Hat Trick

by W. C. Mack

  “Ready?” Dad asked, when I got to the kitchen.

  “Definitely,” I told him. I looked for a bag lunch on the counter top, and when I didn’t see anything, I turned to Mum.

  “You guys are going to have a great time,” she said, pulling me into my second hug of the day. “And if that means greasy hamburgers and too much pop, I don’t want the details. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I told her.

  “Have a wonderful day, Jonathan,” she told me. “And good luck.”

  Dad and I drove to Nanaimo, where we could catch the ferry to the mainland, and when we got there the lineup was massive.

  “You’ve got to love weekend traffic,” Dad sighed. When he paid, he asked which sailing we’d be on.

  “Maybe the ten,” the lady said. “For sure the eleven.”

  We pulled into row twelve and sat in the car. Dad had a newspaper to read, and he let me have the comics. None of them were very funny, but at least reading them killed some time.

  My very first NHL game. The day had finally come!

  We missed the ten o’clock sailing by about fifteen cars, so Dad sent me to the concession to get a coffee for him and a juice for myself. I must have checked my watch a thousand times while we waited for the next ferry.

  When we finally boarded, Dad and I went straight to the cafeteria for eggs and stuff, but they were already serving lunch. That meant I got to have a Legendary Burger, fries with gravy and a Coke for breakfast.

  Awesome!

  When we pulled out of the terminal to start the trip, the captain honked the horn a couple of times, and the kids on the deck outside covered their ears and cried like babies. Dad and I found seats at the front, and he gave me a few quarters to play video games. I couldn’t concentrate, so I wandered around the decks for a little while, then went to the gift shop to check out their hockey books for inspiration. (Not that I needed any.)

  I was ready to score.

  * * *

  After an hour and a half on the water, we pulled into Horseshoe Bay. The lineup waiting to go back to the island was even bigger than the one we’d been in that morning.

  Geez. Why didn’t they just build a bridge?

  We drove up onto the highway and I sat back in my seat, daydreaming about the game.

  “Excited?” Dad asked.

  “Totally.”

  “A little nervous, too?”

  “Nope.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m ready for this.”

  “If you say so,” he said, smiling.

  “It’s not like I’ll be trying to solve a Math problem in front of thousands of people.”

  “Which you could do now, thanks to hard work and Eddie Bosko.”

  “That’s not really the point, Dad.”

  “True,” he said. “But I know I’d be nervous about this shot.”

  “I’m not,” I told him, but the nerves kicked in when we parked at the stadium and I saw just how huge it was. There would be a lot of people watching.

  Dad and I walked to the main gate, along with hundreds of fans. Everywhere I looked, I saw Canucks shirts, jackets and hats. I even saw a guy with the team logo painted on his face!

  When we got inside, I couldn’t believe how loud it was. They had stalls set up for selling Canucks gear, and stands for beer and food. I had a little bit of money with me, so I bought a program.

  Jean Ducette was on the cover, and I was about to see him, live!

  It was way too awesome.

  “I’m gonna frame this,” I told Dad.

  “A nice addition to your room,” he said, patting my back.

  All of a sudden I heard a bunch of noise behind us, and it seemed like the whole crowd was booing at once. When I turned to look, there was a guy wearing a Flames jersey, waving at everybody. The crowd booed even louder.

  “We’re gonna cream you,” he shouted over the racket.

  Without even thinking, I started booing too. He deserved it!

  Dad and I found our entry and when we walked through the doorway, my mouth dropped open like a flounder.

  The place was gigantic! The biggest TV screen I’d ever seen was hanging above the rink, flashing highlights from the past few games. The ceiling looked like it was too high for oxygen, but there were people sitting all the way in the top row. The rink probably looked like a cake from way up there, with players for sprinkles!

  Dad checked the tickets and we started down the stairs toward the ice. We were already close, but we kept getting closer. When we reached our seats, we were right at the centre line, only six rows from the ice.

  “Nice job on the tickets,” Dad said, pointing at the seats.

  Holy smokes. We were practically on the ice.

  And even better? I actually would be!

  * * *

  The game was everything I dreamed it would be (except when some lady sang “O Canada” like it was opera or something and I had to cover my ears).

  The crowd went crazy when each of the players was introduced.

  I couldn’t believe I was that close to Jean Ducette!

  There was so much to see, I couldn’t keep track of it all.

  I stared at the players when they warmed up.

  I bit my lip when they got into position.

  Even the refs looked cool!

  I shouted with everyone else when the puck was dropped and I didn’t stop shouting for the whole first period. The seat was pointless, because I was on my feet the whole time, too.

  Jean Ducette was incredible, and soon we were winning, 2–0.

  Totally awesome.

  Halfway through the second period, a woman tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Jonathan McDonald?”

  “Yes,” I nodded.

  “I’m Katie, with the Canucks promotional team. Are you ready to come with me?”

  I nodded again and when I stood up, Dad gave me a big hug and ruffled my hair, like I wasn’t about to be on the big screen!

  I followed Katie up the stairs, patting my hair back down and starting to feel even more nervous.

  The crowd was gigantic, and so loud! I pretended they were cheering for me. We waited for the period to end and I couldn’t hear anything the announcer said, until my name blasted over the speakers.

  “Go ahead, Jonathan,” Katie said.

  I stepped onto the green carpet path they’d rolled out to centre ice. A grey-haired man in a suit shook my hand and let me say hi into the microphone.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  All I could do was nod.

  He handed me a stick and I carried it with me to the very edge of the carpet.

  It was my moment!

  I lined myself up with the goal.

  I’d been practising that exact shot for a month solid.

  I was shaking a little, but I knew it was going to be easy peasy.

  The crowd cheered for me, and for a second, I almost felt like a real pro.

  I lifted the stick.

  I was all set up for a perfect shot.

  I took a deep breath.

  And swung.

  I hit that puck harder than ever before.

  I watched it zoom toward the net.

  Then veer to the left.

  Uh-oh.

  My whole body tensed.

  Just a little more to the right.

  To the right.

  No, the right!

  I almost screamed like a girl when it slid right past my wide open target.

  I missed!

  I missed?

  The crowd groaned and I felt my face burning.

  What just happened?

  “Sorry, Jonathan,” the grey-haired man said.

  And just like that, the biggest moment of my life was over.

  I missed.

  He told the crowd to give me a hand, but I was in shock.

  How could I have missed?

  He passed me an envelope and I walked back down the green carpet, unable to look at anyone. It was hard to p
ut one foot in front of the other to get back to the stands and all I wanted to do was disappear. How was I supposed to face my teammates or the rest of the kids at school?

  I’d totally blown it!

  I shuffled along the carpet and when I got to the end and was ready to step off the ice, a huge Canucks uniform appeared directly in front of me, blocking the way.

  When I looked up, it was Jean Ducette.

  My hero.

  Nuts!

  He’d seen my rotten shot!

  Could the day get any worse?

  “You surprised me,” he said, in a deep voice.

  “Me too,” I told him, glumly.

  “For a small one, you have a lot of power, no?”

  “What?” I asked, thinking I’d heard him wrong.

  “Your speed with the puck,” he said, patting me on the back. “It is serious.”

  “It is?”

  “Impressive,” he told me.

  What? Jean Ducette was impressed by me? I couldn’t even speak.

  “Want me to sign your jersey?”

  “Are you kidding?” I asked.

  “No,” he laughed, as the grey-haired man handed him a pen. “Your name?”

  “Nugget,” I said, without thinking.

  Jean Ducette looked confused. He turned to the man and asked. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

  The man put his fingers close together to show something small. “Pepite.”

  Jean Ducette laughed and ruffled my hair, just like Dad had done. “Pepite. I like it.”

  And just like that, I did too.

  Maybe it was because my number one hero was saying it, but Nugget sounded way cooler in French!

  Pepite.

  That was me.

  I turned around and grinned as the legendary Jean Ducette signed the back of my jersey.

  When he was done, I turned to face him. “I just wish I hadn’t missed,” I told him.

  “Everybody misses sometimes,” he said. “If we always scored and always won, it wouldn’t be … interesting.”

  I’d never thought of it like that. “I guess not,” I told him.

  He patted me on the back. “You will get bigger, better and stronger, Pepite. This is only the beginning for you.”

  I thanked him and practically floated back to my seat.

  When I got there, Dad looked sad, like someone had died. “I’m sorry Jonathan. I can imagine how disappointed you are.”

  I thought about what my hero had said to me. “It’s okay, Dad.”

  “What?” he asked, eyebrows raised in surprise.

  I shrugged, pretty sure Jean Ducette wasn’t just talking about hockey. “Sometimes I’m going to score and sometimes I’m going to miss. That’s what keeps it … interesting.”

  Dad was quiet for a minute. “I’m impressed,” he finally said.

  It was the second time I’d heard that in a few minutes, and it felt good.

  I liked impressing people.

  “So what’s in the envelope?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, ripping it open. Inside was a gift certificate for Pro-Sports. For $200!

  First Jean Ducette, now this?

  I had to be the luckiest kid on the planet.

  Sure, I was sharing my position with Bosko and I had a long way to go with Math. I’d missed playing in three Cougars games and the shot of a lifetime in front of thousands of people.

  But somehow everything had turned out okay. Way better than okay, actually.

  I looked around the stadium, at all the fans who were there for my first NHL game, and it felt awesome.

  Dad’s eyes widened when he looked at the gift certificate. “Whoa! That’s enough for the helmet you wanted, isn’t it?”

  I smiled and nodded, too happy for words.

  Want to read more about J.T. McDonald and his teammates?

  Turn the page for an excerpt from

  the exciting sequel to Hat Trick!

  Chapter One

  We only had three minutes left on the clock when things started to get serious. And they’d been pretty stinkin’ serious already, thanks to the Thunder’s left defenseman, who was grinding our guys into the boards every chance he got. I had no idea what his parents were thinking, but they’d named the kid Adrian. They should have been able to see what was coming and call him Tank.

  Anyway, this monster had been knocking me around for the whole period, and I was getting pretty tired of the refs not calling it. Coach O’Neal was shouting from the bench, along with the rest of the team and our fans (well, families) in the stands.

  I’d been personally introduced to the kid’s elbow at least six times, but I didn’t let that stop me. I was playing to win.

  So I was pretty disappointed when Coach called me out.

  I skated off the ice, passing our own hulking mass of muscle (and my Math tutor), Eddie Bosko, who high-fived me as he took over the right wing position.

  “Nice job, Nugget,” he said, with a growl like a grizzly.

  “Thanks,” I said, as I climbed onto the bench.

  “That defenseman’s a beast,” Patrick Chen said, shaking his head from farther down.

  “No doubt,” I groaned. “Every time I had the puck, he had me.”

  “You played hard, son,” Coach O’Neal said, patting me on the back. “That kid’s at least twice your size and you gave him a run for the money.”

  I couldn’t help thinking that if my stupid growth spurt would hurry up and happen, I wouldn’t even be having the conversation.

  Or any conversation about size.

  “Man, I hope we can win this one,” Patrick said as he pulled on his gloves, just in case Coach put him in.

  I glanced past Patrick, where David “Bedhead” McCafferty was resting against the wall. He looked half-asleep, as usual.

  It was too bad he never looked half-awake.

  Seriously, who could relax during a hockey game? Especially when they were on the team!

  I watched the game, wishing I was still in there. I’d had to accept the fact that Bosko and I were sharing right wing, but that didn’t mean I liked it.

  If I had my way, I’d play hockey every second of every day. It was my favourite thing to do, and I happened to be pretty awesome at it. If I wasn’t playing, I was practising, and if I wasn’t practising, I was either watching it on TV or reading about it.

  Which reminded me that my copy of Shoot! Volume 4 would be arriving at Chapters any day.

  Yes!

  Was hockey my life?

  Definitely.

  I leaned forward on the bench and watched the action on the ice.

  We’d beaten Victoria before, but this time the game was too close to call.

  They were a strong team, stuck with a weak uniform. While we looked dangerous in our black and red, the Thunder were drowning in purple and yellow. And it didn’t matter that the L.A. Kings wore those colours a million years ago. There was nothing cool about purple and yellow.

  I mean, come on.

  But worse than Victoria’s uniforms was their attitude. Just because they were from the biggest city on the island, they thought they were better than everyone else. They played rougher than they should.

  Rougher than anyone should.

  Hockey had rules for a reason. Seriously, it was a game, not a war.

  I jumped to my feet as Eddie stole the puck from the Thunder’s right defenseman. He hauled past the centre line, his skates scraping against the ice.

  “Come on, Bosko!” I shouted, as I watched that nasty Tank move toward him.

  That kid was fast, too.

  Eddie kept the puck close as he skated toward the Thunder’s goal, but within seconds Tank was right on his tail.

  Our hometown crowd cheered as Eddie got closer to the net and I glanced up to see my parents and sister on their feet in the stands.

  It was getting loud out there.

  I wished the crowd was cheering for me. I wanted to be the one getting ready for the best sh
ot of the game, not my “partner.”

  “Take your time!” Coach O’Neal shouted. “Play smart, Bosko!”

  We had less than two minutes left on the clock and we were still down a goal, so everybody was super tense.

  I was hoping like crazy that Bosko could tie it up and send us into overtime. Then maybe I’d have a chance to get back out there.

  I lived for overtime.

  Eddie was eyeballing his target, preparing to take the shot. I knew he had perfect aim, and that Coach didn’t need to tell him to take it slow. Bosko had patience, for sure.

  “Shoot!” Kenny shouted. (His patience wasn’t quite as developed.)

  “Hard!” Patrick added, even louder.

  I held my breath as Eddie pulled back his stick to whale on the puck. He had a killer slapshot (almost as good as mine), and I knew the Thunder’s goalie didn’t stand a chance. Bosko knew right where to put the puck, and I could already imagine it flying into the top of the net.

  “Right in the cookie jar, Eddie!” my dad shouted from the stands.

  I held my breath.

  The crowd was going nuts.

  The clock ticked behind its steel cage.

  My heart bounced around in my chest like popcorn.

  Bedhead McCafferty was … sleeping?

  Never mind.

  “Shoot, Bosko!” Patrick shouted, as we all watched the play.

  It was going in, for sure. There was no doubt about it.

  Of course, I wanted my teammate to score. But at the same time, Bosko was two ahead of me in a race for goals this season, and I was itching to take the lead. It was friendly competition, and a Cougars team win was more important than personal glory, but still. I wanted to be top dog.

  “Shoot!” I shouted, loud enough to wake up McCafferty.

  Well, almost.

  Then it was like everything went into slow motion. The goalie was crouched in position, Bosko’s blade was heading for the puck, and Tank was right on him … swinging his stick, high and fast!

  Whoa!

  Before my jaw even had a chance to drop, he hit Bosko right in the back!

  The whole rink went quiet as our monster dropped to the ice and the puck slowly slid to a stop.

  But the crowd was only silent for half a second before everybody went nuts. And I was right there with them.