Line Change

by W. C. Mack

  Great.

  “A pinch,” I told her, frowning.

  “A smidge,” she said, ruffling my hair. “You’ll get there.”

  “When I’m eighty?”

  “Look at your sister,” Mum said, with a shrug.

  Sure, Wendy was hoping she wouldn’t hit six feet before she graduated from high school, but she’d never had to wait for a growth spurt. She’d been tall all along.

  It wasn’t fair.

  At that moment, the doorbell rang and Wendy ran to answer it, which meant it had to be Shane. As I carried my tray of snacks into the living room, I ignored the slurpy kissing noises.

  Gross.

  “Ready?” Dad asked, as I put the tray on the coffee table and flopped onto my favourite side of the couch.

  “Definitely,” I told him, grinning. I loved watching games with Dad because we both got totally into it.

  Sometimes we cheered, sometimes we screamed, and sometimes we even ended up rolling on the floor and kicking our feet.

  What can I say? We were fans.

  Just as I grabbed a handful of popcorn, Wendy and Shane walked in.

  “Hockey game, Mr. McDonald?” Shane asked.

  Duh.

  “We’re about to destroy Colorado,” I told him.

  “How are things going with the coaching?” Shane asked, totally ignoring me.

  Bosko told me he ignored almost everybody.

  Except Wendy.

  “Pretty well, I think,” Dad said.

  “Cool,” Shane said, nodding. “My little brother’s digging it.” I almost laughed, amazed to hear anyone call the only kid in grade six with a mustache “little.”

  “Do you two want to join us?” Dad asked, starting to make room on the couch.

  “No way,” Wendy said, rolling her eyes.

  “Thanks, anyway,” Shane said. “I’m not much of a hockey fan.”

  “That’s right,” Dad nodded. “You’re a rugby guy.”

  “No pads,” Shane shrugged, like that made him some kind of a superhero. “No helmets.”

  “No brains,” I muttered.

  “What did you just say?” Wendy asked.

  I could tell by the look in her eyes that if she couldn’t pin me right then, she’d definitely do it later.

  “Nothing,” I said, shoving a handful of popcorn past my lips.

  Mum might have thought snacks would be the death of me, but that night a mouthful probably saved my life.

  Chapter Ten

  On Monday morning, I woke up for practice with a huge smile. Our big win guaranteed that my teammates would be on board with Dad’s coaching, my own four goals were a career high for me, and I was ahead of Bosko by a goal.

  Nugget McDonald takes the lead!

  Awesome?

  Oh, yeah.

  I sang to myself in the shower, but very quietly, so I wouldn’t wake Wendy up. I didn’t need a perfectly good morning ruined by the crabbiest teenager on the planet.

  As I dried off and got dressed, I cut the singing back to humming.

  Practice was going to be just like I imagined, with me and Dad as joint heroes.

  Never mind the fact that all of my homework was done. I’d understood every bit of my Math assignment (except for three of the questions, but still) and I’d finished the book we were reading for English class a whole week early.

  Mrs. Foster had continued to freak out every time I raised my hand to answer her questions in class. It should have gotten old by then, but she was still surprised that I’d turned my study habits around.

  I was amazed how much I liked reading now, and not just hockey books. The one we’d been reading in class was about a kid who had to choose between his two best friends, who were going in totally different directions.

  When I thought about how things had been going between Dad and the Cougars, I could totally “identify,” as Mrs. Foster would say. But luckily I wasn’t like the kid in the book. Thanks to the weekend win, I didn’t have to choose sides.

  We were all on the same team again.

  I joined Dad in the kitchen, where a plate of toast was waiting for me.

  “Hot diggity,” I said, smothering a slice with peanut butter.

  “How did you sleep?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

  “Good. I had a dream that me and Jean Ducette won the Stanley Cup.”

  Dad laughed. “I wouldn’t have wanted to wake up from that one.”

  “Me neither,” I said, taking a bite of my toast. It was kind of burnt, but the peanut butter covered up the taste a bit. “It’s easier to get up on practice days, though.”

  Dad loaded the dishwasher and wiped the counters while I ate.

  “Did you already have breakfast?” I asked him.

  “I’m not feeling hungry,” he said.

  For the first time, I noticed he had bags under his eyes.

  “How did you sleep?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know,” he said, with a shrug. “I tossed and turned a bit, thinking about what that coach said.”

  “Geez, Dad, you can’t let it get to you. The guy was just mad his team was losing.”

  Losing big.

  No, make that huge.

  “I know, but —”

  “Seriously, Dad. He wanted to psych you out, and it worked.” I shoved the last bite of toast into my mouth and chased it down with a huge gulp of milk. I rinsed off my dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then headed for the mudroom.

  “Don’t worry about your gear,” Dad said.

  “Thanks,” I said, figuring he must have loaded it into the van already. “I could have carried it out, Dad.”

  “It’s still in the mudroom,” he said. “I meant don’t worry about bringing it.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach.

  “You won’t need it today.”

  I stared at him. “Dad, we’re leaving for practice in like, two minutes.”

  “I know,” he said, laughing. “Are you awake yet, Nugget? I’m saying you don’t need gear for today’s practice. Just wear what you have on and make sure you grab some running shoes.”

  I couldn’t be hearing him right.

  “What about my stick?”

  “Leave it.”

  Leave it?

  My stick? The tool of my trade?

  He disappeared out to the garage and I was left standing there, with my stomach sinking even deeper.

  How were we supposed to have a hockey practice with no pads, no skates, and no sticks?

  When he came back, I knew I had to say something.

  “Dad, I know you have a plan and everything, but the guys aren’t going to go along with this.”

  He laughed. “Of course they are. Do you think they will have forgotten about Saturday’s win already?”

  “Um, I’m pretty sure we would have won that game no matter what.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “I’m just going to do what I can to keep the streak going, Nugget.”

  “Seriously, Dad. A hockey practice without gear is like … not a hockey practice.”

  “Trust me, son,” he said.

  And I wanted to.

  But the guys wouldn’t trust him at all.

  * * *

  It turned out that Mum got the phone tree started the night before, calling Mrs. Bechter to tell her no one needed gear for practice. She called Mrs. Cavanaugh, who called Mrs. Chen, and on it went down the alphabetical list until everyone knew we wouldn’t be on the ice the next morning.

  And that meant instead of dropping the guys off and leaving, a couple of the mums hung around to see what was going on.

  Instead of heading straight for the locker room, I listened in from the hallway.

  “The boys will be running,” Dad explained.

  “Running where?” Mrs. Simpson asked.

  “Out there,” Dad said, pointing outside. “The fair streets of Cutter Bay.”

  “But they�
��re meant to be skating,” Mrs. Fullerton said. “This is hockey practice, not track and field.”

  “It’s all part of training,” Dad said, smiling. “These boys are great on the ice. Their puck handling is exceptional, they shoot well, and their speed is great. Doing some work off the ice will only make them stronger on it.”

  “Okay,” Mrs. Simpson said, sounding doubtful. “But my husband wanted me to point out that we’re paying for ice time.”

  “And that isn’t cheap,” Mrs. Fullerton added.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Dad agreed, nodding. “I traded our time with another team for today. We’ll get an extra hour of ice at the next practice. It’ll be an early morning on Wednesday, but we’ll get our time in.”

  Two hours on the ice? Cool! I couldn’t help grinning. Maybe Dad had a good plan after all.

  “I see,” Mrs. Simpson said, glancing at Mrs. Fullerton, who nodded. “Well, that sounds perfectly reasonable. My husband will be glad to hear it.” She smiled. “He was pretty worked up about it last night.”

  “Mine too,” Mrs. Fullerton said. “I’ll pass it on.”

  * * *

  “A run?” Kenny gasped, when I broke the news in the locker room. “But —”

  “This is hockey,” Jeff interrupted. “Not gym class.”

  It was exactly what I’d been trying to tell Dad at the house. “But it’s going to help us.”

  “Has your dad gone totally nuts?” Colin asked.

  I didn’t know what to say. Half the time, I was wondering the same thing and I wished we could just go back to the way Coach O’Neal ran practice. And the other half of the time I didn’t want to go against my own dad in front of the guys. And of course a two-hour practice would be awesome.

  “He’s not nuts,” I told them. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  “It doesn’t seem like it,” Jeff said, through a hunk of beef jerky.

  “Did you guys already forget that we won our last game?” I asked, trying to use Dad’s logic.

  “We would have won anyway,” Jeff said.

  “But maybe not by as many points,” I reminded him.

  “It was a record high,” Patrick said.

  Thank you!

  “A win is a win,” Jeff said. “We didn’t beat those guys because we jumped up and down at the last practice.”

  Since Dad was showing no sign of going back to the way things were, I knew I had to get the guys to support him. “Look, my dad has bigger plans for us.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Colin asked.

  “He’s thinking long term, like winning the championship,” I said. “You guys only care about the next game.”

  “Yeah, but if we don’t think about the next game, we definitely won’t need to think about the championship.” Jeff snorted and his beef jerky fell on the floor. He picked it up and muttered “two-second rule” as he shoved it back into his mouth.

  “He’s got a bunch of ideas,” I told the guys, hoping to convince them to give Dad a chance. “He’s going to be moving us around and —”

  “Moving us around what?” Colin asked, suspiciously.

  “You know, changing positions and —”

  “Changing positions?” Kenny practically screamed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why didn’t you tell any of us?” Colin asked.

  Nuts!

  “I’m not changing positions,” Jeff said.

  “Me neither,” Colin agreed. “That’s stupid.”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” Chris said, practically drooling at the idea of getting out of goal.

  “Did you tell him it was a bad idea, Nugget?” Kenny asked.

  “Yeah … I mean, I tried to, but … look, you’re not listening to me,” I said, getting frustrated. “The whole point is Dad wants us to have a great season, not just a great game.”

  “Then he should let us practice and play. The same way we have for our whole stinkin’ lives,” Jeff said.

  “Yeah,” Kenny sighed. “Changing positions? That’s crazy.”

  I wanted to elbow him hard. He was supposed to back me up. “Come on, you guys,” I said. “I know it’s weird to be doing stuff differently, but —”

  “It’s two minutes to six,” Bedhead said, finally waking up. “Practice is starting.”

  “No,” Jeff said. “Running is starting.”

  “Huh?” Bedhead grunted.

  I guess his branch of the phone tree had broken off. He was the only guy in uniform.

  Colin double-knotted his shoelaces. “You know, it’s pretty awesome that we all got up at five this morning to play hockey, and now we’re going to be wasting our practice time pounding the pavement instead.” He looked at the other guys before his eyes settled on me. “And somehow that’s going to win us the championship?”

  “Well, yeah,” I said, shrugging. “I mean, it’s training, right?”

  “I could run at home,” Colin snapped.

  “Do you?” Bosko asked, from his spot in the corner.

  “Do I what?”

  “Run at home,” Bosko said, giving him the stare-down.

  It worked as well on Colin as it did on me, and all he could say was. “Well … no.”

  “So, what’s your point?”

  Colin’s face turned red. “What’s my … what’s … what’s your point, Bosko?”

  “My point,” Bosko said, in that deep voice, “is that when Coach says run —”

  “We run?” Chris asked.

  “Bingo,” Bosko said.

  Since everybody respected Bosko (a lot more than they respected me!), that ended the conversation and I didn’t even hear any grumbling when they left in groups of two and three to meet Dad by the rink.

  When it was down to just me and Bosko in the locker room, I felt like I had to say something. “Thanks for standing up for my dad. I mean, his practice ideas and all that.”

  Bosko shrugged. “I trust him. The guy almost went pro, so obviously he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Yeah,” I nodded.

  “You should be backing him up, Nugget.”

  What?

  “I have been,” I told him. Wasn’t he listening the whole time I tried to convince the guys?

  “Not just in your head,” he said, giving me that look. “Why should any of them trust what he says if his own kid doesn’t?”

  “Didn’t you hear me? I was trying to tell them —”

  “Not trying very hard,” he said.

  I sighed.

  He was probably right.

  Why did he always have to be right?

  Geez, the guy was the same age as me, but he had to be a stinkin’ genius about everything.

  I wanted to be the guy who knew something for a change, so I said, “Well, I think it’s cool that Dad’s gonna mix the guys up a bit. You know, shuffle things around to try out some new combinations.” Of course, he hadn’t told me what those combinations were, but Bosko didn’t know that.

  “It’s a good idea,” Bosko said, nodding. “Fullerton would probably be better on defense, and I could see Colin covering goal.”

  “Really?” I was so used to everyone playing the same positions since we were five, it was hard to imagine any changes.

  “I’m sure your dad has a plan,” he said. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  “I know,” I told him, kind of ticked off. I was supposed to be the one telling him that Dad knew what he was doing.

  Of course, I wasn’t so sure about that, ten minutes into our run, when all I wanted to do was puke toast.

  And twenty minutes later, when I actually did.

  “Sorry, kiddo,” Dad said, jogging in place next to me. “We’ll just do cereal or something next time.”

  Great.

  And things only got worse when we got back to the rink, all exhausted and sweaty.

  We limped inside and headed straight for the ice to check out the other team’s practice. All I saw was pink, pink and more pink. Even the puck w
as pink.

  “No way,” Kenny gasped. “Your dad gave our ice time to the Glitter?”

  He was the only guy who could speak. The rest of the team just stared with their mouths hanging open.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Colin finally muttered as a bunch of seven-year-old girls gobbled up our ice time.

  * * *

  I hate to say that the miserable “practice” ended up being the highlight of my day, but it was pretty close.

  Sure, things went okay during gym class, when we played floor hockey, and the girls stopped yakking for long enough for Angela Fisker to make the best goal of the game. What a shot! She was so good, the Cougars could have used her.

  And yes, it was nice when Mrs. Foster said my questions during English class showed “a surprisingly good understanding of the material.”

  But, as usual, Mr. Holloway’s Math class brought the whole day screeching to a halt, like Wendy slamming on the minivan brakes.

  I was in the middle of an awesome daydream about the Cougars winning the championship and Dad being voted Coach of the Year. I could practically see him lifting the trophy toward a cheering crowd and I guess I didn’t hear Mr. Holloway over the imaginary fans.

  But I heard the snickering around me.

  “Mr. McDonald, please join us,” Mr. Holloway said.

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “In body, perhaps, but your mind seems to be travelling the globe. Please join me at the board,” he said, waiting for me at the front of the classroom.

  He’d probably said that six or seven thousand times since the school year started, and it was only November.

  I was pretty sure I spent more time next to the board than the chalk did.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Hadn’t I already completed his Math hat trick last month?

  Wasn’t I already doing exactly what he needed me to do to pass the class?

  He knew Bosko was tutoring me, he knew I worked almost as hard at Math as I did at hockey, and I guess he knew I wasn’t an expert yet, because he called me to the board during almost every single class.

  I tried not to psych myself out as I stood up.

  Bosko gave me five on my way past his desk. “You can do it,” he whispered.

  I didn’t even know what “it” was yet, but I nodded like I believed him.

  I had to believe him.

  I could do this!

  When I got up to the board, Mr. Holloway handed me a piece of chalk, then started throwing out numbers, names, and a whole bunch of extra junk.