Power Play (4 page)

“I didn’t know that,” Josh said.

I didn’t know either, but I didn’t react, other than to glance over at Coach. He nodded ever so slightly. There was a mischievous look in his eyes, like we were sharing a secret. We
were
sharing a secret.

“It’s my hometown, where I live, and where I run my hockey camps,” Terry said.

“It must be amazing to own a team,” Josh said.

“I’m a
part
owner, and it would be much more amazing if we hadn’t finished near the bottom of the standings this year,” Terry said. “But I think things are looking up. There are some changes—nothing I can talk about yet—that will help turn things around. Great to meet you boys, and I hope to see more of you.”

“Who knows,” Josh said, “maybe we’ll even be drafted by Watertown.”

“We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed,” Coach said. He winked at me.

When Terry had left, Coach said, “There’s still one more person I want you to meet.”

We followed after him, weaving through the crowd.

“There he is!”

I looked over. It was Brad Simmons! He had changed out of his uniform and into a suit that was as fancy as Coach’s. I couldn’t believe it. Coach called out and Brad waved and walked right toward us. He and Coach shook hands, and then they hugged as well.

“So, Brad, I want you to meet Cody and Josh.”

“Nice to meet you, boys,” he said.

“That was a good game,” Josh said.

“Not for us. I hate losing.”

“Especially to Montreal,” I added. “I hate Montreal.”

“Yes! Exactly!” he exclaimed. “I hate Montreal too!” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Smart kid.”

“And a good hockey player,” Coach said. “Both of them. Two of the best coming up for the draft this year.”

“I remember those days.” He nodded his head slowly.

“You boys know that I coached Brad, right?” Coach asked.

“No!” Josh said.

I shook my head. I didn’t know either.

“Two years on my team, but also at camps and on tournament teams,” Coach said. “He was a
special
player.”

Brad looked at his shoes. I would have figured a big star like him would be used to people saying nice things about him. “Thanks, Coach … It was good to see you, but I’m sorry, I have to get going.”

“Don’t be such a stranger in the future. We need to get together for lunch or something,” Coach said. “Make sure you don’t forget the people who were with you on the way up.”

“I won’t
ever
forget,” he said. “I just gotta go now and meet the guys, like I promised,” Brad said. “We’re going out for a pop or two.”

“Or four or seven,” Coach said.

“Could be more.”

“Just keep it under control,” Coach said. “I can’t boss you around anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still care.”

“Sure, thanks. Pleased to meet you, boys. Great to see you, Coach.”

He walked back through the crowd, greeting more people as he worked his way across the room and out the door.

“He seems like a terrific guy,” Josh said.

“He is,” Coach agreed. “Like I said, he’s special.”

D
on’t screw up,” my father said, pushing a finger into my face.

“I’m not going to screw up!” I snapped.

“Are you giving me attitude?”

I knew I’d crossed the line. I could see that flare of anger in his eyes. “No … no, sir.”

“’Cause it’s not like you haven’t screwed things up before,” he said. “Should we take another look at your last report card?”

I didn’t answer. I was passing everything so far, but only barely. And now I was just grateful for a chance to get away—not just from school but from home—and spend some time playing hockey. I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of that … not even me.

“You go there and you don’t give anybody any attitude or any problems. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You listen to all of the coaches at this camp, but you better be particularly respectful to Coach Connors.”

“I will.”

They had really got to know Coach through those weekly phone calls. Like always, he’d talk to them before talking to me. He always wanted to know how they were doing and what was new. I think my father saw him as a friend.

“Just remember, he’s the man who arranged all of this. And he’s not just one of the coaches at this camp. Now, with his new position … who knows?” my father said.

There was no need to say anything else. The road to the NHL ran right through Junior A, and the draft was the invitation to get on that road—the key to the kingdom. Showing what I could do at this camp was the first step to getting noticed by the Junior A scouts, and Coach was helping me take it.

“And I’m telling you right now, if you cause trouble and get tossed out, you better find someplace else to stay because you’re sure as hell not coming back here!”

“He’ll do fine,” my mother said.

“Are you arguing with me now?” he demanded.

“No, of course not,” she mumbled.

She looked like she was trying to make herself small.
She didn’t have to be afraid of him. If he even dared to put a hand on her … well … no more.

“He better do more than just fine. It’s not like he’s going to make it on his brains or looks,” my father said. “This is the ticket to our … I mean,
his
dreams.”

“I understand, and I’m going to do great,” I said. He was an idiot, but he was right about this. This was my shot. I was going to this camp to not only increase my skills but to increase my visibility. I was going to be
seen
. Coach Connors had made me understand just how connected the hockey community was. Everybody knew everybody else, and a good word or a bad reputation spread fast.

My mother reached over and gave me a hug. “I’ll miss you,” she whispered in my ear.

“Me too.”

I slung my hockey bag over my shoulder, then picked up my suitcase with one hand and grabbed my two sticks with the other. I was ready. At least, as ready as I could be.

“Come on, pick it up, pick it up!” one of the coaches yelled.

My lungs were burning, but I dug deeper, going faster. I didn’t care if I coughed up a lung; I wasn’t giving in to the pain. I just blocked it out. I was already in the lead in laps, but I wasn’t going to let anybody get any closer to me. Making them look bad made me look better. I wasn’t
as skilled as some of these guys, and I certainly didn’t have the fancy equipment most of them had arrived with, but
nobody
was going to outwork me.

I put my head down and pumped harder and harder. A coach blew his whistle and everybody around me started to glide. I didn’t. I took a half-dozen more strides, still digging, so that nobody would have any question about who had won.

“Five minutes … five minutes … get some water!” he yelled.

I needed water. Dehydration was always a danger. If you didn’t take in enough water, you could cramp up. I grabbed my bottle from the bench.

“Looking good out there,” Coach Connors said.

“Trying,” I huffed as I gulped down a drink.

“Succeeding. You’re working hard. People are noticing.
I’ve
noticed.”

“Thanks.”

“You been thinking much about the draft?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“You should be. Are you still feeling okay about leaving home if you’re drafted by a team that’s in the sticks?”

“Like your team?” I asked.

“Like my team.”

“I meant it when I said I’m ready to go wherever I have the best shot at making it.”

He nodded knowingly.

I’d go anywhere. I didn’t have a steady girlfriend or any
really close friends, and going to a new school could only be a change for the better, and my parents … well … I’d miss my mother.

Coach crooked a finger toward me and skated away from the other players. I followed.

“Would you mind me asking you a question?” he asked.

“Sure … of course.”

“I know that players get really attached to their equipment … like your gloves … you’ve had those for a long time, right?”

“A long time.” It wasn’t that I was attached to them or that they were that comfortable, but a pair of gloves—heck, all the equipment—was expensive. I couldn’t afford new ones.

“Would you consider wearing new gloves and maybe some new shoulder pads?” he said, tapping my pads.

“Yeah, I guess.” All I needed was the money.

“Great!” he said, and he slapped me on the back. “I’ll bring them to you tomorrow.”

“But I don’t have the money … you know … here with me.”

“No, no, you wouldn’t have to pay for them. They were given to me by the manufacturer. It will actually help them, be good promotion, to have a player like you wearing their equipment.”

“Really?”

“Don’t be so surprised. Things change at the next
level. You’ll find out,” he said. “I can bring them along tomorrow.” He paused. “But that might not be such a wise thing.”

He looked around to see if anyone was watching or listening. He moved in a little closer. “I just don’t want the other players to see me giving them to you in case they think I’m giving you special favours—even if I am.”

“Oh, right. What if I picked them up?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Probably too risky.”

“What would be risky?”

“You’d have to, you know, slip out of the residence. What if someone asks where you’re going?”

“I don’t have to tell anybody anything. And I could be back before curfew.”

“That would be great. It’s just that with the draft coming up, I don’t want to tip my hand to anybody about players I’m interested in. That I’ve got my eye on you, that’s between me and you … and, of course, Terry,” he said, gesturing to Coach Fisher. “I’ve told him I’d like to see you on our team. Of course, he has the final say on these things.”

“And what does he think?”

“Just keep on doing what you’re doing to impress him.”

A whistle sounded and Terry called for everybody to come toward centre.

“Here’s my address,” Coach Connors said, and he slipped me a piece of paper.

I tucked the paper into my glove and snugged it into one of the fingers.

“See you around eight. That’ll give you enough time to get back before curfew.”

“Thanks.”

I joined the coaches. I wasn’t the first to get there, but I certainly wasn’t the last. Some people were still getting up. Tired legs weren’t keeping them up or pushing them along very fast.

Terry stood at the centre of the circle. This was his camp and
technically
he was the head coach, but it was clear to everybody else that he was probably the worst of the four coaches on his staff. The best was also pretty clear. Coach Connors was head and shoulders above everybody else.

The reason the camp was in Watertown, the reason Terry had bought into the Watertown team, was that he’d grown up and still lived right there. His name was even on the signs when you came into town—”Welcome to Watertown, Home of Terry Fisher.” He was the most famous person who had ever come out of the place.

I had to admit that he seemed like a good guy, but in some ways he reminded me of my father. They didn’t look alike, and I hadn’t even seen Terry take a drink, but it was like he was some old guy, telling his hockey stories and coasting along on past glories. My father was the same. The biggest difference, I guess, was that at least Terry had some real glories to talk about.

Coach Connors had explained to me that he’d been a coach in the camp the last five years, and when the head coaching spot on the Warriors had opened up, it was Terry himself who had decided to hire him. I figured I should be grateful to Terry for that, at least.

“Well, men,” Terry began, “we’re almost at the end of day two.”

He always called us “men,” although that was stretching it for some of the guys there. He started talking and I drifted off. It didn’t matter whether it was on the ice or in a class, I didn’t have much time for being talked at. He really
did
remind me of my father.

Coach Connors stood right beside Terry, and it was obvious which one of the two had been in the NHL. Terry was a good four inches taller, and the only place Coach Connors was thicker than him was in the gut. Even though Terry was older and had been retired for a long time, he still looked like a player—thick neck, muscular arms, wide in the back and shoulders. In the day, he’d been known for his toughness—crushing checks and digging in the corners. He could still out-skate all the other coaches and most of the players. I wouldn’t have wanted to go into a corner with Terry for a puck. Although if I did, I could guarantee that he’d have to hurt me to stop me.

As Terry continued to talk, I looked at Coach Connors. He really didn’t look much like a hockey player—which he wasn’t. He’d never played at any level above house league. He was big, but he had more in common
with the guy in the bleachers who was selling beer and popcorn. He wasn’t exactly fat, but the word
pudgy
certainly would have fit. Still, if you were just watching him and Terry, you’d have guessed wrong about which one knew his hockey stuff the best.

Coach Fisher was always yelling about “digging deeper” and “going the distance,” but he really didn’t know much about teaching. Coach Connors had very specific drills and exercises designed to make you a better player. He
was
making me a better player, the way he was making everybody in camp better. If he’d been my coach for the season, we would have done a lot better—maybe even won it all … something Coach Connors had done at every level he’d ever coached. It would be
amazing
to have him as my coach and … I put a stop to my thoughts. What if I was drafted by another team before he had a shot? What if I wasn’t drafted at all? There was no point in getting too high. It only made the fall harder. I knew better, really. Wishing for something was a guarantee it wouldn’t come true. Wishes were never granted and prayers were never answered. That’s why I’d given up on both of them. Hard work was the only thing that had a chance.

“Okay, men, that’s it,” Terry said. “Hit the showers and let’s call it a day!”

There were hoots from the crowd and a rush to the gate leading off the ice to the dressing room and the showers. I was in no hurry to leave and I didn’t really understand why the rest of the guys were. They’d paid a
lot of money—well, most of them—to attend an expensive hockey camp, and all they wanted to do now was get
off
the ice. As they headed for the gate, I skated down to the far end of the rink. There was a net and dozens of pucks scattered around. I’d stay until somebody kicked me off.

The arena got quieter and quieter as the ice emptied. Sometimes I thought the only thing better than the roar of a crowd was the silence of a completely empty arena.

I pushed one of the pucks forward, stickhandling, keeping it at the centre of the stick, right in the sweet spot on the blade. Back and forth, back and forth. The only way to get better was to practise. I figured that each second on the ice was like dropping a few pennies in a piggy bank. They added up, and then when you needed them in a game, you could make a withdrawal. Pushing yourself, making your lungs and legs log more time when they wanted to rest, was what you drew on in the game. Everybody who wasn’t stupid knew what to do, but most didn’t have enough gas in the tank to make it happen. They’d see the puck in the corner but couldn’t get it. They’d try to shove somebody off the puck but wouldn’t have the strength. They’d know where to shoot the puck, but their muscles couldn’t make it happen.

Next I drew the puck in and then out, playing with it like it was on a string, offering it to the imaginary defender and drawing it back just as he tried to take it. I did a fake around that defender and snapped my shot,
high and so tight that it clinked against the post before being caught by the netting. I felt a little rush of adrenalin—as always.

I circled out to the blue line. There were ten or twelve pucks scattered out there. One by one, I lined them up side by side, and then I shot each puck. I took a couple of snap shots, a wrist shot, and four or five slapshots. Half of them connected and the others sailed high and wide. That was okay; the secret wasn’t to hit the centre of the net but to pick the corners. Any idiot could hit the goalie, but that wasn’t how you scored goals.

I skated toward the net and a puck flew past me and into the mesh—top-right corner. I turned around. It was Coach Fisher—Terry.

“Nice shot,” I noted.

“You took a few good ones yourself. You’re two for two,” he said.

I didn’t know what that meant—I’d taken dozens of shots already.

“Two days of camp and both days you’ve been the last one off the ice. You’re a real rink rat.”

“You have to take your ice time when you can get it.”

“You’re right about that. Back in the day, it was free. We’d just go down to the pond and play shinny until either it got too dark or our feet froze off.”

Great. Another story about “the day.”

“There are no ponds where I come from.”

“Probably just rinks and rules and refs and teams.
Pond shinny is where you get your grit from … not that you’re doing too shabby in that department,” he said.