Rebel Glory (3 page)

chapter five

“Sure, I can see the rivet is gone.” Teddy shrugged. “But that’s a long stretch from saying someone actually took the rivet out.”

I hadn’t slept too well after last night’s game. Nor had I been able to keep my mind on school during the day. Still, there was one good thing. Our tie meant I didn’t have to sing over the intercom. Now it was an hour before practice, and I had found Teddy, our trainer, in the team dressing room at the arena.

Teddy was short, as if years and years of road trips and dressing rooms had pounded him down to his solid, chunky shape. He had straggly gray hair, a gray mustache and ears that stuck out like handles on a teacup.

“And remember that guy who threw cola,” I said. “He couldn’t have picked a worse time. Guys coming off the ice. Guys trying to get on the ice. Maybe it wasn’t an accident. And maybe Jason’s cockroaches weren’t an accident. You’ve got to admit that was strange too. All of this is hurting us on the scoreboard.”

He shook his head. “Mac, you’ve got some kinda imagination. Maybe you should stop reading all them books on the bus.”

“Come on,” I said, handing him my skate. “Look at the plastic where the rivet was. See where it’s rough?”

He held the skate up to the light and squinted at the plastic. After a few minutes he handed it back to me. “You got a point. Those could be snip marks from a pair of pliers or cutters.”

“I told you.”

He put up his hand to stop me before I got too wound up. “And they could easily not be snip marks but just banged-up plastic. That happens too, you know.” Teddy rubbed a dirty hand across his stubbled chin. “Maybe you dropped them a couple of times and knocked the rivet off.”

“This is me,” I reminded him. “I don’t drop skates.”

He laughed. “You’re right. Not the kid the newshounds have nicknamed Computer.”

He grinned some more, showing broken teeth. Teddy had been—as he would often tell us—a goalie in the old days. Before protective face masks.

He continued, “Computer, me and the boys got a bet going. Next time a puck or skate cuts you, we figure ice water’s gonna come out of your veins instead of blood.”

“My skates, Teddy.” I didn’t like hearing about the bet. I’d worked hard all season to make sure no one knew about the panic I felt every tim e I laced on skates. Brains will overcome the panic, I’d told myself
again and again. Dad had always said brains would overcome almost any problem.

And if people wanted to believe I had no fear, I’d gladly let them. But what would happen if the panic finally struck and I couldn’t play high-pressure hockey anymore? Would I still be able to stand in this team dressing room and shoot the breeze with a trainer who had seen everything in fifty-odd years of hockey?

There were practice jerseys piled in one corner, ready for laundry. Lockers stood half open—no one needed to worry about theft on this team. Equipment was hanging everywhere with the hope it might be dry before practice this afternoon. The smell of old sweat and new sweat mixed with the welcome sharp spearmint of the muscle ointment we all used. Sticks leaned against one wall. A chalkboard hung on the other.

This room was the inner workings of Junior A hockey, something everyone on the team had fought for years to reach. I didn’t want it taken away from me because I suddenly fell apart on the ice and began to play like
an idiot. And I didn’t want anyone to know about my fear of playing like an idiot.

So I pointed again at the blade and repeated myself. “Rivets, Teddy. One snipped off and the other loosened.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “So maybe I might agree this damage got done on purpose. Then what?”

I stared at him. “Then what? Then we protest to the league or something. I don’t know. But it isn’t fair that—”

“Mac,” he told me, “we all saw you fall. It cost us a win. Stuff happens.”

I held up my skate.

Teddy made a snorting noise. “You gonna get the skates checked for fingerprints?”

I felt myself flush.

“Look,” Teddy said. “You’re a big, good-looking kid. Not real dumb. And a great player. The world’s ahead of you. If you run around putting the blame on other people, you’ll get a bad name. People don’t like whiners. That might be enough to keep you out of pro.”

How could it be whining when it just wasn’t fair that someone wrecked my skate?
I opened my mouth to argue, but I saw the hard look on Teddy’s face and snapped my mouth shut.

He noticed me change my mind. He patted me on the shoulder. “You learn quick, kid. That’s what I like about you. Keep your mouth shut and play hard. Tomorrow night’s game in the Hat will give you a chance to make up for last night. In the meantime, leave your skates with me and I’ll be sure they get fixed.”

Then he flicked on the grinder and bent over to sharpen a skate blade against the granite wheel. I took the hint that he was finished talking to me.

As I walked away, I decided I would keep my mouth shut. No sense in looking like a whiner. But I had a few questions I wanted answered. So while I kept my mouth shut, I’d make sure I kept my eyes and ears wide open.

chapter six

Mighty Ducks—the movie, not the
NHL
team—filled the television screen, and most of the guys groaned at the funny spots, which was a good indication of how many times we had seen it during our road trips on this bus.

Groans or not, being able to watch videos on the bus was one of the great things about playing in the
WHL.
Especially compared to road trips in the leagues we played in when we were younger. In those days, a road trip meant
long hours on a beat-up, creaking, groaning bus. Night was the worst, when the passing countryside was just a blur of darkness broken by occasional farm lights.

But in this league, the long distances went a lot quicker. We rode a luxury bus with plenty of room to stretch and with a television and
VCR
mounted high at the front of the aisle. Good thing too. This trip to Medicine Hat to play the Tigers took more than four hours. And the Tigers were one of the closer teams to Red Deer.

Usually I ignored the video movies and lost myself in books—mysteries, sports, you name it. I would often be surprised to look up and discover we had arrived. Today, though, I couldn’t concentrate on reading, not with the folded newspaper under my seat.

So I groaned along with everyone else when Coach Blair stood and reached up to push the on/off button of the television. Coach Blair was a big man who looked even bigger and tougher in his dark navy double-breasted suit. His short brown hair had streaks of gray already, although his bio sheet said
he was still in his thirties. When he grinned, his face stopped looking like it was a chunk of mountain. But when he frowned, it looked like the mountain was going to fall on you.

He wasn’t smiling now.

“Save your groans for the trip back,” Coach Blair said as the screen went black, “because if I don’t get a hundred and ten percent from every player tonight, you can expect a double practice tomorrow.”

We shut up.

He let his eyes travel up and down the aisle, looking each of us square in the face before he spoke again. “You’ve all seen the newspaper.”

More than a few players looked around to see what I might do. Jason Mulridge and Hog Burnell came closer to being my friends than anyone else on the team. Those two had made a point of showing anger at the newspaper article. A few others had half-nodded in agreement. The rest had said and done nothing. Which shows that trouble is a quick way to figure out who is on your side and who isn’t.

Coach Blair made a point of not looking at me as he spoke. He held up a copy of the same paper I had beneath my seat. “I do not, repeat, do not believe what they’re writing about us in the local paper,” he said. “We’re going to prove them utterly wrong. This team is not a team of chokers. We will not fold under pressure. And when all of you skate hard, nobody beats us.”

He waved the folded newspaper at us. “I’m not saying beat the Tigers tonight or else. They’re a tough team on home ice. And sometimes games are decided by bad refs or a wrong bounce—nothing you can prevent. But if we lose because we get lazy, you can expect to skate till you throw up in tomorrow’s practice.”

He stared hard, waiting to see if anyone dared to comment.

We didn’t.

“Good,” he finished. “Now start thinking about the game.”

In the silence that followed, broken only by the humming of the bus’s tires, I tried to follow Coach Blair’s instructions. But I
couldn’t. Not with his reminder about the newspaper article.

In the same way you can’t resist lifting a bandage to check a new set of stitches, I had to see the newspaper again. I pulled it out from under my seat, even though I knew what I would see.

The headline said “Folding Act Begins Again?” No matter how I tried, I could find nothing good in a single sentence.

I set the paper down and stared out the window at the open fields of the flat prairie north of Medicine Hat.

My highly depressing thoughts were interrupted when I felt my teeth rattle.

“Hey,” someone shouted. “A flat tire!”

A roaring flap-flap-flap of rubber against the wheel wells slowed, then stopped as the bus driver pulled over and parked on the shoulder.

Coach Blair yelled for attention. “Go outside for a break if you want. But stay in the ditch. Anyone goes near the road, I’ll kill him quicker than any passing truck could.”

For an early March day, it was warm. Most of us decided not to bother with our jackets. Here, a couple of hours south of Red Deer, the Alberta fields held no snow. The breeze moving from those dirt-brown fields carried the smell of spring. It felt good to stretch and pull in lungfuls of fresh air.

The bus driver already had a back hatch of the bus open, and pieces of a huge tire jack sat on the pavement beside him.

I wandered over to watch.

“I can’t believe this,” the bus driver was muttering to Coach Blair.

Coach Blair shrugged. “That’s why we always leave in plenty of time. In case the bus breaks down.”

“But these tires are new,” the bus driver said. “This one shouldn’t have shredded.”

I caught them looking at me, so I hunched my shoulders and turned away. Last thing I wanted was a coach-to-player chat from Coach Blair about how he was sure I would play better tonight. If he started talking to me that way, it would be all I could do not to make excuses and tell him about my skate rivets.

It took a half hour to change the tire. That, as Coach Blair announced, would still let us arrive forty-five minutes before game time. Except a little farther down the road, the spare tire went too. Did I want to believe both flat tires were accidents?

Yes.

Could I? No. Cockroaches in Jason’s equipment. Someone in our home crowd throwing cola on us at the worst moment. My skate rivet removed. Now two tires blown on the same trip. If someone was trying to make sure we didn’t play our best hockey, that someone was doing a good job. Our team made it to the Medicine Hat arena only twenty minutes before the puck would be dropped to start the game.

chapter seven

“Move! Move! Move!” Teddy shouted in the dressing room in Medicine Hat. Teddy’s face was red and the little veins on his nose looked like wriggle worms. “Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!”

Coach Blair moved beside him. “They’re doing the best they can,” he said. “No sense making it worse.”

Teddy took a breath and calmed himself. “But you said we didn’t want to delay the game. And opening face-off is any minute and—”

“Teddy, they’re doing their best,” Coach Blair repeated. “These kids are already nervous enough.”

We were.

I probably wasn’t supposed to overhear their conversation, but I was sitting on the dressing room bench closest to them. I was already dressed in my hockey gear and only had to tie my skates, giving me time to look around.

The dressing room was a mess. Some of the guys had been in so much of a hurry that their street clothes were in heaps on the floor. Others were shouting for their sticks. Or tape. Or equipment adjustments.

Jason Mulridge caught my eye. He winked, as if to say, “What’s the big deal?” Jason, the guy with the face all the girls in high school wanted to smother with kisses, was so cool. The only time I’d seen him rattled was the cockroach incident. Jason, like me, had also dressed quickly enough that he only needed to tie his skates. And, like me, he preferred to keep his skates loose for as long as possible and always undid them between
periods. Your feet get plenty of punishment during the game. No sense making it worse by keeping them tight during rests.

“Three minutes left,” Coach Blair said quietly. “Who won’t make it?”

Maybe a dozen hands went up.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll start the game with whoever’s ready. Looks like Mulridge and McElhaney on defense. Hog, Mancini and Shertzer up front. We’ve got another full line to hold the fort till the rest of you make it to the bench. I don’t want to give the Medicine Hat fans more to cheer about by delaying this game.”

Just before I bent to tie my skates, I saw nods from those who would be starting the game with me. They were ready. I knew we could do it.

John Mancini was ready—no surprise—to open the game for his shift as centerman. But then, he was always ready for anything. Skinny, quick and short-tempered, he caused more brawls than a ship full of rowdy sailors. The latter characteristic surprised a lot of people, since Mancini
had blond hair and the face of an angel.

Louie Shertzer, our big redheaded right winger, was just the opposite. You’d think someone with a carrottop like his would get mad at anything. Nope. Nothing riled this guy, not even when we called him by his nickname, Sumo, because he was built as wide as a Japanese sumo wrestler.

Hog Burnell, the left winger, was also just finishing the last knots on his skates. This guy’s upper body was so big that when he didn’t wear shoulder pads under his sweater, you couldn’t tell the difference. And he was tough. I’d seen him take a puck in the face and just grunt, then score a goal and finally go back to the bench for five stitches.