The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 1

by Roy MacGregor

  Norbert stared for what seemed like an eternity. The camera shook, the team waited.

  “Someone came into the room!”

  “Who?” Nish shouted for everyone.

  “Can’t see–only a back of someone moving across.”

  The team groaned as one.

  “Wait, there’s more!”

  They waited, afraid to breathe. Finally, Norbert sighed deeply and lowered the camera. The rubber around the viewfinder had made a red circle around his eye: it looked like he’d been punched, and when he spoke, he sounded like it, too.

  “It’s Mr. Dillinger.”

  “Damn!” Again, Nish spoke for all.

  Travis felt his hopes sag. Of course, Mr. Dillinger must have been up to check last night. Travis had hoped the mystery would finally be solved so the tournament could continue without incident. He had hoped, in a way, that it would turn out to be someone they hadn’t even thought of. Not Mr. Brown, because that would be hard on Matt, and not the Panthers, because that would be, well, that would just not be fair. No one played hockey that way, by hurting the other team’s best player.

  But all the ingenious activator had caught was Mr. Dillinger going about his business, unwittingly triggering the camera as he came in to make sure the Owls’ equipment had all been aired out properly.

  Travis walked up to the arena with Nish and Data and Wilson. They arrived more than an hour early, eager to get a feel for the game that was coming up against the Toronto Towers. They knew they had to win to make the finals, because they were tied with the Panthers at one win, one tie each, and the Panthers were scheduled to play the relatively weak Devils later, which should mean an easy win for the Portland team.

  The Towers had a win and a loss and would have to win against the Screech Owls to make the final four. Another team, from Montreal, already had two wins and a loss, so there was no avoiding the importance of the Screech Owls’ next match. If the Towers beat the Screech Owls, then Toronto might advance to the finals. The first-game tie with the Panthers was going to be of little help to the Screech Owls if today they added a loss.

  When Travis walked in, he saw Muck walking toward him with a serious look on his face. His first thought was that there had been more trouble. But Muck wanted to speak to him about something else entirely, something completely unexpected.

  “I’ve already called your parents, Travis,” Muck said. “And they say the decision’s yours. There’s an area scout from the Bantam AA’s here and he’s asked for permission to speak to you and a couple of the other players. All I said was I’d present his case to the parents and player. And that’s all I’m doing.”

  “What’s it mean?” Travis asked.

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe something. They can draw from a wider range than us and it’s one of the best teams in the province–I know the coach pretty well, he’s a good man–but it’s tough to make and tough on parents. Both time and money. I think they play about 120 games a year if you count tournaments and exhibitions. But they’re interested in you if you’re interested in them.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You want to hear what he has to say?”

  “I guess so.”

  “The arena manager’s set aside a room for him. He’s there now with the others. Just down past the washrooms, first door on the left.”

  Travis stared at his coach, trying to read Muck, but Muck was unreadable. It was impossible to say how he felt about this. It was almost as if it was none of his business, but it was all his business. He was the coach, after all, and Travis one of his players. Still, Travis couldn’t play peewee forever. And if he ever wanted to make the NHL and see his sweater hanging up there with Terrible Ted’s in Joe Louis Arena, then he’d have to leave Muck at some point. Perhaps this was it.

  Muck turned to go, his expression giving away nothing. Travis didn’t know whether Muck thought it a good idea or a bad idea. But that was Muck: he wouldn’t say. It would be the player’s decision. The player’s and the parents’.

  Travis headed back down the corridor. Mr. Dillinger was coming the other way, singing one of his stupid songs–something about a purple people-eater–and he gave Travis a shot in the shoulder as he passed. Mr. Dillinger knew.

  Travis knocked at the closed door.

  “Come in,” a big voice called.

  Travis pushed the door open. Inside, he saw the big voice belonged to a small man who was standing up and setting down a clipboard with writing on it. On chairs pulled around him were Dmitri Yakushev, Matt Brown, and Derek Dillinger. Maybe that was why Mr. Dillinger had been singing.

  Dmitri was there for obvious reasons. Skill and speed. Matt Brown, Travis supposed, would have caught their attention through sheer size and his shot. And Derek, of course, was having the tournament of his life. Even if Sarah Cuthbertson had been able to play as she could, she wouldn’t have been here. Next year Sarah would be leaving for good.

  “You’re Travis Lindsay,” the big voice boomed. He seemed to be informing Travis rather than asking.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Pierre LeBrun. I’m with the Crusaders, Bantam double-A. You probably know Donny Williams, who was with Muck’s gang two years ago.”

  “A bit.”

  “He’s with us now. We like where he comes from. We like Muck’s system. We like what we’ve seen here from you fellows this week. Have a seat, Travis.”

  Travis sat, and listened. Mr. LeBrun offered information, nothing more. The Screech Owls’ players fell under the recruitment area of the Crusaders. The Crusaders were, as Muck had said, one of the best organizations around. Sweaters and socks and skates supplied. Some sticks supplied. Tournaments last year in Toronto, Lake Placid, Quebec City, and Vancouver. Tentative plans for a trip to Finland this coming winter.

  Finland. Travis could hardly believe what he was hearing. Finland. Home of Teemu Selanne. Home of Jari Kurri. International competition. He was already halfway to the Detroit Red Wings!

  “I’ve already met briefly with your coaches,” Mr. Lebrun told them. “And they have no problems with what I’m about to propose to you.”

  He waited a moment, smiling, the boys waiting.

  “If you four are agreeable,” Mr. LeBrun continued, “we’d like to send you invitations to attend our fall camp. I can’t guarantee you you’ll make the team, but from what I’ve seen here this week, I wouldn’t want to bet that you won’t.”

  Travis looked at the others, who were also looking around. None of them had ever heard such talk before. None of them knew what to say.

  “Can I send you invites, then?” Mr. LeBrun asked.

  “Sure,” said Derek, his voice shaking.

  “Okay,” said Dmitri, his voice the same as always.

  “Great,” said Matt.

  “Yeah,” said Travis.

  Yes, indeed.

  “Sarah’s sticks are missing!”

  The voice was Ty Barrett’s and it was coming from outside the dressing room, but everyone inside heard him. He was talking to Muck, who had just stepped outside to see how far the Zamboni had got with the ice cleaning. Muck swore–unusual for Muck, meaning he was very, very upset.

  Sarah had heard as well. She had just finished tying her skates and pulling on her sweater and had her helmet, ready to strap on, in her lap, when Ty’s voice burst in through the door. She didn’t say a word, just shut her eyes and leaned back against the wall. Travis could hear her let her breath out slowly.

  “Give us a break!” Nish shouted from behind his mask.

  “How could they be ‘missing’?” Jesse asked no one in particular.

  The door opened and Muck came back in, his jaw working furiously but no sound coming out. He had no idea what to say himself. He signalled for Mr. Dillinger to come with him, and Mr. Dillinger, shaking his head and blowing air out of his mouth, hurried from the dressing room to consult. The players could hear more swearing, both Muck and Mr. Dillinger.

  Muck returned again, followed by Mr.
Dillinger, his face now red and angry-looking.

  “Someone’s made off with Sarah’s sticks,” Muck said very matter-of-factly. “She’ll have to borrow. Travis, you’re a left. You have extras?”

  “Two.”

  He turned to Sarah, her eyes now open, glistening slightly.

  “You can try Travis’s. If you don’t like them, try some other lefts. We’ve got no choice.”

  Someone who doesn’t play the game would never understand, Travis thought as the Screech Owls warmed up Sareen to start her first game of the tournament.

  A hockey stick has a personality, Travis figured, and it gets the personality from the owner, the one who tapes it and bends it and handles it and feels it. Changing sticks in hockey is like a batter heading to the plate with a shovel in his hands, or a basketball player heading down the court in church shoes. It doesn’t feel right, and when it doesn’t feel right, it usually doesn’t work right.

  He had given two of his sticks over to Sarah and she had tried them but obviously was not content with them. Sarah liked to taper the top of her stick; Travis liked a big knob of tape. Sarah liked a fairly straight blade for playmaking; Travis liked as big a curve as he could get away with for roofing shots and corner-work. Sarah liked a short stick for in-close work; Travis liked one that stood to the bottom of his chin so he could get all his weight behind a slapper.

  The only player who liked his sticks like Sarah was Dmitri, but Dmitri was a right shot. She tried one of Matt’s sticks and one of Jesse’s, but then came back to Travis’s as the best of a poor choice. She seemed sadly discouraged during the warm-up.

  The game went poorly. Sareen was so nervous she let in the first shot, a long dump-in from the other side of the blueline. And Sarah could not hang onto the puck at all. This time, however, Muck refused to juggle the lines to compensate. He seemed determined to go with Sarah at first-line centre no matter what.

  But the team was paying for her lack of stick control. With Dmitri at top speed heading in on right, she sent a pass that would normally have meant a breakaway but, thanks to the big curve, caught slightly and went behind Dmitri, throwing him offside.

  And later, with Travis parked all alone at the side of the net and Sarah with the puck in the slot, the Screech Owls lost the tying goal when Sarah backhanded the puck and it went looping off the other side of the curve into the corner and out of harm’s way.

  The Toronto Towers, knowing they must win to have any chance of going on in the tournament, fought ferociously and were up 2–0 at the break. The first goal had been Sareen’s fault, the second had been Travis’s fault. He had thought Nish had control of the puck and broke over the blueline toward centre, only to have Nish checked off the puck. The Towers’ defenceman pinched, picked up the puck, and hit a winger sitting on the far side of the net for a perfect one-timer. The goal light was flashing as Travis, feeling like a fool, was still on the other side of the blueline.

  Finally, at the break, Muck had had enough. He put his arm around Sarah as he told her that Derek was yet again moving up onto the line and Sarah, fighting back tears, her lips trembling, had nodded that she agreed. Muck gave her a little hug as he let go.

  The juggling worked again, just as it had for the first game. Sareen settled down and didn’t let another goal past her. Derek played his heart out, scored once and set up Dmitri on a clean breakaway, which he cashed in. The score was tied 2–2.

  Matt Brown scored the go-ahead goal on a Screech Owls power play, hammering a shot in from the point that seemed to tip in off a Toronto player’s skate toe. And the Screech Owls’ fourth goal was scored by Travis–but it was hardly one for the highlights.

  With two minutes to go in a game the Towers had to win, they had pulled their goaltender, and Derek, stealing a puck inside his own blueline, had hit Dmitri for a second breakaway. But Dmitri, sometimes generous to a fault, had slowed down, drawn the one defender to him, and laid a perfect, soft pass to empty ice so it was sitting there, waiting, when Travis arrived at the front of the empty net. He could have scored with a bulldozer.

  When they came off the ice after the handshake, Mr. LeBrun was standing to the side of the rubber mat leading to the dressing room. He congratulated each player as he or she passed, with a special tap for the four with whom he had met, and a victorious punch to the shoulder of a sheepish-looking Derek Dillinger.

  Mr. Dillinger, carrying the water bottles and first-aid equipment a few steps behind, beamed as he passed Mr. LeBrun and the scout said, “You got a good one there.” Mr. Dillinger knew; the whole team knew. Mr. Dillinger was glowing red when he came into the dressing room.

  “All right, listen up!” Barry Yonson yelled when the clatter of falling sticks had subsided and everyone was in their seats and beginning to pull off helmets and gloves. Muck wanted to speak to them.

  “You can thank your lucky stars that was Toronto and not the Panthers,” Muck told them in his usual quiet voice. “Most of you played like house-league atoms out there.”

  The players knew it was true. Even considering what had happened to Sarah, the Screech Owls had stunk. Had it not been for Derek’s inspired play when he was moved up to replace her, and Sareen shutting the Towers out in the second period, they might have been packing up to go home.

  “Pick up your sticks as you go,” Muck said. “Mr. Dillinger’s going to lock them up in the van overnight. And Sarah, you go with Mr. Dillinger downtown. He’ll take you to pick up some new ones, okay?”

  Sarah smiled. She’d be able to play in the final. “Okay,” she said.

  “Alllll rightttt, Sarah!” Nish shouted.

  “Yesss!” Derek added.

  Good for Derek, Travis thought. He knows if Sarah comes back, he drops back. He knows who the real first-line centre of the Screech Owls is. He knows what a team means.

  The Screech Owls held another meeting in the unused health club. Travis was in charge. He was surprising himself the way he was starting to take command of things so easily. But since almost everything concerned Sarah, and Sarah was the captain, it seemed better that the assistant captain represent the team. And that was exactly what Travis was beginning to do.

  “We almost blew it today,” Travis said. Everyone agreed.

  “Muck was right about what he said. Most of us–me included–played like atom house-leaguers. We screw up tomorrow and we’ve lost the championship. We owe Muck better than that.”

  “It’s hardly our fault,” Data protested. “You have to consider what they’ve been doing to Sarah.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Gordie Griffith.

  “We all know what’s been happening,” Travis countered. “What’s happening to Sarah doesn’t mean a thing on the scoreboard.”

  “It’s true,” agreed Sarah.

  “Besides, Derek’s been playing great hockey,” said Travis. “We have to make sure we’re all playing great tomorrow. So let’s smarten up.”

  “What about Sarah?” Fahd asked.

  “What about her?”

  “What if they do something again?”

  “The sticks are locked up in the van.”

  “What if they cut her straps?”

  “I brought my stuff back,” Sarah said. “It’s safe in my room.”

  “You bring your skates, too?” Wilson asked.

  Sarah shook her head. “They’re in with everyone else’s in the big footlocker, under lock and key.”

  “What if somebody breaks into it?” Fahd asked.

  “Who’d be able to tell my skates from anyone else’s?” Sarah asked.

  “Maybe it doesn’t matter,” Fahd said suddenly. “Who’s to say they won’t try something else now?”

  Travis didn’t follow: “Like what?”

  “Like what if someone takes Derek’s sticks this time?”

  “They’re all in the van.”

  “Or Dmitri’s skates. Or slashes Guy’s pads. If they can’t get at Sarah, why wouldn’t they get us some other way if they’re already d
oing what they’ve been doing?”

  As usual, Fahd’s points were dead on. If the Panthers’ purpose was to cripple the Screech Owls, and if stopping Sarah was no longer possible, then it stood to reason that they would have to be thinking of some other way. If Mr. Brown’s purpose–and Travis still couldn’t see that he had one–was to hurt Sarah, who had told on him, and Muck, who had humiliated him, then he would still want to get at Muck, and the only way left to him would be to go after Dmitri or Derek or Guy or Nish or, for that matter, Travis, who certainly wasn’t going to have two bad games in a row.

  Travis sighed, nodding. “Well, what do we do, then?”

  “Bring all the equipment down to the hotel,” Gordie Griffith suggested.

  “Not enough room,” Travis said.

  “Van’s already full of sticks,” Nish added.

  “Set up a real guard,” Fahd said.

  Travis didn’t follow. Nor, from the expression on the faces of the others, did anyone else.

  Fahd explained: “We tried the camera. It didn’t work. Someone still got in. We need a real guard there.”

  “You mean a player?” Sarah asked.

  “Yeah, someone who could stay in the room and make sure nothing happens.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Nish said.

  Fahd considered a moment. “Maybe. But since the problem has always been equipment, all we’d need to do is know what they’d done. We’d have until 4:30 to get it repaired. If we’d known about Sarah’s sticks before the game, we would have had lots of time to get her new ones.”

  “That’s true,” said Nish.

  “All we need is someone to watch and see if anything’s going on. Then, in the morning, either we fix it or we get Mr. Dillinger to fix it.”

  “We should tell our parents,” Data said.

  “No way!” Nish argued. “You think they’d let us stay up all night in the arena?”

  “Just one of us,” said Fahd.

  “One?” Nish asked.

  “We also want to find out who it is, don’t we?” Fahd asked. “We all go up there we’re just going to scare people off. Besides, if we want to win tomorrow, the rest of us are going to need our sleep.”