W–w–what?” he stammered.

“You heard me. Get off the ice.”

Nish looked desperately around for support, but he found none, and then began to make his way to the far end of the rink. He stared at his teammates as he passed by, but none would look back. None except Sam.

She laughed.

Nish paused, about to say something stupid, but then thought better of it. He didn’t need any more trouble from Joe Hall.

 

The game seemed to die after that. Sudbury had clearly given up, and thanks to lessons taught them by Muck Munro, the Owls weren’t inclined to run up the score any further.

They played the clock out cleanly and quickly, working more on their passing than their shots, careful at all times to remain in position.

Travis had one glorious moment near the end of the game when Dmitri flipped a pass high from his own blueline and Travis gloved it down right at the red line. He had the puck, and he had space to work. He looked up: one defence back, Sarah coming up clear from her own end.

Travis began moving with the puck, happy with the way it felt on his stick, glad he’d stuck to the Easton instead of taking up Joe Hall’s offer of the straight blade.

He cut towards centre, the defence keeping an eye on him but refusing to commit. Travis worked the puck across the blueline, then cut across again so that he drew the defender with him while Sarah moved across the blueline and into position.

He laid the puck out in front, exactly where he wanted it. He stickhandled once, twice, then came down hard on the puck with the heel of the stick.

The puck shot to the side and into the corner!

The play had failed, but it had still fooled the defence, who turned to chase the lost puck. Sarah was there ahead of him, and she quickly fired the puck back to Travis, who snapped it into the open side.

Screech Owls 7, Sudbury Minors 0.

He had scored, and his teammates were cheering, but Travis knew he had failed. He looked up at Joe Hall as he came off the ice, teammates slapping his pants and shoulders.

“Wrong stick,” said Joe Hall.

“I know,” said Travis.

“It’s there any time you want it.”

Travis smiled, not yet ready. “Thanks,” he said. “Maybe next game.”