Timberwolf Prey

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Johnny ran screaming to the kitchen. He knew he sounded like a little girl. But he had worked on his report for five hours. And now it was gone.

  Chapter Six

  Clean Teeth

  After supper, Johnny walked down the hallway. He walked past the dining room, where Sarah had replaced his report with words that didn’t make sense. He walked past his bedroom, where she had put a mousetrap on his snooze button. He walked inside the bathroom and locked the door, so he could be safe from her while he brushed his teeth.

  Except his toothbrush was not in his glass beside the sink. He had put it there in the morning, before leaving for his hockey game.

  Johnny looked under the sink. He looked in the cupboard. He looked behind the mirror. He could not find his toothbrush anywhere.

  He remembered Tom and Stu had been at his house in the morning, to pick him up for their hockey game. Before, he might have blamed Tom and Stu for taking his toothbrush. They liked playing tricks on him. But now he had to be very careful, thanks to a six-year-old girl with red hair, freckles and a couple of missing teeth.

  Johnny went to find Sarah and ask her if she knew where his toothbrush was.

  He found her on the back steps of the house. She was with the family dog. His name was Marvin. He was old and did not move very fast. He also had very bad breath.

  Sarah was brushing Marvin’s teeth with Johnny’s toothbrush.

  “Hi, Johnny,” Sarah said. “Marvin has horrible breath. Someone needs to brush his teeth. Look at how brown and dirty his teeth are.”

  “Sure,” Johnny said. “Why didn’t I ever think of that? Especially with my toothbrush.”

  “I’m glad you’re not mad I’m using your toothbrush,” Sarah said. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “No problem,” Johnny said. He planned to throw the toothbrush away and never use it again. Never ever.

  “Do you think Marvin’s breath smells better?” Sarah asked. “I brushed his teeth five times yesterday while you were at school.”

  “With my toothbrush?” Johnny asked. “The one I used this morning?”

  “Yes,” Sarah said, “I made sure to put it back where I found it, so you wouldn’t get mad at me. I like to help.”

  Johnny screamed again. But this time he covered his mouth with both hands, so he wouldn’t sound like a little girl.

  Chapter Seven

  An Even Dirtier Trick

  The next morning, it seemed like everyone in Howling was at the arena for the second in the best of three games. All the Timberwolves had to do to make it to the championship finals was win this game against the Sabres.

  The game was a lot closer than the one the day before. Halfway through the third period, it was tied 4–4. Johnny was in a better mood. He had scored a goal and had two assists.

  But he wasn’t happy about getting jabbed by Dale. Whenever the referee wasn’t looking, Dale poked him in the back, the ribs or the legs. Johnny kept telling himself to play so his coach and his parents would be proud. He didn’t jab Dale back.

  When Johnny lined up opposite Dale for a face-off in the Sabres’ end, Johnny checked to make sure Dale did not put his stick blade behind Johnny’s skates again.

  The referee dropped the puck. Tom lost the draw to the Sabres’ center. The puck went to Dale. Dale pushed the puck forward and began to stickhandle.

  Johnny wanted to make Dale look bad. He skated as hard as he could to catch up to Dale. Johnny reached ahead with his stick. He tried to use it to lift Dale’s stick and steal the puck. But Dale made a move with the puck, and the blade of Johnny’s stick accidentally went straight up. It hit Dale in the chin!

  Dale fell down instantly, and the puck slid toward Tom.

  This wasn’t good. The referee put his hand up for a penalty. As soon as Tom touched the puck, the referee blew the whistle.

  “Two minutes for high-sticking,” the referee said.

  Johnny kneeled on the ice beside Dale. “I’m sorry. I was trying to get the puck. Really.”

  Dale ignored Johnny. He got up and waved for the referee. Then Dale pointed at his mouth. Blood was coming out of Dale’s mouth. As soon as the referee saw the blood, he blew his whistle again.

  “I didn’t hit him that hard,” Johnny told the referee. “It was an accident.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the referee said. “You drew blood. That makes it a double minor penalty. Four minutes.”

  This was really bad. Johnny had to stay in the penalty box for four minutes, no matter how many goals the Sabres scored. The Timberwolves would be a man short, and it would not be easy to keep the game tied.

  From the penalty box, Johnny watched as the Sabres scored three goals. The Timberwolves lost. Now they would have to play a tie-breaker in Howling later that afternoon.

  When the players on both teams shook hands at the end of the game, Johnny apologized to Dale once more.

  “I didn’t mean to hit you,” Johnny said.

  “Don’t worry,” Dale said. “It didn’t hurt.”

  “But you were bleeding,” Johnny answered.

  “Sure,” Dale said. “That’s because I bit the inside of my cheek while I was lying on the ice. Pretty smart, huh? To win the game, all I had to do was show the referee some blood.”

  Dale laughed at Johnny. “You’re such a loser.”

  Chapter Eight

  Feeling Better?

  “Tough game today,” Johnny’s dad said.

  Johnny and his dad were back at the house, watching hockey in the den after the game.

  “Well,” Johnny answered, “Coach Smith isn’t too mad at me. I told him Dale bit the inside of his cheek to make it look like I had hit him hard with my stick. Coach Smith said win or lose, the important thing is to take pride in how we played.”

  “I don’t know how cheaters can take pride in playing,” Dad said. “Or how they can take pride in winning if they’ve cheated. I’m glad you’re honest. And I’m always proud of the way you play hockey.”

  He looked closely at Johnny. “Tough weekend off the ice too. First you put your hand in a mousetrap. Then you lose your report. And you’ve been brushing your teeth after Marvin used your toothbrush.”

  “Yes,” Johnny said, “I know Sarah is always trying to help, but somehow she’s not that helpful. Do you have any advice to make me feel better?”

  “You’ve got all afternoon before the tie-breaker hockey game,” Dad said. “Remember we’ve cleared out that one room in the basement that needs painting? Why don’t you put the first coat of paint on the walls for me?”

  “How will that make me feel better?” Johnny asked.

  “It won’t,” Dad said. “But it will make me feel better. I’d like the first coat done as soon as possible.”

  “Ha, ha,” Johnny said.

  “Did I mention I had backed up your report?” Dad asked, grinning. “And did I mention I’ll pay you twenty dollars if you paint the room in the basement?”

  “Suddenly, I feel much better,” Johnny said. “Thanks. I’m going to start painting right now!”

  “Glad you’re being such a good sport,” Dad said. “Just remember, Sarah is only six, and she really is trying to help.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Johnny said. “She hasn’t helped you yet.”

  Chapter Nine

  Still Trying To Help

  When Johnny reached the room in the basement, he had to remind himself of what his dad had just said.

  Sarah was on a ladder in the center of the room. She had looped a dog leash around one of the ceiling fan’s blades.

  “What are you doing?” Johnny asked.

  “Just trying to help.” Sarah stepped down from the ladder. She pulled it away from the ceiling fan. The leash almost reached the floor.

  “This is the perfect room for Marvin to get his exercise,” Sarah said. “All the furniture is gone.”

  “The furniture is gone because we need to paint the walls,” Johnny said. “See the cans of paint? And th
e brush and roller?”

  “But it’s still an empty room,” Sarah said. “I’ve cleaned Marvin’s teeth to get rid of his horrible breath. Now I’m going to help him go for a run. It’s cold outside, so he can run circles in here today.”

  “Circles?” Johnny asked.

  Sarah pointed at the leash attached to the fan. “Sure. When Marvin is on the end of the leash, I’ll turn on the fan. It will go in circles, and Marvin will follow.”

  Johnny was glad he had found Sarah in time. “I know you are trying to help,” Johnny said, “but watch this.” He switched on the fan. It began to move quickly—very quickly.

  “It goes fast, doesn’t it?” Sarah said. “Marvin will get good exercise.”

  “No!” Johnny said. “It would make Marvin run too fast. Or he could choke. Or he’s so heavy, if he stopped, the fan would break. None of it would be good. All of it would be bad. Please, never, ever, ever put a dog at the end of something attached to a ceiling fan.”

  Sarah stared at the fan for a few seconds. Finally, she said, “You are right. I’m glad you told me.”

  “No problem,” Johnny said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to put the first coat of paint on the wall.”

  “First coat?”

  “Yes,” Johnny said, “when you paint, it takes at least two coats.”

  “Can I help?” Sarah asked.

  “No,” Johnny said, “I promise, you’ve already given me enough help for the weekend!”

  Chapter Ten

  Breakaway!

  With twenty seconds left in the tie-breaker game, it was 4–4. If the Timberwolves won, they would go to the championship finals. Johnny skated onto the ice for a face-off in the Timberwolves’ end. Dale skated beside him.

  “Hey, loser,” Dale said. “Isn’t it time for you to get another penalty against us?”

  Johnny ignored him and skated over to Tom. “If you get the puck,” Johnny said. “Fire it around the net as hard as you can. I’ll be racing up the boards. Maybe we can catch them by surprise.”

  And that’s exactly what happened. The referee dropped the puck. Tom won the draw. He spun around and fired the puck behind the net. Johnny was racing in that direction and caught up with it. He chipped it past the Sabres’ defenseman at the Timberwolves’ blue line.

  Johnny kept chasing the puck. He had a breakaway!

  “Loser!” Dale yelled from behind him. “No way are you going to score!”

  Johnny busted up the ice with no one between him and the goalie. Dale followed close behind. All the Timberwolf fans in the rink were yelling and cheering. If Johnny scored, they’d win.

  He was almost ready to shoot on the goalie, when he felt a stick between his legs. Dale reached for the puck.

  Johnny fell. He slid toward the goalie headfirst. The puck slid ahead of Johnny. He pushed at the puck with his stick. The puck bounced over his stick and into his gloves. His hands were moving forward and knocked the puck down the ice, between the goalies legs and into the net!

  The crowd went crazy. His teammates pulled him up and mobbed him. Johnny looked over their shoulders at the referee.

  Johnny knew the goal shouldn’t count, because he’d knocked it in with his glove. He watched to see if the referee would wave off the goal. But the referee must not have seen it bounce off Johnny’s glove. The referee was signaling that Johnny had scored.

  Johnny sure wanted the goal to count. But Coach Smith and his dad always said to play in a way that he could be proud of himself. Johnny skated up to the ref.

  “Sir,” Johnny said, “I pushed the puck into the net with my hand. It shouldn’t be a goal.”

  “Ha!” Dale said from behind Johnny. “You are a loser.”

  “That’s a tough call to make on yourself, kid,” the referee said. “You should be proud of yourself.” He blew the whistle and waved his arms to disallow the goal.

  “Loser,” Dale said again.

  Johnny skated toward the bench.

  “Where are you going?” the referee shouted at Johnny.

  “Sir?” Johnny said.

  The referee pointed at Dale. “He tripped you on a breakaway. I was going to call the penalty, but the puck went in the net. The goal doesn’t count, but the penalty does. And you both know what that means, don’t you?”

  Johnny did know. A penalty shot! The players returned to center ice. When the ref blew the whistle, the breakaway started all over again, without anyone chasing.

  Dale groaned. Johnny grinned and took the puck toward the middle of the ice.

  This time, when Johnny got close to the net, he didn’t fall. He fired the puck right between the goalie’s legs.

  Goal! The Timberwolves had won 5–4! They had made it to the championship finals.

  Johnny raised his arms in triumph. He grinned his special grin, practicing for the day when the girls would adore him.

  Chapter Eleven

  A Painted Room

  “We won, we won!” Johnny shouted as he came into the house with Dad after the game. “I scored the winning goal!”

  Stu and Tom followed close behind.

  “That’s right,” Tom yelled. “We won!”

  Stu didn’t say anything. He knew where the cookies were. He helped himself without asking.

  Johnny, Tom and Johnny’s dad exchanged high fives all around. Stu couldn’t. His hands were full.

  Johnny’s mom said, “You won. That’s nice.”

  “Nice?” Johnny’s dad said. “Nice? Is that the best you can do? How about a high five in our direction?”

  “Come downstairs,” Mom said. “Sarah tried to help us while you were gone.”

  “Oh no,” Johnny said. Whenever Sarah tried to help, it didn’t really help.

  Dad and Johnny went downstairs. So did Tom and Stu. They entered the room in the basement where Johnny had spent most of the afternoon carefully painting the walls.

  The dog leash still hung from the fan. But now an open can of paint was hanging from the end of the leash. Paint was splattered everywhere. Across the walls and across the floor.

  “What happened?” Johnny’s dad said.

  “Remember, Dad,” Johnny said, “Sarah is only six, and she really is trying to help.”

  “But what happened here?” Dad asked again. “This is horrible.”

  “How about you buy me a new graphite hockey stick?” Johnny said.

  “How will that clean up this mess?” Dad asked.

  “It won’t,” Johnny said, “but it will make me feel better.”

  “What happened?” Dad asked for the third time.

  Tom and Stu started laughing.

  “I just want to know what happened!” Dad said a final time.

  “This,” Johnny’s mom said. She turned on the switch to the ceiling fan. The paint can at the end of the leash began to move around in a fast, fast circle.

  “Yes,” Johnny’s mom said, “Sarah thought it would be faster to paint the room this way.”

  That’s when Dad screamed.

  Funny, Johnny thought, Dad screams like a little girl too.

  Sigmund Brouwer is the bestselling author of many books for children and young adults. Sigmund loves visiting schools and talking to children about reading and writing. Timberwolf Prey is his eighth and final book in the Timberwolves series. Sigmund divides his time between Red Deer, Alberta, and Eagleville, Tennessee.