Thunderbird Spirit

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “No problem,” Dakota said.

  I noticed neither of us talked about how the guy had taunted him. Actually, I noticed neither of us said much of anything. I’d never been good at thanking people.

  “Well,” I said, “that’s it, I guess. Thanks.”

  He nodded and opened his truck door. I figured that meant the end of our conversation.

  I turned away. I didn’t take another step though.

  Another 4x4 truck was heading straight toward us, spraying water as it ripped through puddles.

  The driver was an idiot. If he didn’t slow down soon, he’d crash straight into Dakota’s truck.

  Dakota stepped away from his truck.

  “What’s that idiot—?” I never had a chance to finish my question.

  The red 4x4 spun sideways as the driver slammed on the brakes and yanked the steering wheel. The truck skidded toward Dakota’s truck. I couldn’t see the driver because the passenger side was sliding toward us. I could see the passenger though. He wore a mask over his face. And he was pointing a rifle at us through the open window.

  Dakota dove into me and sent us sprawling into a puddle.

  I heard a sharp crack, then a roar as the truck took off.

  Cold water soaked my jeans and my jacket. I rolled away from Dakota and helped him to his feet.

  “Those guys were nuts!”

  Dakota didn’t answer. He stared at the windshield of his truck. I saw what he saw. And I didn’t like it.

  On the left side of the windshield, right above the steering wheel, was a small dark hole. And I could see a bigger hole in the back window. Both were caused by the same thing: a bullet. A bullet that would have taken Dakota’s head off if he had been sitting behind the steering wheel.

  chapter four

  “Come on!” I shouted. At the far end of the parking lot, the red 4x4 was disappearing in a big spray of water.

  I raced to the other side of Dakota’s truck and jumped inside. I pounded against the dash in excitement. Nobody could take a rifle shot in our direction and get away with it.

  But Dakota did not jump behind the steering wheel. Instead he slowly walked around to my side of the truck.

  I rolled down the window and looked up at him. “They’re getting away, man. Let’s get moving!”

  Dakota leaned against the outside mirror of the truck and looked down at me.

  “You are crazy,” he said. His long dark hair was fanned against his shoulders. The drizzle made his face look like it was sweating.

  “Crazy? Everyone knows that’s my nickname.”

  “I mean you truly are a crazy person. Those guys have a rifle.”

  “So?” I asked.

  “Lift your hands,” he told me.

  I did.

  “I don’t see a rifle,” he said. “What are you going to do if we catch them? Throw rocks? Bite their kneecaps?”

  “And you’re going to stand there and let them get away with shooting at you?”

  “Actually, they shot at my truck,” he said. “Big difference.”

  “They shot at your truck,” I repeated. “That’s all? It’s not like they hit it with a snowball.”

  Dakota shrugged. As if they had hit it with a snowball.

  “You’re the crazy one,” I said. “You should be yelling. Getting mad. Chasing them. Calling the cops. Not just standing there.”

  He shrugged again. I shook my head. I mean, how cool should a person be in a situation like this?

  “Dakota,” I said, “it’s not like people shoot at trucks every day.”

  “No?” There was a sad smile on his face.

  I saw his eyes look down at the outside of the door. I followed his gaze. A few inches away from the door handle—on the inside of the door—was a hole barely wider than a pencil.

  “What?” I shoved the door open, pushing Dakota away from the truck. I stared at the outside of the door. Sure enough, on the outside too, there was a matching hole. I put my pinkie finger in it, feeling the sharp edges where a bullet had torn through the metal.

  “It’s been shot before.” This was making me dizzy.

  “Look,” Dakota said, “I’m sorry you had to get involved. Just forget about it, okay?”

  I shook my head. “Let me get this straight. Someone just shot at you. And—”

  “Someone shot at my truck. I told you. Big difference.”

  “And it’s not the first time. And you want me to pretend nothing has happened.”

  “There are only five games left before playoffs,” he said. “If people find out about this, there will be police and newspaper reporters. I just want to be left alone so I can play hockey.”

  “Are the people who shot at you going to leave you alone?”

  “ The people shot at my truck. Remember?”

  “You’re insane. What if you’re in your truck next time they shoot?” I kicked the front tire.

  He grinned when I started hopping around and yelling at my foot. It felt like I had broken a couple of toes.

  “Mike,” he said, “I like you. Do me a favor and don’t worry about this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because after next Sunday, there won’t be a reason for anyone to get in my face anymore.”

  I stared at him. “Sure,” I finally promised.

  “I won’t worry about this.”

  “Or tell anyone.”

  “Sure.” At least this promise would be easier to keep than the first one. I was used to not telling people things.

  Dakota dug his truck keys from his pocket. Walking around the front of the truck, he opened the door on the driver’s side. He dusted the broken glass off the seat before sliding behind the steering wheel.

  I kept staring at him. This was an unbelievable situation. It sounded like he knew exactly who had shot at him.

  What was going on? Why were they shooting at him? Why didn’t he go crazy about it? And how did he know when it was going to end?

  I realized I’d already broken my first promise by beginning to worry about him.

  As Dakota started his truck, the exhaust pipe burped a cloud of blue smoke. He drove off, leaving me to stare at the back of his beat-up green truck.

  The brake lights came on. Then the reverse lights. He backed up until he was beside me. He rolled down his window and leaned on the door as he looked at me.

  “Mike,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You might want to remember we landed in a puddle when I dove into you.”

  “I remember.” I was soaked pretty good because of it.

  “Well, you should change your pants,” he said. “You look like you wet yourself.”

  With a grin, he drove away.

  chapter five

  The next day we had a game against the Winter Hawks in Portland. The bus was scheduled to leave the rink at two o’clock in the afternoon. I got there early and parked my car—an old, rusty, gray Toyota Corolla— near the cars of the other guys who had arrived ahead of me.

  As I waited with them next to the team bus, I kept watching for Dakota’s green truck to come chugging into the parking lot. I was worried about him, and I hoped nothing had happened to him overnight. It got to the point where I almost told Coach Nesbitt about the bullet holes, but I remembered my promise to Dakota and managed to keep my mouth shut.

  When Dakota finally arrived, I took a deep breath. He parked the truck away from the rest of the players’ cars and nodded at me as he joined us.

  When something else grabbed Dakota’s attention, I took a good look at his truck.

  No new bullet holes.

  That, at least, was good news, even if I was going nuts trying to figure out what was happening to him. The night before, while falling asleep, I’d even wondered if Dakota were part of a drug ring or something. After all, maybe he didn’t want to go to the police because he was more scared of the police than of the guys shooting at him.

  I had stared at the ceiling, though, and told myself that
there had to be another reason. Dakota wasn’t the kind of guy to do anything stupid. But I couldn’t come up with any other reason for what was happening.

  At exactly two o’clock, Coach Nesbitt waved us onto the bus. Dakota took his usual seat near the front, and as usual he opened up a book. It seemed like he didn’t want to talk to me, so I sat in the back of the bus with a couple of guys who always sat back there and listened to all the same dumb jokes we told on every bus trip.

  A few hours later, we crossed the Columbia River and hit the outside suburbs of Portland.

  The mood in the bus changed as we began to think about the game ahead of us.

  We wanted to win for a bunch of reasons. Every game we played this late in the season was important. Although we were in first place and were guaranteed to finish as one of the top three teams, we didn’t want to get into a losing streak as the playoffs approached.

  As well, it made a big difference to us whether we finished first, second or third. If we finished at the top of the overall standings, we could expect to play the weakest team in our first-round playoff games. The easier our first round of playoff games, the better we would do as the playoffs continued. On the other hand, finishing second or third would give us much tougher opponents once the playoffs started.

  Finally, there was the traditional rivalry against Portland. Even though I was a new player to the team, I’d heard a lot about the rivalry when I played for other teams in the WHL. This rivalry meant that even if Seattle was in last place instead of first place, we would still hate to lose to Portland—almost as much as they hated losing to us. Knowing Portland hated losing to us, of course, made it that much sweeter to beat them. Especially in their own building.

  The game started off slowly. The Winter Hawks kept dumping the puck into our end and chasing it. Our defense safely moved the puck up along the boards, and we forwards dumped the puck into the Winter Hawks’ end and chased it.

  Back and forth. Back and forth. Our end, then theirs. To the fans, it was probably like watching a Ping-Pong ball instead of a puck.

  Zero to zero at the end of the first.

  Two to two at the end of the second.

  Midway through the third period, our line—me, Dakota Smith and Randy Kowerski—stepped onto the ice. We did a good job of forechecking the Winter Hawks, and it took them nearly a minute to get the puck out of their zone.

  Randy chased their center, who was taking the puck across center ice. Sweeping his stick in a big circle, Randy tried to knock the puck off their center’s stick. The Winter Hawks center stepped on the blade of Randy’s stick and fell to his knees.

  The puck squirted to me. I had open ice and saw a good chance to bust past their defenseman. But as soon as I touched the puck, the referee blew his whistle.

  “What!” I screamed.

  The referee didn’t answer. He pointed at Randy Kowerski and motioned a tripping penalty.

  “What?” I yelled again. “Bad call, ref!” I skated toward him. Normally only the captain or assistant captains can talk to the ref. But this ref had not only called a dumb penalty, he’d also stopped me from a good scoring chance.

  People in the stands booed me. I ignored them. I’d been booed plenty before.

  “Really bad call, ref!” I yelled at the ref’s back and shoulders as I tried to catch up. “That guy stepped on Randy’s stick!”

  The referee didn’t look my way. Maybe I hadn’t yelled loud enough. After all, this crowd was raising the roof of the building with noise. Some of the fans were even standing to shake their fists at me as they booed.

  “Get thicker glasses, you blind bat!” I shouted. “There’re two teams out here! Not just ours!”

  The referee still ignored me.

  “Hey, ref!” I screamed.

  He finally started skating back toward me.

  “Yeah, you!” I shouted. “You’re the biggest idio—”

  Before I could finish telling him what I thought of his lack of brain power, Dakota yanked me backward. I almost fell.

  I was still trying to pull myself loose from Dakota’s grip when the referee reached me.

  He stuck his head close to mine. He had a goofy big nose and eyes that looked like marbles behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

  “Keats, did you have something to say?” the ref asked. His voice was low and angry.

  “I sure did,” I said. “Do you have a driver’s license?”

  He frowned. “Yes.”

  “Be careful out there. Because blind people—”

  I nearly choked on the fingers of the hockey glove Dakota suddenly shoved into my mouth.

  “He has often told me the same, sir,” Dakota said to the referee as he pushed the glove deeper into my throat. “My teammate feels much sympathy for the visually challenged. I will remind him, however, that a hockey game is not the time or place for this type of discussion.”

  The referee stared at Dakota, trying to figure out if he was serious. I couldn’t see Dakota’s face, because I was too busy trying to get my mouth unstuffed.

  The referee looked at me. “Mgghhhffthh,” I said. It is hard to say “idiot” when your tongue can’t move.

  Finally the referee shook his head in disgust at the both of us and skated away.

  Dakota took his glove out of my mouth.

  “Visually challenged?” I gasped, trying to get air. Fans kept booing me. “Visually challenged! What kind of thing is that to say!”

  “It means blind,” Dakota said. “And we don’t need you to get us another penalty for yelling at the referee.”

  I spit out tiny pieces of leather. I drew a breath to tell Dakota what I thought of him minding my business.

  “Settle down, Mike,” he warned. “Learn to adjust to the situation instead of letting the situation control you.”

  I stared into his dark eyes. He didn’t flinch or look away. Finally I nodded. Slowly.

  Dakota grinned. “Now, let’s get serious about killing this penalty.”

  chapter six

  There were four of us against five Winter Hawks skaters.

  They pressed us hard for the first minute of the penalty, taking at least seven good shots on our goalie.

  The puck slid behind our net. Their right winger chased it hard. I followed him partway but hung back in case he decided to pass it to their defenseman.

  The right winger took the puck out the other side, so I drifted even closer to the Winter Hawks defenseman on my side of the ice. I needed to guard him so he wouldn’t be able to take a clear shot at the net.

  Their right winger passed the puck up the boards to the defenseman, Eric Smedley, on the other side of the ice.

  I got ready and watched Smedley closely. He was a big mean player with braces on his teeth. He liked to throw his elbows into any face within reach. That made him a hard guy to forget.

  Earlier in the game, I had noticed something else about Smedley: Whenever he was going to pass the puck one way, he’d first fake a pass the other way.

  He had the puck now, high near our blue line. Dakota, on the other side of the ice, cruised toward Smedley. Dakota didn’t commit himself to rushing at Smedley, because Smedley could easily pass the puck down the boards into our corner. Or he could pass across to the other defenseman or take a shot at the net. No way could Dakota cover all three options.

  Dakota moved closer. Smedley made the little stick move to fake a pass back down the boards into our corner. If I was right, that meant he was going to pass across to the defenseman on my side.

  I acted on instinct, hoping I’d guessed right.

  I jumped forward, diving flat on my belly for the open ice between both defensemen. If I’d guessed wrong, I was dead. My dive would take me out of the play, leaving my side of the ice totally unguarded. It was such a risky play, I was probably going to get in trouble even if it worked.

  But I’m used to being in trouble.

  I dove, stretching my stick flat on the ice as far ahead of me as I could
reach.

  I’d guessed right. Smedley ended his fake pass with a pass to the defenseman on my side of the ice.

  I still wasn’t safe though. If Smedley flipped the puck into the air, over my stretched-out stick, I would be as dead as if I’d guessed wrong.

  But he passed the puck flat on the ice. It smacked my stick and rolled away from my sliding face.

  My first goal had been to block the pass. That’s all. Stop the play and get the puck out past our blue line into the safety of center ice.

  Now I saw a new chance. The puck was bouncing ahead of me. If I could get to my feet fast enough...

  Smedley was racing toward me to make up for his mistake.

  I was already scrambling onto my knees, knocking the puck well ahead of both of us with the blade of my stick.

  As Smedley reached me, I was on my skates, busting for the puck.

  There were seven skaters behind us at the far end. Only their goalie was ahead of us. The one thing in all that open ice was a small black puck, wobbling on the center line, waiting like a reward.

  Shorter legs like mine usually mean faster legs, at least in sprinting. My skates were a blur, and I slowly edged away from Smedley. I got the puck on my stick and put my head down to get extra speed. But I couldn’t relax. Too soon Smedley with his longer legs would start to catch me. I crossed the blue line and reached the top of the face-off circles. I felt Smedley’s stick hook around my waist.

  The goalie braced himself in the net. Twice tonight I’d had good chances in close, and twice I’d tried stickhandling around him. Did he think I’d try a shot this time?

  Smedley was almost on me. I didn’t have time to worry. I snapped a low screamer, aiming for the goalie’s glove side, hoping he’d have a tough time reaching down for it.

  I caught him by surprise. The red light behind the net flipped on as the net behind the goalie bulged from the force of the puck. Three to two for us!

  The Winter Hawks crowd moaned.

  I raised my hands in victory and skated back to the players’ box.

  Dakota skated alongside me. “A little more fun than watching the game from the penalty box?”