The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 3

by Roy MacGregor

  Nish paused at the doorway, peeled off his drenched shirt and shook it, spraying water in the Owls’ direction without so much as turning around.

  His wet bathing suit had slipped down even further, his cheeks bulging above the elastic. He stuck his bum out, half-mooning the Owls.

  “I’M GONNA HURL!” howled Sam.

  Travis’s team was scheduled to play its third game in the Elite Division, this time against a spunky little side from Boston that had already beaten one of the better Canadian teams in the tournament. Muck and Data had “scouted” the Boston threesome in its previous game, and Muck asked the Owls’ top team, plus Jeremy, to show up early to go over a few points with him.

  Nish and Sarah carried their new equipment bags over their shoulders. Sarah had washed her jersey and socks and aired her equipment, and Travis could smell Fleecy fabric conditioner wafting up from her bag. Travis couldn’t think of many peewee players who actually washed their gear. He might “air out” his stuff once or twice, but most of the players here, he figured, wouldn’t even think to check their equipment from the day they arrived to the day they left. Still, it was such a pleasant change from Nish’s equipment, which usually smelled like a giant’s armpit whenever he unzipped it in the change room and dumped the damp, unwashed contents out in a huge pile. Nish, of course, had done nothing to his equipment, despite his threats. He’d only wanted to get his hands on the snow globe, which had also proved to be a huge disappointment.

  They took over a small dressing room at the far end of the corridor. Mr. Dillinger helped Travis collect his new equipment bag–with the number 7 sharp on both ends–from the locked storage section that had been assigned to the Owls, and when he came back to the room Nish was staring down at his freshly dumped equipment in total shock.

  No smell whatsoever.

  No stink, no crumpled, caked socks, no damp, sticking sweater, no rolls of shin-pad tape, no half-empty bottles of Gatorade, no candy-bar wrappers–nothing to identify this as the pride and joy of Wayne Nishikawa, number 44, Screech Owls.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Nish demanded.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Jeremy. “Your equipment bag’s open and I’m not gagging.”

  “It’s not my equipment!” Nish whined.

  “You’re number 44,” Travis said, gently kicking the end of the bag where Nish’s number was clearly stitched.

  “But look at the stuff!” Nish protested. “It’s all brand new!”

  Nish was right. New shin pads, new shoulder pads, new pants, new skates, new socks, new helmet, new gloves, new rolls of tape, garters, jock, everything.

  “It’s never been used,” said Jeremy.

  “That’s crazy!” said Nish. “That makes no sense.”

  “Wait a minute!” Travis interrupted. He had just thought of something. “Where’d you get the bag from?”

  “They gave them to us, remember?”

  “No, no, no–I mean, where’d you get it from when you picked it up to go back to the motel?”

  Nish looked puzzled. “Off the cart. Mr. Dillinger was just about to put them away, remember?”

  “Yeah, I do. But the Panthers were putting theirs away at the same time. You’re positive you got yours off the right cart?”

  “Yeah–I guess,” Nish said, but he didn’t sound very sure.

  “Mr. Dillinger’s still out there,” Jeremy said. “He’s setting up his skate sharpener.”

  “He’ll know,” suggested Travis. “Let’s go check with him.”

  They went into the corridor and down to the storage area, where Mr. Dillinger was already at work on a skate, a long spray of red-orange sparks shooting out from the blade as he expertly drew it along the spinning stone. Data was with him, lining up the skates as Mr. Dillinger finished sharpening them.

  Mr. Dillinger shut the sharpening machine off when he saw them and lifted his safety glasses, smiling.

  “We think Nish got the wrong bag,” Travis said.

  Mr. Dillinger chuckled. “Pretty hard to mistake Nish’s equipment for anyone else’s, isn’t it?”

  “Very funny,” Nish said. “I took it off the cart–but this is what I ended up with.”

  He tossed the equipment bag down in front of Mr. Dillinger, the brand-new shin pads sticking up through the opened zipper. Mr. Dillinger leaned over and drew a deep, contented breath, like a man taking the first smell of spring.

  “It isn’t Nish’s stuff–that I assure you,” Mr. Dillinger said.

  “Where’d my stuff go?” Nish asked.

  “Maybe it’s still on our cart,” suggested Jeremy.

  “That’s where I got this one,” Nish argued.

  “Maybe you took it from the Panthers’ cart. Don’t forget–they got new bags at the same time.”

  Mr. Dillinger considered a moment. “It’s possible,” he said. “Why don’t I just check our stuff to make sure.”

  He laid down the skate he’d been holding and fumbled in his pockets for a key chain. He picked out a shiny new key and headed back down to the storage locker. The others, including Data, followed.

  He worked the key quickly into the lock, opened up the gate, and entered. The three players followed him in. Mr. Dillinger pushed and pulled at various bags. He reached deep in the pile and tugged hard at one buried near the bottom. With a grunt he pulled it free.

  “There she be,” said Mr. Dillinger, moving aside so they could see a large white number 44 on one end.

  “Let me check,” said Nish, pushing his way through.

  He reached over and unzipped the bag. He breathed deep, imitating Mr. Dillinger, the smell like fresh-baked bread to him. “I’m home!” Nish announced.

  “Zip it up!” Mr. Dillinger said. “You’re peeling the paint off the walls!”

  Nish snorted and zipped his bag up. He threw it over his shoulder and bounced the weight happily. He had his equipment back.

  “Leave the other one with me,” said Mr. Dillinger. “I’ll be seeing the Panthers’ manager–they play right after you. I just hope they didn’t need it before this.”

  “It’s just extra equipment,” said Nish. “Brand new stuff just in case, I guess. They wouldn’t have needed it.”

  “Lucky for you, young man,” said Mr. Dillinger. “Lucky for you.”

  Nish was happily getting into his wretched equipment when Muck and Data arrived with Sarah. They all pushed into the little dressing room and Muck went over some last-minute reminders for the three players and their goalie.

  “They’ve got one great shooter,” said Muck, “and they won their first match by setting him up in the slot. There’s a young woman on the team who’s quick but doesn’t see the ice nearly as well as you, Sarah. And their third is the most incredible pest you’re every going to see on the ice. He never stops working, and he’s going to get to you, Mr. Nishikawa, unless you promise to put a lid on that temper of yours.”

  Nish blinked and smiled like a choirboy. “You can’t be talking about me, coach, surely…”

  Muck shook his head. “Their goalie’s good, but I think he’s weak on low shots.”

  “I know he’s weak on low shots,” said Data. He was consulting a detailed scouting report spread across his knees. If hockey could be reduced to a mathematical equation, thought Travis, Data would be the one to calculate it. Unfortunately, there were two elements of the game that could never be figured out entirely, never reduced to simple equations: surprise and luck. Though without those two unknowns, figured Travis, hockey wouldn’t be near the delight it is, both to those who play and to those who are just fans.

  “He had eight scored on him last game,” said Data. “Of the twelve shots on goal, seven were low–five right along the ice. He has the best glove hand I’ve ever seen–sorry, Jeremy.”

  “That’s okay,” Jeremy said, flapping his catching glove like a lobster claw.

  Muck was ready to sum up: “Keep the big guy out of the slot. Watch the playmaker and try to surprise her.
Don’t let the checker pester you. And keep the shots low. Okay?”

  “Okay!” they all said at once.

  “Then let’s go.”

  Muck and Data had done their job. From the moment the puck dropped it was clear that the Boston team was like a one-song band: let the shooter find the slot, feed him the puck, and let him shoot. Not very imaginative, Lars would have said, but it had worked before and, despite Muck’s and Data’s warnings, was working again against the Owls’ top threesome.

  Boston was up 3–0 before the Owls even managed a good shot on goal. In part it was Jeremy’s fault–maybe Data had put him off by saying how good the other goalie was–but it was also Travis’s fault for letting the playmaker get away from him, Sarah’s fault for letting the slot stay open, and Nish’s fault for letting the chippy little checker get to him. Nish had already swung his stick hard at the little checker’s heels.

  “You connect with one of those swings and you could be kicked out of the game,” said Muck. “You might want to consider that, young man.”

  Nish never lost it again. He began to play as only Nish could play, when he wanted to. He was cool, methodical, careful, smart. He blocked shot after shot from the shooter. He fooled the playmaker by letting her think she had room to pass, only to dive and frustrate her best efforts. He ignored the chippy checker, who soon seemed much closer to losing his temper than Nish was.

  Sarah scored on a high backhander. Travis scored on a shot that never left the ice, causing a loud “Whoop!” from Data. And Nish scored on an end-to-end rush where he pulled the goalie out and gently tucked the puck in behind him as if he were placing an egg back in the refrigerator.

  “Now we’ve got a game,” Muck said. He was almost smiling.

  It was a game indeed. Travis kept tight to the playmaker, making sure she had little ice to work with, and tried to force her to dump the puck to empty space. Sarah, with her great speed, was able to beat the others to loose pucks, which she then got to Nish, letting him work as a kind of quarterback as they moved up the ice.

  Travis tried to keep in mind what Lars had told them. He used location passes. He used his body well. And he used slowness as a tactic, which worked beautifully.

  It was on Travis’s second goal that he realized the goaltender was guessing where the shot would go. The goalie had got it right almost every time, until Travis discovered the slightest pause could cause him to drop down, stack his pads, and even drift right out of the net.

  “Keep it! Keep it! Keep it!” Travis whispered to Nish and Sarah as they lined up for the faceoff. Both understood. Both began keeping more.

  The Owls went ahead 5–3. Boston tied it up. The Owls went ahead on a lovely little deke from Travis. The Owls went two up on a rocket from Sarah that never left the ice. And the Owls went ahead to stay on a blistering slapshot from Nish that bounced off the checker and Travis before tumbling up over the fallen goalie and into the net.

  Final score: Owls 9, Boston 6.

  Sarah, Travis, and Nish–and Jeremy–were undefeated.

  “Good work,” Muck said when he and Data came into the dressing room. He was carrying cold cans of Coke, and handed them out. For Muck to do something like this, Travis figured, was roughly the equivalent of buying them all new cars and handing out Stanley Cup rings. He must have been delighted. He even opened Nish’s drink for him, Nish pretending to be unconscious as he lay flat on his back with his feet up on the bench.

  “I-have-got-to-let-the-blood-flow-back-to-my-head,” he groaned.

  “We’ll let you know if it ever gets there,” said Sarah.

  Nish stuck his tongue out at her and guzzled from his Coke, the dark liquid running down his cheeks and onto the floor. He then burped, loud as a car backfiring–a sure sign he was happy with his game.

  Mr. Dillinger came in and congratulated them all.

  “Did you get the bag back?” asked Travis.

  Mr. Dillinger scratched his head. “I tried,” Mr. Dillinger said. “But it wasn’t the Panthers’–they don’t even have a number 44 on their team.”

  “Whose was it, then?” Nish asked from the floor.

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Dillinger. “And they don’t know. I guess it was just an extra.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” said Data.

  “I know it doesn’t, son,” said Mr. Dillinger. “But you explain it, then.”

  Data shrugged. He said nothing.

  But Travis could tell from the look in Data’s face that he wasn’t going to be satisfied with no answer at all–not when there had to be an explanation for such a simple mistake.

  Travis decided this time to take his equipment back to the motel. He was sure he had been sweating much more playing 3-on-3 hockey than he normally did. Not only was it a lot more fun and relaxed than regular games, it was harder work. There were no changes, no long breaks, fewer faceoffs–and only two other players on the ice to pick up the slack if you missed your check or dogged it backchecking. At the end of each game, Travis felt drained, and by the weight and smell of his equipment, he knew exactly where he had drained to: it was time to air out the equipment.

  He obviously wasn’t the only player with this in mind. A couple of the Boston players had their equipment slung over their backs. And Sarah was again taking hers with her. Not Nish, though. His recovered equipment was zipped up and festering at the back of the Owls’ storage area.

  “Hang on there a minute, son!”

  Travis turned, not recognizing the voice.

  A man was walking towards him fast. He had on a dark bulky windbreaker and tinted glasses, the kind that seem to darken as the wearer moves from shadow to light, from inside to outside. He had a buzz-cut, his hair clipped so close his scalp seemed to shine in the arena lights. He had one large earring in his left ear.

  Nish was pushing through the door already and turned back as the man reached them.

  The man was smiling. They could see a crest on the windbreaker now, a tournament crest. He was one of the organizers.

  He held his hands out helplessly, almost signalling an apology. “Look, you’ll have to excuse me,” he said, “but I’ve been asked to do a quick check of every bag leaving the building. Would you mind, son, if I took just the quickest peek?”

  “What’s the problem?” Nish asked.

  The man shrugged, smiling. “There’s been a thief at work here the last few days. Couple of wallets. Some skates. Look, I’m not even suggesting it might be either of you guys–in fact, we think it’s just someone creating mischief. You know, putting stuff in other guys’ bags to get them in trouble. I can guarantee you no trouble–just a quick glance to be sure, okay?”

  “Sure,” said Travis. “Go ahead.”

  Travis slipped the bag off his shoulder and dropped it onto the smooth concrete floor of the entranceway.

  “Thanks,” the man said. He unzipped the bag, ran a hand quickly down both sides, checked the end pocket.

  He pointed to Travis’s tournament present, the boxed snow globe.

  “That what they gave you?”

  “Yeah,” Travis answered.

  “What’re they like?” the man asked.

  “Neat,” said Travis. “It’s a snow globe.”

  The man was already opening the box. He peered down at the snow globe, gave it a little shake, and laughed.

  “I love these things,” the man said.

  Travis grinned. For an “official,” this guy wasn’t doing much of a job of checking things over. He seemed too easily distracted. He put the snow globe back in its box, carefully closed it, and returned it to Travis’s bag.

  “Thanks a lot,” the man said. “Sorry to be such a hassle.”

  “No problem,” Travis said.

  He hoisted his bag up over his shoulder again, and Nish pushed open the doors and held them for Travis. It had been raining when they arrived, but now the sun was shining.

  Nish was already babbling about getting back to Wreck Beach. He said he
knew he’d never talk Travis into going with him, but perhaps Lars would go. Lars, after all, came from Sweden and was used to saunas and didn’t think there was anything particularly odd or funny about walking around naked and…

  But Travis wasn’t even listening. Nish went on and on, and Travis tried to concentrate the way he would on a difficult math problem. This tournament was wonderful–in a way, he’d never enjoyed the game of hockey more–but there were also some very strange things going on around them.

  The Owls had stumbled across a murder. Two murders, if you counted the dolphin. They knew the victim, even if only slightly. That was the first mystery, and now there was this second, completely different one.

  Hockey bags.

  Nish had walked off with a bag that didn’t belong to him–and, as far as they could tell, didn’t belong to anyone. And now this tough-looking man had asked to search through Travis’s hockey bag with some weird story about stolen equipment. It hadn’t rung true when he said it, and it didn’t ring true now that Travis thought it over.

  No, this was much worse than any math problem. In this case, nothing at all added up.

  Lars met them in the motel lobby, holding out a snow globe with a perfect little blizzard inside. Nish grabbed it and kissed it. Now he had a present for his mother, and this one worked.

  “Did you exchange it?” Nish asked.

  “Nah–I’ll ask about it later. You can have mine. I picked it up at the rink for you.”

  “They didn’t accuse you of stealing it, did they?” asked Travis.

  “No. Why do you say that?”

  “They checked my bag on the way out.”

  “Mine, too,” added Sarah.

  “There was a guy at the door asked if he could see it,” said Lars. “But he never said a word about stealing.”

  “Did he check it?” asked Travis.

  “Yeah,” Lars said, his voice trailing with wonder. “He said he just wanted to see how it worked.”