Again he shook his head. “It’s mine from home.”
The woman blinked several times, not comprehending. “You brought it from home,” she said, a smile cracking her stern face. “What is it, your security blanket? Can’t you go anywhere without television?”
“I guess,” Nish said.
Travis guessed better. He remembered a conversation from the last practice before they left Tamarack. Nish had a new theory. The reason they couldn’t get the adult channels in hotels, he said, was because the pay channels were all blocked through the converters.
“All I have to do is bring my own along,” he had claimed. “And we’ll be watching all the disgusting filth a young man needs.”
“You’re sick,” said Wilson.
“Why, thank you,” Nish answered.
“It won’t work,” predicted Travis.
Nish had laughed it off, convinced he had finally solved his lifelong quest to watch restricted movies.
They finally got through the check and were on their way to the dressing room. Sarah and Travis hurried to catch up to Nish, still red-faced and sweating from the grilling he had taken.
“Well?” Travis asked. “Did it work?”
“Did what work?” Nish said, pretending not to follow.
“The remote.”
Nish only shook his head angrily and hurried on, leaving Travis and Sarah to laugh at their goofy friend and try to imagine poor Mrs. Nishikawa back in Tamarack, with a solid week of searching through their little house wondering where on earth she had mislaid the television remote.
“He is a mental case,” said Sarah.
“If the President only knew who his son’s been hanging out with,” said Travis.
13
“I’ve been doing some calculations,” Mr. Dillinger was saying as he stood in the centre of the dressing room.
The Owls were all dressed for the game against the Washington Wall. Nish was in his usual pre-game pose: helmet on, head bowed down to the top of his shin pads so it looked like he was sleeping. He couldn’t be, though. He was still doing that obnoxious tapping very lightly with the blade tip of his stick. Tap-tap … tap-tap-tap … tap-tap.
It was unusual for Mr. Dillinger to make any kind of a speech. He had a piece of paper in his hand and was checking some scribblings on it.
“Take this tournament so far,” Mr. Dillinger continued. “Go back two weeks in our regular season play. Add in the tournament we played over in Parry Sound, and we’re on a twelve-game unbeaten streak. Nine wins, three ties, and zero losses. A dozen games without a loss, Owls. That’s our best streak ever!”
“Not quite,” a muffled voice said from the corner.
Mr. Dillinger spun around to look at Nish, whose head was seemingly glued to his shin pads.
“What did you say?” Mr. Dillinger said, surprise in his voice. He began checking his figures.
“Nuthin’,” the voice barely mumbled.
“No, Nish – you had something to say,” Mr. Dillinger persisted.
Slowly Nish’s head came up. Even through Nish’s face shield Travis could see that his pal was turning beet-red.
“What was it you said?” Mr. Dillinger pressed.
Nish cleared his throat. “It’s just that the best streak is about to come,” he said in a sheepish voice.
Mr. Dillinger nodded, satisfied. “Attaboy, Nish! Thinking ahead as always. That’s my boy! Win this one, and it’s thirteen without a loss. Then fourteen, fifteen, sixteen … !”
Nish nodded happily in agreement.
Sarah and Travis looked at each other, shaking their heads in amazement.
Nish didn’t mean hockey.
He was thinking of the White House.
Nish the Bubble Butt, streaking the White House.
Muck told them the tournament was running a bit late. They should keep their legs loose, the coach advised them. Loosen their skates if they liked. The delay would be at least fifteen minutes.
Some of the Owls lay flat on their backs on the floor and raised their skates up on the bench. Mr. Dillinger was a great believer in keeping the blood flowing to the brain before a big game. No one knew if this were true or not, but most of the Owls didn’t want to take a chance.
Travis got up and shuffled out the door. He was too nervous to sit still. He hated delays. He always tried to finish dressing – with the sweater going over his head, him kissing the inside of it as it passed – just as Muck was coming in the door for one of his little speeches – if you could even call them that. Then they’d be up and away out the door almost immediately.
He walked along the rubber carpeting to the maintenance area. There was a swinging door there with a small window in it. On his skates, he was tall enough to look through it.
The Zamboni was already running. The driver had moved it to the entrance chute, and another worker was waiting with his hands on the lever that would open up the doors onto the chute the moment the buzzer sounded.
Travis heard the buzzer sound in the rink and a cheer from the small crowd for whichever was the winning side. Almost instantly, the worker jacked open the big doors, pushed them clear, and the Zamboni driver all but bucked the huge machine out onto the ice surface.
It had all happened in an instant. Travis was now looking at an empty Zamboni chute.
But only empty for a moment.
As soon as the machine left, another person came in and brushed right in front of the small window Travis was staring through. It wasn’t an arena worker – this was someone in a grey suit.
As Travis tried to get a second look, the grey suit shot across to the other side.
Travis jumped back.
Earplug!
He was moving quickly. He yanked open the door leading to the compressor and the cooling pipes, and darted in. In a moment, he was back out. He checked in closets and equipment docks and pushed aside cabinets to look behind them.
Travis shook his head. A special security sweep before a peewee hockey game when they’d already checked everyone at the entrances? The President wasn’t even coming to this game.
Earplug checked to see where the Zamboni was on the ice, then pushed one of the cabinets up against the far wall, just beyond the drainage dock where the Zamboni sat when not in use.
He jumped up on the cabinet and reached above him.
Travis shook his head in amazement. Earplug was even checking the security video camera. Travis had noticed them earlier; little cameras in every corridor, panning from side to side, even outside the dressing rooms.
Earplug waited while the camera lens slowly panned away from him. Then he pulled a square block out of his jacket pocket, peeled off a paper covering that Travis realized was over sticky glue, and quickly set the block neatly into the corner of the wall so that it fit snugly and stayed there.
Travis was amazed at Earplug’s thoroughness – the small block was even painted the same blue-grey colour as the walls. It was barely noticeable.
Earplug watched as the camera lens panned back towards the block, struck against it, stayed there a moment, and then reversed direction.
Earplug watched the camera move, obviously satisfied. He hopped down, quickly moving the cabinet back to its original position, and checked the camera action again. It swept across the far side of the chute, hit against the painted block, shuddered slightly, then swept back.
What was with Earplug? Travis wondered. Was he so certain something bad was going to happen in the far corner of the Zamboni chute that the camera had to do double time over that spot? A bit much, Travis figured. But then, everything to do with security and the President, and even the President’s son, seemed a bit much to Travis.
He headed back to the dressing room for his stick. Earplug was already gone and the Zamboni was heading back towards the chute, the fresh new ice gleaming in the background.
14
Travis hit the crossbar during the warm-up. He would have a good game. The Owls were pumped for the match. Two of
the local television stations were here to film the President’s son playing for the Wall.
“He comes one-on-one against me,” Nish said as they lined up for shots on Jenny, “I’m gonna let him beat me.”
“Is that your deal?” Sam called from the other side of Travis. “He gets to beat you, you get to streak his living room?”
Nish made like he was about to hurl on her.
“Get a life!” Sam shouted back as she jumped up to take a shot.
“She’s just jealous,” Nish hissed in Travis’s ear, “’cause I’ll be on TV and she won’t.”
The Wall were a fine team. They were coached by a former Washington Capitals player who’d stayed on in the area after he’d retired, and the team played excellent positional hockey.
They did not, however, have a playmaker to match Sarah, or anyone with quite the speed of Dmitri. The Owls quickly went up 2–0 on a goal by Dmitri on a breakaway, and by Travis on a nice tip off a shot from the point from Sam.
Travis was impressed with Chase Jordan. He had good speed and fair skills, but more than anything else he had unbelievable determination. He was the kind of player Muck liked best, the player who can deliver a better game than his skills would suggest, simply out of sheer will.
It took a while for the Washington Wall to find their game. They seemed intimidated by the Owls at first, but by the second period they had come to realize if they put a special checker – Chase Jordan – on Sarah, they could do much to neutralize the Owls.
“He’s good,” Sarah puffed as their line came off for a break.
Travis nodded. He heard the admiration in Sarah’s voice. She was different from most other good players, who showed their frustration at being checked. Sarah never got angry. She got even. She would figure out Chase Jordan.
The Wall tied the game at 3–3 and then went ahead 4–3 on a fluke goal that went in off Fahd’s skate.
Chase Jordan went off for tripping on the next shift, however, after hauling down Sarah when she gave him the slip. The cameras were right on him during the play and followed him into the penalty box. Travis was certain this would be the clip they’d be playing on the evening news.
“She shoulda got a penalty herself for diving,” Nish hissed as he and Travis circled, killing time before the faceoff.
Travis couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Nish was blaming Sarah for faking the trip, just so she could get on television instead of him.
Travis could sense what was coming. Nish was going “coast-to-coast” the second he got the puck. Nish knew that if the Owls scored while the President’s son was in the penalty box, it would become part of the story.
Sarah won the faceoff and sent the puck over to Travis, who chipped it back to Nish.
Nish turned back, leaving the checkers waiting. He went behind his own net, stickhandling slowly, and stopped.
Ridiculous, Travis thought. It looked to the crowd like Nish was figuring out the lay of the ice, but in fact all he was doing was waiting for the cameras to find him.
Satisfied, Nish began stickhandling out of his own end. Up to the blueline and over, where the first checker tried for him.
Nish faked a pass to Travis. The checker fell for it, and Nish stepped around him, moving to centre.
A second checker charged, but Nish deftly slipped the puck between the Wall player’s skates and picked it up on the other side.
Dmitri was breaking fast, pounding the ice for the pass that should have come.
But Nish wasn’t passing.
Dmitri broke over the line offside, braked so hard snow flew up towards the glass, and he cut back hard, straddling the blueline with one leg while he waited to see what Nish would do.
Nish changed speeds, moving quickly toward the blueline. The Wall defence backpedalled, moving in towards him to pinch him off if necessary.
Sarah was clear on the other side, but Nish ignored her.
Travis looped back, coming in behind Nish for the drop pass, but Nish ignored him.
Nish let the puck go, raised his arms, and drove like a bulldozer into the two defenders as all three came together. Both Wall defence went down, leaving Nish staggering slightly but still moving.
He raced for the puck just as the Wall goaltender decided to lunge for it with his stick.
Nish reached out at the same moment, and the puck popped between the two stick blades, rising high and spinning until it came down on the far side of the net.
Sarah was there, waiting.
The goalie sprawled helplessly as Sarah came in on the empty net. She tapped the puck in and spun into Dmitri’s arms.
Tie game, 4–4!
All the Owls on the ice converged on Sarah, slapping her helmet and pounding her on the back. All but Nish, who lightly tapped her shin pads and spun away.
“Glory hog!” he hissed back.
The Owls moved ahead to stay on a sweet goal by Simon, a hard blast by Andy, and a weird “knuckler” from the blueline by Wilson.
The clock was ticking down fast, with the Owls ahead 7–4, when, in the dying moments, Chase Jordan swept the puck away from Sarah and ended up all alone with it at centre ice.
Sarah had fallen when Chase Jordan checked her, so she was out of the play. Dmitri and Travis were too far down the ice to get back in time. Fahd, the other Owls defence, was out of position and scrambling to get back.
It was Chase Jordan against Nish. One on one.
Chase Jordan came over the blueline, with only Nish between him and the net. He set to shoot, no doubt hoping to blast a screen shot that Jenny wouldn’t see until too late.
Nish fell to block the shot, spinning towards Chase.
Chase seemed surprised – Nish had gone down too soon.
He checked his swing and drew the puck back again with his blade, out of Nish’s reach.
Nish spun helplessly towards the boards.
Chase moved in quickly. Forehand, backhand, forehand, backhand again.
Jenny went for the fake, guessing.
Chase held, the side of the net opening up.
He looped a high backhand in under the crossbar, sending the water bottle sailing as high as if Dmitri himself had taken the shot.
The horn blew. The whistle blew. The Wall bench emptied, every player charging Chase Jordan for his spectacular goal.
The cameras were racing out onto the ice.
Forget the penalty, forget the girl the President’s son had tripped – this was the shot for the evening news! The Owls had won 7–5, but anyone who walked into the building at that moment would think the Wall had won the Stanley Cup.
The Owls each rapped Jenny’s pads and then lined up to shake hands with the Wall who were still celebrating.
Travis found himself lining up right behind Nish. He couldn’t help but ask. “You didn’t, did you?”
Nish turned, face red, eyes wide. “What?” Nish asked, as if he had no clue what Travis meant.
“Let him do that?”
Nish grinned, ear to ear. “What do you take me for?”
Travis couldn’t be bothered answering.
It would take forever.
15
Travis woke to the sound of Fahd clicking through the television channels in search of cartoons.
Click.
“Shoot!”
Click.
“Bor-ring!”
Click.
“Dumb!”
Click.
“It should be illegal to run news on Saturday mornings!”
Travis rolled over, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and trying to focus on the rapidly flipping television screen. Fahd was right. Saturday morning in Washington, D.C., and it seemed every television station was talking about the big crisis they were trying to solve at the White House. Channel after channel showed nothing but men in blue suits talking. A spokesman from the White House was saying they were this close – and he held out his thumb and forefinger with a tiny gap between them – from reaching a breakthrough agreeme
nt. No one knew what would happen, but that wasn’t stopping every expert on television from giving an opinion.
Travis agreed with Fahd. He’d rather watch cartoons.
“This is ridiculous!” said Fahd, slamming down the remote.
Travis was about to suggest they pass on cartoons and play a round of Nintendo instead, when the telephone rang beside Nish’s bed.
A huge pillow looped over from the other side and smothered the phone. Nish’s way of answering.
Lars dug out the phone and answered it. “Johanssen.”
Travis shook his head. He’d never heard anyone answer a telephone that way until Lars came over from Sweden. Lars said he couldn’t understand why people in North America just answered “Hello,” and he refused to change.
“Uh huh … yeah … uh huh … okay … thanks.” He hung up.
Travis waited, but Lars wasn’t quick enough. “What?” Travis and Fahd said at once.
“Mr. Dillinger. Chase Jordan’s pulled a few strings, it seems.”
“Meaning?” Fahd said, again not waiting for Lars to finish.
“Our White House tour starts in forty-five minutes!”
Fahd pumped a fist. “Yes!”
On Nish’s bed, several pillows shifted. A huge, puzzled face emerged, like a bear shaking off a cover of snow.
“Huh?” Nish grunted.
“The tour! Nish! We got the tour!”
“Whazzat?” Nish mumbled.
“We’re going to the White House!”
Nish shook his head again, rubbed a hand through his flyaway hair, then began nodding and smiling.
“You gotta get ready,” Fahd said, scrambling to put on his Owls track pants.
“We’ve only got forty-five minutes,” added Lars.
With a big arm, Nish swept away the remaining pillows and sheets that were covering him.
He was buck-naked, not a stitch on.
“I’m already ready!”
They made it easily. Mr. Dillinger had the bus rolled up to the hotel entrance and the Owls hurried out and into their seats for the short ride over to the White House. They were all in their team windbreakers, Nish included. They had on their Owls track pants, Nish included. He’d even taken time to comb his unruly hair. They looked like a perfect, well-behaved peewee hockey team, which is exactly what they were – with one possible exception. But Travis wasn’t that worried about Nish. He wouldn’t have the nerve to try anything stupid here.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 4 Page 29