We better find Sam,” Sarah whispered to Travis. She looked worried. Travis nodded and folded up the newspaper he’d been reading. The stories were all beginning to repeat themselves anyway.

“She’s in the parking lot,” Travis said, but when they got outside they could see nothing. The parking lot was empty but for some swirling candy wrappers.

“I know where she’ll be,” said Sarah.

She led Travis out back where the garbage dumpster was, and there, as expected, was Sam, sitting on the curb, her legs folded in front of her. Her head was down. She was staring, almost as if hypnotized, at a dried leaf she was holding in one hand. Beneath it, in her other hand, she held a cigarette lighter, the flame licking upward towards the bottom of the leaf. The leaf began folding in on itself, almost as if panic had somehow struck it, as first smoke and then orange flame licked up through the centre.

Neither Sarah nor Travis said a word. They waited. And for a while it seemed Sam had no idea they were there.

Sam shook the leaf until it was nothing more than a stem and some black, curled char. She clicked off the flame, dropped the burned leaf onto the pavement, and getting up she tossed the lighter into the dumpster. She turned and looked at the other two. Her eyes were red. Possibly from the smoke of the leaf, but probably, thought Travis, from something else.

Sam looked a bit sheepish.

“The cigarettes are already in there,” she said, nodding at the dumpster. “I’ve had my last smoke–I almost got us caught…”

Sarah looked perplexed, but Travis understood. Sam was looking straight into his eyes, as if searching for a signal–but what kind? Forgiveness? Blame? Travis could not blame her. Sam had helped as best she could. She had run for it with Travis and Nish when the easy thing to do would have been to stay in the motel and wait for the police. She had carried the snow globe when Travis had faltered. She had simply run out of gas, just like in the hockey game.

Travis smiled a smile that made words unnecessary. And from the look in Sam’s eyes and her shaky smile in return, it was much appreciated. Sarah, ever wise, asking for no explanation, also smiled at Sam.

Sam caught Travis off guard with a huge hug. For a moment it was he who had trouble breathing. Then Sam broke it off and hugged Sarah, who hugged her back.

“I wasn’t a very good smoker anyway,” Sam said, half laughing, half crying, “was I?”

“No, you weren’t,” agreed Sarah, also laughing.

All three turned at a sudden voice, calling out from the front corner of the motel. It was Fahd. He’d come looking for them.

“Muck wants to talk to us all together!”

“The tournament goes ahead,” said Muck.

He was standing in the centre of the little motel lobby, turning as he spoke to the Screech Owls and the handful of parents who had come out to Vancouver with the team.

“I just got off the phone, and it’s still a go,” he continued. “The city has taken over and wants to ensure that the original intent comes off. Every team has agreed to a new format that will shorten things up.

“We’re not playing any games in Bellingham. We’re going directly to the finals. They did some kind of calculation to work out where each team stood, and for us it means some good news, some bad.”

Muck pulled a sheet of motel stationery out of his pocket. He unfolded it, turned it around, and stared hard, trying to make out the scribbles he’d made in pencil.

“Dmitri?” he said slowly, looking up in search of the Owls’ quickest skater. Dmitri raised his hand from the chair he was sitting in. “Your team’s out, I’m afraid. Means nothing, okay? Just the way they juggled things around so they could wind this thing up fast.”

Dmitri looked over at his teammates, Andy and Lars. Out because of a single loss. All they could do was shrug. It didn’t seem fair–but who knew how they’d calculated which teams would continue? Some of the teams had played only two rounds of the 3-on-3, others had played as many as four.

“Liz, Derek, Willie?” Muck read out.

The three raised their hands.

“You’re in the Rockies finals, okay? Game’s in an hour, so you better go get your stuff together.”

The lucky team whooped and high-fived their way out of the lobby.

Muck kept turning the paper one way, then the other, squinting hard as he tried to read his own terrible handwriting.

“Simon?” he said.

Simon Milliken raised his hand. Simon’s teammates, Jesse and Wilson, moved closer.

Muck looked up. “Sorry, boys. Don’t take it personally, though. Two wins and a tie, you should expect to go on. They must have just flipped a coin on some of these final match-ups.”

The three looked stunned. They hadn’t lost a single game. They’d played as well as they possibly could. Jesse slammed his fist into an open hand, Wilson dropped into an open chair, sighing.

Muck kept fiddling with his paper. He looked up a couple of times, peering about the room as if in search of someone who could help.

But there were only the two teams left. Sarah’s team, with Travis and Nish, playing in the Elite Division, and Sam’s team, with Fahd and Gordie, playing in the Canucks Division.

Travis’s heart sank. Muck was just stalling. He hadn’t the nerve to tell them they were out of the tournament, that the most fun Travis Lindsay had ever had in a pair of skates was about to come to an unexpected end.

“Sarah, Travis, Nishikawa?” Muck read.

“Yes,” Travis said, speaking as captain.

But Muck didn’t even acknowledge him. He read on: “Sam, Fahd, Gordie?”

“Here,” said Sam. “Just put us out of our misery.”

A slight grin flicked at the corners of Muck’s mouth. He folded the paper and tucked it back into his pocket. “You two teams are meeting for the overall championship,” he said.

The players looked at each other in shock.

“But we’re not even in the same division,” said Sarah.

“Don’t ask me,” Muck said, grinning. “All they told me was to have both teams there for seven o’clock. Travis, you’re wearing home sweaters. Fahd, your team’s in away, okay?”

Fahd looked at Travis; Travis at Fahd.

“Okay,” said Fahd.

“O-KAY!”