by W. C. Mack
“I heard what you said, Nugget,” she snapped, looking at me like I was nuts. “What if someone calls me?”
“They’ll leave a message.” It seemed simple enough.
She rolled her eyes. “You are such a tool.”
“I’m not a —”
“There’s no way I’m leaving without my phone,” she said, storming back into the house. “Thanks a lot.”
I took some more shots, checking the street behind me for Dad every couple of minutes.
When he finally pulled up and got out of the car, I followed him into the house, carrying my stick.
“How was school?” he asked.
“Not bad,” I told him, even though Math had kind of ruined the rest of the day for me.
“Just not bad?” he asked, chuckling. “Well, anything would be a letdown after practice, right?” He held the door for me and smiled.
“Uh … sure.”
“You know, I had a great time this morning,” he said, leaving his briefcase by the door and hanging up his coat.
“Um, Dad —”
“So,” Mum said, appearing in the kitchen doorway. “How did it go?”
“Terrific,” he said. “It was so nice to be back on the ice. I’d almost forgotten how much I loved practice back in the day.”
I tried to butt in. “Dad, the guys were —”
“Fantastic,” he finished for me. “They really worked hard and it felt great to be giving them guidance.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mum said, smiling. “I was a bit worried, but it sounds like you were in your element.”
“Definitely,” Dad said, then looked at me. “The old man’s got some tricks up his sleeve, eh, Nugget?”
“Yeah,” I said, then cleared my throat, ready to say my piece. “The drills were good and everything, but the guys are kind of used to having a scrimmage at the end of practice.”
“Sure,” he said, loosening his tie and heading for the stairs. “Everyone loves a scrimmage.”
“Right, and they love it at every practice. Since we didn’t get to have one today —”
“We’ll try to squeeze one in on Wednesday,” he said, climbing the stairs. “Like I told the guys already.”
Squeeze one in?
That sounded even less likely than fitting one in, which I was sure he’d said that morning.
No, squeezing didn’t sound good at all.
I sighed and when I turned to go into the kitchen, Mum was still standing in the doorway, watching me.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Sure,” I told her.
“The guys were happy with Dad coaching?”
“Uh-huh,” I nodded. It was at least partly true.
“Good, because I just got off the phone with Mrs. O’Neal. Coach is going to need surgery.”
“What?” I choked.
“He’s probably out for a while.”
Chapter Five
On Wednesday morning, for the first time in my entire life, I wasn’t excited about practice. Sure, I was looking forward to getting out on the ice, since it was my favourite place on the whole planet, but I was feeling kind of weird about Dad coaching.
I just wanted the guys to like him and understand that there was a method to his madness. I didn’t know exactly what that method was, but I had to believe he knew what he was doing.
At the same time, I wanted Dad to remember that Coach O’Neal had a system of his own, and that me and the guys were used to doing things a certain way.
An awesome way that already worked for us.
When my alarm went off, I stayed under the blankets for a couple of minutes. Just before I rolled out of bed, I decided that I’d have to be the one to keep things on track between Dad and the team. I’d step in when the guys were getting annoyed and I’d speak up when Dad was heading in the wrong direction.
I didn’t have to choose a side or anything.
We were a team, and teams didn’t have sides.
Once I was showered and dressed, I went downstairs, hoping Dad was a little more on the ball than he’d been on Monday morning.
The hoping paid off.
There were glasses of orange juice on the table, along with toasted bagels and every kind of spread Mum kept in the pantry.
“Morning,” Dad said, as he bagged my sandwich for school.
“Morning,” I said, sitting in my favourite chair.
I loaded up my bagel with peanut butter and honey, the ultimate combination of salty and sweet. My mouth was watering before I even took the first bite.
“I’m thinking plyometrics today,” Dad said, joining me at the table with a cup of coffee.
“Plyo-what?” I asked, stopping the bagel halfway to my mouth.
“Strength and speed training,” he explained.
“Cool,” I nodded, lifting the bagel closer.
“Jumping rope, stairs —”
“What?” I asked, my mouth suddenly going dry.
What was he talking about?
“I was doing some online research last night and put together a nice set of exercises for the guys.”
“Jumping rope?” I could barely say the words.
“Don’t look so surprised. A lot of hockey training is done off the ice.”
Not ours!
My brain was racing so fast I had to wait a second or two for my mouth to catch up. “Sure, during the off season, but —”
“During the season too.”
“Dad,” I said, feeling sick to my stomach. How was he going to convince the guys that we should spend our ice time jumping rope? And how was I supposed to convince them that he wasn’t a lunatic? “I don’t think the guys will be into that.”
“Plyometrics? Nugget, I guarantee that every NHL team does this stuff.”
“But Dad —”
“You won’t believe the results.”
And he probably wouldn’t believe the reaction.
I practically dragged my gear to the van, and on the drive to the rink I barely said anything.
I mean, what could I say?
* * *
When I walked down the hallway toward the locker room, I heard Colin say, “Man, we better scrimmage today.”
“Tell me about it,” Jeff said. “What’s the point of practising if we don’t play?”
“Exactly,” Colin said.
Oh, brother.
I walked into the room.
“Nugget.” Colin glanced at me as he zipped up his bag. “Tell me you talked some sense into your dad.”
All the other guys turned to stare at me (except for Bosko, who was lacing his skates).
“Uh —”
Before I could say anything, Dad was suddenly standing next to me. I didn’t know he’d followed me in.
Had he heard Colin and Jeff?
“Skip the skates, guys,” Dad said. “Meet me next to the rink in your running shoes.”
He was gone in a flash, and when I turned around to face the guys, they all looked as stunned as I was.
“What’s that about, Nugget?” Colin asked.
“Yeah,” Kenny said, patting down his cowlick. “That didn’t even make sense.”
“Did he say running shoes?” Bedhead asked, still groggy from sleep.
“Uh, yeah.” I dropped my bag on the bench. All I had to do was keep things running smoothly, and I could handle that. “He’s got some really cool ideas for speed and strength training,” I said, hoping that was enough.
And that it was true.
After all, I had some pretty serious doubts about the jump rope.
“But we’re already fast,” Colin said, shrugging.
“And strong,” Jeff added.
“Well, there’s always room for improvement,” I said, opening my bag.
I put on all of my gear, except for the skates, and the whole time I was doing it nobody said a word.
“Ready?” I asked, when I’d finished re-tying my shoelaces.
“This is nut
s,” Colin said.
“It isn’t, Col,” I said, as firmly as I could. “I swear.”
I led the team out toward the rink, and they were all walking at half speed or less, grunting and groaning the whole way.
When we reached Dad, I saw that he had cones spread out around the concession area.
“Okay, guys,” he said, with a quick blast of the whistle. “It’s time for some plyometrics.”
“Some what?” Kenny asked.
“Plyometrics,” Dad said.
All of the faces were still blank.
Every face but Eddie Bosko’s, anyway.
“Cool,” he said, shrugging as he walked over to a cone and stood next to it. “We used to do this stuff on the Sharks.”
“You did?” Bedhead asked.
“Yeah. It really helps.”
Yes! Thank you, Bosko!
A couple of the guys started whispering, and I hoped Bosko’s opinion mattered as much as I thought it did.
When the whispering built to a kind of excited buzz, Dad’s smile was huge, but only for a second before he got back to business with the whistle.
“Everybody stand next to a cone, just like Bosko.”
We all scrambled to find places and waited for more.
“Do you think we’ll scrimmage today?” Kenny whispered from next to me.
“Probably,” I told him, crossing my fingers as I thought about “squeezing it in.”
Dad got us to do a bunch of stretches, just like Coach always did, and I started to think things were going to be more normal than I expected.
But they weren’t.
“Okay, I want you to jump over your cone,” Dad said.
Kenny leaped into the air, like a hurdler, and landed with the cone behind him. He pumped a fist and hissed, “Yes!”
“I meant with both feet,” Dad said.
“Huh?” Kenny asked, his jaw dropping. “At the same time?”
“I’ll show you,” Dad said. He stood in front of a cone with his knees bent. He took a breath and swung his whole body straight up, tucking his knees into his chest.
It looked … totally nuts.
“Seriously, Mr. McDonald?” Colin said.
“Yup,” Dad said. “I want you boys to get some vertical height going, keeping your knees high.”
It might have been crazy, but it looked easy enough.
I was wrong.
When I tried, I could only get halfway to the top of the cone.
“Maybe Nugget needs a mini-cone,” Colin said, laughing.
“Nope,” Dad said, shaking his head. “We’re all in this together.”
So much for favouritism.
“Every time I blow the whistle, you jump,” Dad said.
And just like that, the torture began.
I watched for a few seconds, seeing Bedhead get some pretty good height while Kenny tripped and fell over.
I got started and by the fifth try, I was clearing the cone, but panting for breath. By the tenth whistle, my legs were already burning.
Why did we have to wear all of our gear for this?
By fifteen jumps, I could taste the sweat above my lip.
It was killing me, but I saw Bosko jumping smoothly, like he was born doing it. Sure, he was shiny with sweat too, but he was making it look easy.
That meant I had to step it up. With a grunt, I jumped again. And again. And again.
When we finally finished, after thirty jumps, Kenny and Jeff both lay down on the floor, gasping for breath.
Colin was doubled over and Patrick was wincing as he held the cramp in his side.
Bosko and I made eye contact and I could see that he was breathing almost as hard as I was.
“Okay, next up is the bench,” Dad said, blowing his whistle again.
“Cool!” Kenny said, between gasps for air. “I’ll get my skates.”
“Not that bench,” Dad said.
Nuts!
He pointed to the giant step where fans sat behind the goal. “That one.”
He lined us up on top of the step, then explained that we were supposed to drop down to ground level, then jump back onto the step, with both feet.
“I can’t jump anymore,” Kenny whispered to me.
“It’ll be fine,” I told him, but I wasn’t so sure. My legs were still shaking from round one.
“What does this have to do with hockey?” Jeff asked, in something dangerously close to a whine.
“Everything,” Bosko said, quietly.
Most of the grumbling stopped. And so did the fun, as a matter of fact. Especially when the jump rope action started.
For the next forty-five minutes, the Cutter Bay Cougars did everything but play hockey.
And for the first time ever, I couldn’t wait for practice to end.
Chapter Six
The last couple of days of the school week felt like two whole centuries.
Sure, we played floor hockey in gym, which was awesome, and yes, my oral report for English class went so well Mrs. Foster had tears in her eyes (or maybe an eyelash was stuck in there), but everything else was a drag.
We were still stuck on a Geography segment in Socials, and Math was seriously starting to hurt my brain.
“I think you’re making this stuff seem harder than it is,” Bosko said, as we sat down for our Friday afternoon tutoring session at my house.
He grabbed one of Mum’s brownies from the heaping plate she’d left for us and took a big bite.
She didn’t usually let me have more than a couple of treats, but when Bosko came over, she was all about the snacks.
I loved it.
“Why would I do that?” I asked, licking the warm icing off of mine.
Bosko stared at me. “That’s what I’m asking you.”
“Look, it is hard. All I want to do is pass. You already know that.”
He shook his head as he chewed. “You should want to do more than just pass. You know you can do better.”
“Not with statistics in the mix,” I sighed.
“Okay, that’s what I’m talking about,” he said, through a mouthful of brownie. “You’re psyching yourself out.”
I picked up another brownie and ate it in three bites.
Bosko ate his in two.
I grabbed another one and shoved it into my mouth whole.
Only one bite! Take that!
Unfortunately, I practically choked on the brownie and was in the middle of a huge gulp of milk just as Wendy walked into the room.
Great.
Bosko stopped chewing and his mouth hung open, like he needed air.
Like a flounder.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
Ever since Bosko fell in love with her and all that junk, we’d been scheduling our tutoring sessions at the library on the days she was home. That way, he wouldn’t get distracted.
And I wouldn’t puke.
“I live here, twerp,” Wendy said, reaching for one of the brownies.
Bosko practically fell out of his chair trying to hand her a napkin.
This was the gorilla who slammed kids into the boards and took no prisoners?
I just shook my head.
Why couldn’t he fall in love with Carrie Tanaka instead?
Or better yet, why couldn’t he see that girls were a waste of time, like the rest of us?
“How are things going with Shane?” Bosko asked, trying to act like he didn’t care that she was dating his brother.
“Good.”
He closed his eyes for a second like he was in pain.
It was my turn to shake my head.
“I’m coming over to your place tonight,” Wendy said. “We’re watching a movie.”
Bosko swallowed hard. “At my house?”
You’d think he’d just won a million dollars, not a night with a snotty teenager.
“Yeah. Shane asked me to give you a ride home when I go.”
“You and me?” Bosko asked.
I thought th
e guy’s heart might burst through his chest if he got any more excited.
“Yeah. Will you be ready to go in an hour?”
“We could go now, if you want to,” Bosko said.
“Thanks,” I told him. “I’m pretty sure we haven’t even started our session yet.”
Bosko glanced at me. “Right. Yeah, an hour would be cool.”
Wendy grabbed one more brownie and walked up the stairs.
Bosko watched her every step of the way.
Enough, already.
“I know we’ve kind of been through this before, but you’re wasting your time, Eddie.”
“Maybe,” he sighed. “Maybe not.”
“Okay, since we’re doing statistics, I’m going to tell you that a twelve-year-old guy has no chance with a sixteen-year-old girl. Especially that one.”
“You never know,” he said, reaching for another brownie.
“What about Carrie Tanaka? She likes you.”
He chewed slowly while he thought about it. “Yeah, and she’s cute and everything, you know?”
Actually, I didn’t know. None of them were “cute.”
“Uh-huh,” I lied.
“But it’s just not the same.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, so what is the same, is that Math is still killing me. Can we maybe get back to that, since the clock is ticking?”
I never thought I’d be begging Eddie Bosko to talk Math, but I couldn’t take the stinkin’ girl talk anymore.
We got down to business, and just like he always did, Bosko started to make sense of everything Mr. Holloway was talking about. Not perfect sense, but sense.
It was no surprise, considering my hulking hockey teammate was a bona fide Math champion. His “Meeting of the Math Minds” team had actually won at Nationals.
“Are you getting this?” he asked me, when our time was almost up.
“Yeah.”
He gave me one of his classic stare-downs. “Don’t just say yeah if you aren’t.”
“I’m not. I’m getting it.”
“Cool,” he said, patting his hair into place and glancing at the stairs.
Oh, brother.
Just then, Dad came in the front door, with his briefcase and a stack of magazines.
“Hey guys,” he said, leaving the briefcase on the floor and carrying the magazines over to us. “Check these out.”
When he put the stack on the table, I saw that they weren’t magazines at all. They were catalogues, packed with hockey training equipment.