Rebel Power Play (3 page)

Charlie kicked at the ice as he waited behind the net for Dunn to announce the next drill.

“Give me Red on the line. Skate hard to the other end, touch the boards with your stick and come back. Go!”

Nick led the field on the way down, Scott and the twins following not far behind. Mike trailed all four — but he stopped well short of the boards, then flicked his stick half-heartedly, which gave him a big lead, and he was the first one back.

“Way to bring it, Mikey,” Dunn said. He slapped his stick on the ice a few times. “That’s what I’m lookin’ for. White, show me what you got.” He blew his whistle.

Charlie dug his blades into the ice, taking short, choppy strides. As he neared the goal line, Charlie turned sideways and allowed his skate to slide. He timed his stop perfectly, going only as close to the boards as he needed to touch them with his stick. The sound of his skates carving crisply into the ice spurring him on, Charlie was first back by ten feet. Pudge came in second.

“Listen up, boys,” Dunn said. “This next one’s tricky. Skate hard to the blue line. Lower one knee to the ice,
stand back up, and then lower the other. Alternate knees the length of the ice. Make sure each knee hits. Mikey, why don’t you have a go to demonstrate.”

“Yeah, baby!” Mike whooped, and he set off.

Charlie knew this drill was difficult, especially towards the end when your legs got tired. He was curious to see how Mike would do.

Mike slowed noticeably on the way back, looking unsteady as he bobbed up and down. Ten feet inside the blue line, he lost his balance, but instead of stopping he tried to switch knees again and ended up falling.

A few of the players laughed. Mike’s face was beet red, and he looked down at his skates.

“Be quiet,” Dunn said. “Red, get going.”

Charlie watched with concern as most of the Red players spun around, crashed into each other, or fell. The only ones who bothered touching their knees to the ice on the way back were his friends and the twins. When it was their turn, he and Pudge were first back again.

“We’re going to switch it up,” Dunn said. “I need Red in one corner and White in the other. This is called the one-on-one challenge. I’ll blow the whistle and the first two players skate around each circle, and then head for the puck at centre. The first player takes it on a breakaway. Second guy tries to stop him.”

“I want you to go hard. Full contact. I’m looking for players with the guts to really go for it. Coach Shaw, can we have the pucks at centre?”

Mike was first up for Red. Dunn brought the whistle to his lips. Mike took off, as the other player hesitated, uncertain. Dunn blew the whistle, but by then Mike was halfway around the first circle, and was way in front
when he picked up the puck at centre.

Ten feet out he faked a backhand, brought it across to his forehand, and tried to flip the puck in on the glove side. The goalie hadn’t budged, and butterflied to his left, smothering the puck easily. Charlie was impressed by the goalie’s quickness.

Simon had taken over goal by the time Charlie’s turn came up. Better than Alexi Tolstoy? He’d see about that. But he had to win the race first, he reminded himself. The whistle blew and he was off like a shot. He needn’t have bothered. His opponent was slow at best, and Charlie won by twenty feet. Once he crossed the blue line he expected Simon to come out to challenge. Instead, he stayed way back in his net, almost on the goal line. This was supposed to be the number-one goalie? At the hash marks, with the entire net to shoot at, Charlie snapped a wrist shot, stick side, to the bottom right corner. Simon barely moved.

On Charlie’s next turn, the first goalie was back in net. He’d done well, stopping most of the breakaways. Charlie skated hard and was ten feet ahead when he gathered the puck up. He slowed at the top of the circle. The goalie was in front of his crease and he couldn’t shoot with him so far out. He decided on his favourite move — one he’d practised endlessly with his dad in their backyard rink. His dad would put a plank of wood across the lower half of the net, and Charlie had to backhand the puck into the net from various distances. Over time he’d learned to flip it almost straight up under the crossbar from in close.

He threw in a token forehand move to keep the goalie honest, and then drove hard on his backhand to
the goalie’s glove side. The goalie dropped his left pad against the post and held up his glove. The corner was still exposed, and Charlie thought he could sneak it in. Five feet from the net he dipped his left shoulder and bent his knee for leverage.

Next thing he knew, Charlie was flat on his back sliding into the boards. The trailing player hadn’t quit, and dove to knock the puck away. Charlie was able to absorb the impact with his right skate. The other player was sliding head first and only managed to spin himself around at the last second to avoid hitting the boards straight on.

“Are you okay?” Charlie said, worried that he’d really hurt himself. “You came out of nowhere.” The player struggled to his knees.

“Banged my shoulder,” he gasped.

“Maybe you’re winded,” Charlie said. “Take it slow and wait till your breath comes back.” The player nodded and slowed his breathing.

Dunn’s whistle blasted several times. “Keep moving. You’re holding up the drill,” Dunn said, skating over. He narrowed his eyes and stared at Charlie.

“He hit the boards real hard,” Charlie said, “and I …”

“He’s hurt — not your problem,” Dunn said. “Leave that to the trainer. I want my players to have a killer instinct. Don’t wait around. Keep going. Why’d you slow down? You should’ve scored.” He reached down and pulled the injured player to his feet. The player winced and held his shoulder.

“Suck it up, kid,” Dunn said gruffly. “Hockey’s a tough game. Don’t quit because of a little bruise. Back in
line, both of you.”

They started back.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Charlie said.

He could see the player was fighting back tears, and Charlie didn’t blame him. It was a hard hit.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I just need to catch my breath.”

Charlie didn’t believe him. “You should sit out the rest of this drill,” he said.

They joined their respective lines. After a few more players Dunn blew his whistle, so Charlie didn’t get another chance.

“Time for the scrimmage, boys,” Dunn said. “That was good hustle. White, you’re with Coach Shaw. Red, you stay with me. I’ll also be reffing. Game rules: full contact, offsides, icing — the works.”

Shaw held the door open and the White players shuffled onto the bench. Charlie filed in with the others. He was about to sit down when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“I told Mr. Dunn that I’ve barely seen a game,” Coach Shaw whispered. “He appointed me manager, but I didn’t think I’d have to do any coaching. You look like you know a lot about hockey. Could you help organize? How many players at a time?”

Charlie assumed he was joking and was about to laugh. Then he saw how distraught the man was.

“Don’t worry about it, Coach Shaw. I’ll put the guys into lines.”

“Thanks,” he said gratefully. “Here’s a list of names.”

He handed Charlie a clipboard.

Charlie felt weird acting like the coach. “Listen up. Coach Shaw asked me to sort out the lines.” They all
looked at him strangely. He only knew two guys. “Samuel and Richard, you should be one defence pair. Do we have any other defencemen?” Two guys held up their hands. “I guess you’ll be the other pair.” He counted the remaining players. “That leaves eight forwards, which means we have to go with two centres and three sets of wingers. The centres will get more ice time, but what else can we do?”

No one said a word, so Charlie continued.

“How many centres do we have?”

Again, no one answered.

“I can play centre, but we still need another.”

Dunn blew his whistle. “Edward, what’s the hold up? Get your players organized already. This ain’t the Stanley Cup playoffs.”

“Right with you, Mr. Dunn,” Shaw stammered.

Charlie pointed at a player he’d noticed in the drills. Not the smoothest skater, but he seemed comfortable with the puck. “What’s your name?”

“Jonathon.”

“Can you help us out at centre?”

He agreed, and Charlie quickly paired up the wingers. He asked Jonathon to start, and the first line jumped the boards. He turned to his coach. “The defencemen can shift themselves,” he said. “Maybe you could do the forwards.” Shaw stared at him.

“Open the door for the guys coming off,” Charlie said, and pointed to the forwards’ door.

Shaw looked truly miserable, but dutifully took his position by the door. Charlie sat next to Pudge.

“What do you think so far?” Pudge asked him quietly.

“Bit bizarre. I don’t think Coach Shaw’s ever seen a game in his life. We’ll know better after the scrimmage. Apart from the twins, the talent level’s not quite what I had hoped.”

“Not much time to throw a team together,” Pudge said. “I bet some more guys will come to the next tryout.”

“If Matt comes out, we’ll be good. On D, we got Scott and Nick, and the twins. You and I can be together on one line, and that Jonathon guy is not bad. A few more players and we got an okay lineup.”

They watched the action. After a minute Jonathon headed to the bench.

“Centre,” he yelled, holding his stick over his head.

“I guess I’m up,” Charlie said, hopping over the boards.

The door swung open. Scott and Nick walked in, followed by Pudge. Charlie had been waiting for his friends at his mom’s café for over half an hour.

“C-man. What’s shakin’?” Nick said.

“Not much. Just waiting for you slugs.”

“Sorry for being late,” Pudge said. He cast an accusing eye at Scott. “We got a slow start.”

“No worries,” Charlie said. “We don’t have too much time before the tryout, though.”

“I’m the guilty party,” Scott said. “But I had important business.”

“This’ll be good,” Nick said.

“It is good,” he affirmed. “I was on a conference call with the President of the United States and …” He looked around the café. “I’ve said too much already. Let’s just say the world is now a safer place; and don’t bother thanking me. I do it because I care.”

“How are the boys doing?” Charlie’s mom said. She peered at them from behind the counter.

“We’re doing well, Mrs. Joyce,” Pudge said.

She sighed. “Pudge, as refreshing as it is to see a young man with good manners, you make me feel old
when you call me Mrs. Joyce. I told you before — it’s Donna.”

Pudge flushed. “Okay, Mrs. Joyce. I’ll try.”

She laughed. “I know you have a tryout soon, but would anyone like a snack?”

“I supposed I could take a run at your world-famous smoked turkey sandwich,” Scott said.

“Salad with that?”

“Why not? Saving the world gives a guy an appetite you wouldn’t believe.”

His friends laughed.

“You got it. Anyone else?” No one replied. “Shirley, one ST with side salad.”

“Gotcha,” Shirley replied from the kitchen.

“I believe a humongous sandwich is what most professional athletes eat just before a game,” Nick said.

“Doesn’t matter what I eat, playing against most of the guys who tried out yesterday,” Scott said. “We could all eat a cow and still make this team.”

His joke was met with silence. He was right. The talent level was too low for AAA.

“Maybe I can help.”

Charlie gasped. Zachary stood at the door and winked at his friends.

Everyone began talking at once.

“Hold on a sec,” Scott said over the noise. “Let’s make one thing clear. I’m not sharing my sandwich with Zachary.”

Zachary sat down at the table. “I got to thinking. Like Charlie said, the Snow Birds are stacked, and ice time will be scarce. My dad called Dunn last night and he said I could try out. I figured I’d play a ton with the
Hawks — and keep you guys out of trouble.”

Zachary’s arrival lifted all their spirits and they joked around as usual all the way to the arena. Charlie laughed at everything; he couldn’t help himself. His dream team was actually happening. Three days ago he wasn’t going to be able to play at all. Now he was playing AAA with all his friends.

* * *

When they got to the rink, Charlie noticed the Hawks only had one dressing room.

“Looks like we’re all in room seven,” Charlie said. “I wonder why we’re all together?”

“Guess the coach is trying to foster team spirit,” Scott said.

They walked down the stairs and along the narrow corridor leading to the dressing rooms. Charlie went in first. He saw a large pile of cardboard boxes at the far end of the room, with dozens of sticks leaning against them. The players were sitting quietly, still in street clothes.

Charlie sat next to Christopher and Robert. “Why aren’t we getting ready?”

Robert shrugged. “Coach Shaw told us to sit tight and wait. That was ten minutes ago.” Charlie counted the players in the room: fifteen skaters plus two goalies, Simon and the kid who’d impressed him last tryout, Martin. “Where are the rest of the guys?” he said.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Christopher said.

Zachary caught his eye. “What’s the story?”

“Coach told us to chill,” Charlie said.

“Why?”

“No clue.”

They didn’t have long to wait. The next moment the
door flung open. Mike stormed in, followed by his father and Coach Shaw.

Mike walked to the back, grabbed a stick, banged it on the floor a few times, and then leaned on it to test the flex.

“You’re in trouble now, Simon. You won’t even see the pucks when I fire them at you with this howitzer.”

“That’s not fair, dude. You already got a rocket,” Simon said seriously.

Mike laughed. “Life’s not fair, Si. Let’s get out there and start shootin’, Dad.”

“Hold on a minute, Mike,” Dunn said. “Sit down and let me talk to the team.”

“Cool,” he said, flexing the stick again.

“Boys, I’m a guy that makes quick decisions. I go with my gut. That’s what’s taken me to the top in the business world.” He paused to look the players over. “I made the cuts last night. I saw the players I liked. The guys who didn’t measure up …” He shrugged. “Too bad for them. You wanna play elite hockey, you gotta have passion. Some of the guys I cut were good players — talented, solid skaters.”

He thumped his fist to his chest. “What didn’t they have, Mikey?”

“Heart. They got no heart.”

“Good answer. Hockey’s about guts, second effort, intimidation, being tougher than the other guy. Hit ’em first, I always say. We’re going to punish the other teams, make them afraid to even come out on the ice. Wear ’em down and crush ’em — that’s Hawks hockey. Remember that and we’ll get along just fine. If you forget it, you’ll get to know a little friend of mine named The Bench.”

He crossed the room to where Mike was standing.

“Check this out, boys.”

Dunn ripped a box open and pulled out a pair of hockey pants. Then he opened a few other boxes and pulled out shoulder, elbow and shin pads, and finally a pair of gloves. He tossed each piece of equipment on the floor. “Only the best for the Hawks. This is top-of-the-line — what the pros wear. Pick out what you need from each box. Most of the stuff is youth medium or large, but I brought some extra stuff so you shouldn’t have any problems with sizing.”

Charlie felt like a kid in a candy store as he pulled pants, shin pads, elbow pads, and shoulder pads from the various boxes. Dunn had emptied a big box with all the gloves on the floor. He picked up a pair. The palm was incredibly soft. He’d never had new equipment before, at least not this quality. His mother and father could never afford it. He put on the gloves and went over to Pudge.

“Is this not awesome?”

“Pretty dope,” Pudge said. He held up a shin pad. “The protection’s amazing, and they’re light as a feather.”

“I guess there are some benefits to having a coach who owns sporting goods stores.”

“Stand in awe, boys,” Scott said. He wore his new shoulder and elbow pads, and flexed his arms like a bodybuilder. “The first guy I hit will be going through the boards.”

“You still have to catch the guy,” Nick said. He gave the pads a whack with his hand.

“Didn’t even feel it,” Scott said. “Maybe you should start working out, Nick.”

Charlie got dressed. He’d always been a little envious
of guys who got to wear the best equipment. Now it was his turn. He was dying to get out on the ice. He could see the others felt the same way. Who wouldn’t? The equipment made him feel invincible.

“Everyone satisfied?” Dunn said.

The players whooped their approval.

Dunn slapped a few players on the back. “Today, just wear your own helmets. This week you’ll all come to the store and we’ll measure you for new ones. We need to fit them exactly, with the right cage. If we tried to do it now, we’d never get to practise. And we’re here to play hockey — right?”

He got an even louder yell this time.

“Help yourselves to two sticks each. They’re all composites — the best. We got Eastons and Bauers.”

Shaw coughed nervously. “Excuse me, Mr. Dunn. We didn’t have enough Bauers in stock, so I brought these.” He held a stick up.

Dunn snorted in disgust.
“
Why’d you bring that junk?” He shrugged. “Sorry, boys. I’ll bring some more sticks next practice. Just grab an Easton or one of the quality Bauers.” He turned to Shaw. “Call the Richmond store. They just got a shipment.”

Shaw nodded and scribbled a note in a small black notebook.

“One last thing,” Dunn said, “before we get out there.” He held a purple hockey sweater with red trim. On the front a large, menacing hawk gripped a broken hockey stick in its claws. Dunn pointed to a white C stitched to the sweater. Dunn flipped it around — number 8. Charlie suppressed a gasp. That was his number — he’d worn it since novice and for the school
team. Dunn had barely paid any attention to him — he’d been kind of mean, if anything. Maybe Mike or one of the other guys had talked to him. He would have preferred a team vote, but it was still a huge honour.

“So who wants this one?” Dunn said.

In spite of himself, Charlie felt a smile cross his face, and he reached out his hand. Dunn tossed the jersey across the room to Mike.

“You ready to lead this team to the championship?”

“Not a problem,” Mike said.

Charlie felt like an idiot. He hoped no one had noticed. Of course Mike was captain. He’d go for number nine — lots of famous players had worn that.

Dunn held each sweater up, and a player wanting that number raised his hand. If two players wanted the same sweater, Dunn decided, usually telling the losing player to “get over it.” When nine came up, Charlie held up his hand. Dunn didn’t even look his way.

“Sean, nine’s a goal scorer’s number — it’s got your name on it.”

Sean was Mike’s friend. Charlie breathed deeply — only a number, he reminded himself. He changed his strategy. This time he’d wait for a number no one wanted. He had to wait until everyone else picked, however. Zachary got his customary 15. Pudge got 5. Scott was 16 and Nick 17. They didn’t look happy. Dunn held up 18. He felt ridiculous, the only guy without a sweater. He held up his hand and Dunn fired it over. At least it had an eight!

“Okay, you lazy slobs. How about we actually play some hockey? Finish dressing and hustle out. Edward, I want these boxes broken down and back in the van, then
I want you on the ice too.”

Shaw nodded glumly. He slowly started folding the boxes, so they would lie flat.

“And don’t forget to get your new sticks,” Dunn said. “Edward, leave the boxes for a sec and cut the sticks to whatever size they want.”

Charlie was close to the sticks. He grabbed one of the Eastons. He’d flexed a few high-end composites in a hockey store — now he actually had one! Probably cost five times more than his stick. He waited in line for the assistant coach to cut the stick to size. Pudge came over.

“Impressive gear, or what?” Charlie said.

Pudge didn’t answer right away. He raised his eyebrows and nodded a few times. Charlie could tell he wasn’t happy about something.

“What’s up?” he said.

Pudge shrugged. “The equipment is great — it’s the best there is. I’m just thinkin’ about school stuff. I’m cool.”

Charlie left it alone. Pudge obviously didn’t want to talk about it. It probably had nothing to do with the Hawks. How could it? All together on one team, best gear in the world, three hundred dollar sticks. How much better did it get?