Rebel Power Play (12 page)

“We could’ve used a coach, for sure,” Pudge said. “It’s tough to play and coach at the same time.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I’m not saying you have to do anything. We were all supposed to do the coaching, not just you. It’s just … maybe we have to divide jobs up, and be more organized at the beginning of the game.”

“How were we not organized?”

“I don’t know. Like maybe we need a better system for changing strategies. We could huddle up at the end of each period. That would give everyone a chance to
decide on things.”

Charlie had to admit that Pudge was right. “Good idea. Maybe every game we have a defenceman and a forward in charge of our forechecking strategy, or something like that. We can work it out later.”

The room was dead quiet when they walked in. No one had even started to undress.

Charlie didn’t know what to say — and he didn’t have the energy to try. This clearly wasn’t the time to talk about coaching. He collapsed onto the bench, tossing his helmet roughly into his bag.

Just then, the door swung open. Bob Dale, the Snow Birds’ coach, entered, holding some sticks taped together and a cardboard box that he dropped to the floor.

“Probably not the result you were looking for,” he said in a gravelly baritone voice.

Charlie had heard all about this legendary coach. Before coaching the Snow Birds, he’d taken another team from atom all the way to midget, and they’d won the championship practically every year. Two players from that team played in the NHL, and several more played professionally in lower leagues or overseas, or got university scholarships.

“I wanted to applaud your effort,” he continued. “You never quit, and I’m telling you, if you’d scored first it might have been a different game. Anyway, all the other teams in the league appreciate what you’ve done, how much work it must have been, and still is, and we all want to encourage you to keep going. I know a game like this is hard to swallow. But it’s only one game. Learn from it, and come out stronger next time.”

“Thanks, Mr. Dale,” Charlie said. “You’ve got a great
team over there.”

“I can tell you that every kid on my team has a tremendous amount of respect for each one of you,” he said. “In my books, you’re real hockey players, and that’s about the highest compliment I can pay.” He leaned the sticks against the wall. “Here’s a few extra sticks I thought you could use, and a box of tape — on me. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Charlie said.

Dale shook Charlie’s hand warmly.

“Take care, guys,” he said waving as he left, “and keep plugging away.”

When the door closed, Scott said, “He’s totally scared of us.”

Nick snorted. “He’s afraid his players will wear themselves out scoring so many goals.”

“Come on. He’s trying to bribe us with sticks and tape. It’s sad.”

“Sad was when Savard slipped the puck between your skates and scored on the breakaway,” Nick said.

“So where was my defence partner?”

“Totally out of position.”

They both laughed.

Everyone’s spirits lifted. The normal banter started up again as they got dressed. Charlie kept quiet. He’d seen a real coach in action — his change in strategy after the first period, his kind words and generosity. Who wouldn’t love to play for a guy like that? He noticed Zachary was keeping quiet too. No surprise there. Zachary must be kicking himself. He could have been a part of that amazing team.

A volleyball game with a roll of tape broke out. The
tape came to Charlie, and he slapped it across the room. His heart wasn’t in it, though. The loss was painful — to be destroyed like that — with all those kids from school watching, including Julia. Just pathetic!

Charlie adjusted his scarf to protect his face against the frigid wind. Snowflakes began to fall, adding to his misery. He lowered his head and trudged on towards the rink. He was tired — the early practices were wearing him down. The weather wasn’t helping either — not even Christmas yet and it was snowing like crazy. Normally, he walked with Dylan, but he had a special band practice and begged off. Christopher and Zachary had called to say they weren’t coming because of schoolwork. He wondered who would be there.

He picked up the pace in a mostly futile effort to stay warm. To his dismay, the arena wasn’t much warmer. He blew on his hands as he headed to the dressing room, and pushed the door open.

Pudge was sitting by himself at the far end. A scarf covered his face, and with his bulky hood pulled up all Charlie could see were his eyes peering out.

“You might want to change in the next room,” Pudge said. “Not much space in here.”

“I’ll just squeeze into the other corner.” He leaned against the wall and slumped down. He dreaded the feel of the ice-cold equipment on his body. “Is Gus
trying to save money on heating?”

“I guess it’s so cold outside no amount of heat would make a difference.”

“So what’s the deal? Anyone e-mail about not coming?”

“Matt said he had homework. Doubt he’ll be here. That’s it.”

Charlie shook his head in disgust. Things had come off the rails since the Snow Birds game. They’d lost their next two, against the Wildcats and the Hornets, and tied the Tigers. Their lone win came against the lowly Tornadoes. Charlie had scored in every game, but everyone else was mired in a slump. Even the reliable Zachary had missed a breakaway against the Hornets, and they ended up losing 4–3 on a heartbreaking goal in the final minute. The loss had been particularly painful because Mike had joined that team. Apparently, his dad had offered the Hornets new equipment and sticks, in order to land his son a spot. As usual, Mike acted like he was a superstar, and taunted the Rebels when the game ended.

“This is pointless,” Charlie said.

“How about a rousing game of one-on-one?” Pudge asked.

“We might get slightly bored after an hour.”

Pudge stuffed his hands into his pockets. “The practice time is brutal. We could scale it back.”

“We only practise once or twice a week as it is!” Charlie thundered. “We all agreed to practise — we made a commitment. It’s easy to make excuses. Where is everyone? Why am I hauling my butt out of bed at five in the morning for this?”

“I don’t know, Charlie,” Pudge said.

“Maybe this was all a dumb idea. It’s typical. At first we were all stoked. Now that’s over, and no one feels like coming to the rink on a freezing cold day. The Rebels! We should change our name to the Losers.”

Pudge cleared his throat and wrapped his arms across his chest. “I don’t think this was a dumb idea. You’re right about guys slacking off. But the real problem could be playing without a coach. We knew that would be tough. We’re all friends. Are we going to bench the guys that missed this practice or make them skate extra laps?”

“So now it’s my fault. Why can’t those guys be serious once in a while? They’re always joking around. Sometimes you’ve gotta get focused, especially before a game. And we have to practise or we’ll never beat anyone.”

“I didn’t say it was your fault. You’ve done more for this team than anyone. But maybe we underestimated the coach factor.”

Charlie could see from the expression on Pudge’s face that he wasn’t dissing him. He was just telling the truth. And Pudge was the last guy he should be yelling at. He slumped even lower against the wall.

“Can’t say I blame them much. How fun is it to practise at six in the morning in the winter? But we need some discipline, especially on the ice. Guys are hogging the puck, staying out too long, taking bad penalties. I feel like a jerk if I say anything. It’s not like I’m perfect.”

“We’re not even halfway through the season,” Pudge added. “It’s only going to get worse.”

They sat in silence for a minute.

“Think of anything yet?” Charlie said.

“Only that I’d kill to be back in bed. What about you?”

“I have an idea. It’s a bit out there — and I don’t know if it has any chance of working …”

“I already like it — better than freezing to death in this dressing room.”

“Hilton!”

Pudge rolled his eyes. “He never coaches minor hockey — only school teams. Don’t you think he gets asked every year? He and Dale are the best coaches around. But he’s too busy — and I think he and his wife just had a kid. No chance, my friend.”

“I know, but we’re desperate. What if he did it part time — came to just some games and practices? Anything would be better than this. You got a better idea, cool. If not, then what’s the harm in asking?”

“Joyce, I’ll say this. You think big.”

“No guts, no glory.”

“Let’s do it.”

Charlie slapped his hockey bag. “The way I see it, we have two choices. First, slowly freeze to death in this dressing room, or go back to my place, slam home some bacon, eggs and homefries, and then confront Mr. William Hilton when he foolishly steps out of his car in the school parking lot.”

“You’re making more sense to me every second.”

The cold and the early hour no longer on his mind, Charlie slung his equipment over his shoulder. He forced himself not to get his hopes up. It was a total long shot at best. But what if Hilton said yes?

* * *

They ran over to Hilton’s car. It was empty.

“We’re such idiots,” Charlie said. “Too busy stuffing our faces, and now he’s already inside.”

“No big deal,” Pudge said. “So we go talk to him.”

Charlie held up a hand for a high-five. “That’s crazy enough to work.”

They jogged to the front door and went in. The school was deserted and completely quiet, so much so that it felt as if they were breaking in.

“It’s like we’re ninja warriors on a mission,” Pudge said.

Charlie burst out laughing. “I’m trying to imagine you in a skin-tight black leotard,” he said, “and trust me, it wasn’t pretty.”

“I’d kill you with a death blow, but I don’t want to jeopardize the mission.”

“Follow me,” Charlie said.

They pretended to scale the stairs like ninjas, hopping over the railings and hiding behind doors. Charlie peered into the hallway. “The coast is clear. Target is approximately seven point two five metres away.”

He slammed the door open and they both jumped into the hallway — and almost ran into Principal Holmes.

“My goodness, boys. Please be gentle with the doors. They don’t grow on trees, you know.”

“Sorry, Principal Holmes,” Charlie said.

“And please, no running in the hall.”

“Okay, Principal Holmes,” Pudge said.

“Now, where were you going in such a hurry?”

“We have to speak to Mr. Hilton. We’re in his homeroom … it’s about an English assignment.”

Principal Holmes nodded vigorously. “I like your discipline. Well done, boys. I imagine I’ll see you in the library shortly.”

He nodded a few more times and walked away.

Pudge rolled his eyes, and Charlie had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Pudge pointed at the door to Hilton’s classroom, and suddenly Charlie lost the urge to laugh.

He looked through the classroom window. Hilton was writing on the blackboard. When Charlie knocked, Hilton looked up in surprise, and waved them in.

“Did we arrange to meet this morning?”

“No, Mr. Hilton,” Charlie said. “We wanted to talk to you about something. Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all,” he said. “Why don’t you take a seat?” Charlie and Pudge sat in the front row. Hilton leaned against the desk. “What can I do for you?”

“We … well, I … or I guess I should say Pudge and I, since Pudge is here …”

Get on with it, he told himself. Why was he so nervous?

“Anyway, we wanted to ask your advice about something … and maybe ask a favour.”

A smile flickered across Hilton’s face. “You’ve got my attention. What’s up?”

“It’s about the Rebels,” he said. “Things were going great — at first, that is. All the guys were totally psyched. We even won a few games. The practices were good too. Then we played the Snow Birds.”

“I remember,” he said. “You told me at the car wash.”

“That’s right,” he said. “We took your advice, sent in one forechecker and held everyone else back in the
neutral zone. It worked perfectly for the first period, which ended 0–0. Then they started to swing their centre behind the net, supported by both defencemen and the offside winger cutting inside. We couldn’t get any pressure. We completely fell apart — lost 7–zip. It was totally ugly.”

“It’s tough to play that way the whole game,” Hilton said. “I would have either sent guys in really deep to disrupt the defence early, or backed off completely.”

“That’s what we wanted to talk to you about,” Charlie said. “We did neither. We sort of did something in between.”

“Never a good idea,” Hilton said.

“That’s for sure,” Pudge said. “We barely touched the puck the rest of the game.”

“And that’s when we realized that playing without a coach was impossible,” Charlie said. “You can’t play and try to run a team at the same time. I tried to do both — maybe I did a bad job — we all got confused, and ended up doing nothing. Guys lost respect.”

“They still respect you,” Pudge said.

“Not as a coach,” Charlie said, “which I’m not. We need someone on the bench during the games, at the very least. My grandfather’s helping out, but he doesn’t know hockey. We’re desperate.”

Hilton folded his arms across his chest. “Have you got any candidates in mind?”

Charlie smiled awkwardly. “I guess I should come to the point. We were wondering — Pudge and I — if you had a little free time, and maybe could help us out, even a little, like during the games, or even home games, or the occasional practice, anything at all …” his voice
trailed off.

“Where do you play your home games?”

“The Ice Palace,” they both said.

“When do you practise?”

“Same place — at six in the morning,” Charlie said.

Hilton winced. “That’s an ungodly time for practice, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Charlie said, “but we don’t have a sponsor. Well, we have one, but only for sweaters — The Hockey Shop.”

“A great place,” Hilton said. “I used to buy my stuff there when I was a kid. The son runs it now. What’s his name …?”

“Brent Sanderson.”

He nodded. “So he came up with the uniforms.”

“That’s all he could afford. The rink manager offered us free practice time.”

Hilton nodded. “So you’ve been practising at six o’clock in the morning.”

“We started out twice a week.” Charlie sighed. “But attendance has been kind of lame lately.”

Hilton didn’t respond. Finally, he unfolded his arms, and rubbed his palms together. “Guys, I’d really like to help. I would. I think you’ve taken on quite a responsibility, and have done a fine job. Most kids would have quit long ago, and you should be proud of yourselves regardless of how the season turns out. But I have a baby at home, and my schedule’s rather full. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been approached to coach. I promised my wife that I wouldn’t spend my life at the rink.”

Charlie cast his eyes to the floor. He felt bad about
putting him on the spot. It wasn’t fair. He had gotten carried away — a bit selfish.

“No worries,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “We knew you probably couldn’t. We just thought if you could help once in a while that would be great. No big deal. Sorry for bothering you. I know you have some work to do. We’ll leave you alone. See you in a few minutes when class starts.”

He and Pudge got up to leave.

“Did you practise this morning?” Hilton asked quietly.

“We did,” Charlie said, “but not a lot of guys were able to make it.”

“How many did?”

Charlie’s shoulders sagged. “Two.”

“Am I looking at them?”

“You are,” he admitted.

Hilton ran a hand slowly across his forehead. He leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.

“How many guys can you get out to a practice tomorrow?”

“Tough to say,” Charlie said. “Everyone always has an excuse …”

“You give me a full team, on the ice at six sharp, and I’ll coach.”

Charlie and Pudge stared at their teacher.

“Can you do that?” Hilton said. “If guys won’t commit, it’s no deal.”

Charlie wasn’t sure exactly what he meant. “How often can you help out?” he asked.

“You either coach or you don’t. I’ll see you at the rink. Tell your teammates we practise twice a week —
unless I think we need more — which, from the sounds of it, we do.”

Charlie felt like jumping to his feet and letting out a scream.

“That’s awesome, Mr. Hilton,” Charlie said. “I don’t know what to say. The guys are gonna freak.”

“Six o’clock sharp — I mean it.”

“No problem,” Charlie said. “And thanks.”

He could hardly believe what was happening.

“One more thing,” Hilton said.

“You name it,” they said together.

“All the players need to keep up with their school work — and perhaps even improve. School comes before hockey.”

He knew that was intended for him. His marks had been suffering lately. He’d done badly on a few assignments. He vowed to cut down on the television and get his work done.

“You can count on us,” he said.

“I know I can,” he replied. Hilton picked up a piece of chalk.

Charlie barely remembered walking back outside. Zachary was there doing tricks on his board. “Zachary!” he yelled between cupped hands.

Zachary waved, and with a deft push on the heel of the board, cut sharply and headed towards them. “Sorry about practice,” he said. “I was up until midnight finishing my science project. Ask me something about gravity.”

“Okay. Who’s going to land on you like a ton of bricks if you don’t show up to practice tomorrow?”

“Come on, Charlie. Don’t tell me you called another
practice. I gotta get some sleep.”

“Hey, boys,” Scott said, joining them. “Sorry about practice. I slept in. Pathetic excuse, I know. I was trying to come up with a better one. I’d thought of going with the old classic — kidnapped by aliens — but then decided to tell the truth. Forgive me.”