“Practically–they’re worried about the Russian mob.”
“Somebody wants to kill your cousin?” Travis asked. He couldn’t believe it.
“Not kill him, stupid–kidnap him!”
“Kidnap him?” the other three said at once.
“Yeah, hold him for ransom. You know.”
“He’s that rich?” Nish asked. He was incredulous.
Dmitri shook his head. “Not rich. He’s that good.”
“Explain,” Nish demanded.
“The mob has already blackmailed lots of NHL players. They threaten to harm family members back in Russia and the player pays up. It’s simple.”
“That’s crazy!” Lars said.
“Russia’s crazy right now,” said Dmitri. “They know what everyone is saying about Slava. They say he’s the best ever, as good as Larionov, as good as Fedorov, Bure, Yashin.”
“But he has no money,” pointed out Travis. “He can’t even be drafted until he’s eighteen.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Dmitri. “He means everything to Russian hockey right now. He’s the proof that there are still great players coming up through the system. The Russian Ice Hockey Federation only exists because of the money they’re getting from NHL teams right now. They’d pay whatever ransom was necessary.”
“So they send him over here with bodyguards?” Lars said.
“That’s it.”
“Ridiculous,” Lars said, shaking his head.
Travis had to agree. A thirteen-year-old peewee hockey player? How good could he be?
Slava Shadrin’s CSKA team, in uniforms as red as the arena seats, was already on the Globen rink when the Screech Owls came out. It took Travis a while to locate number 13. Slava was certainly an elegant skater, but was he better than Sarah Cuthbertson? Travis looked for Sarah and found her circling about the huge ice surface like milkweed floating on a breeze.
Travis hit the crossbar on his first practice shot and knew he was going to have a good game. As team captain, he lined up the Owls to take practice shots at Jenny Staples and Jeremy Weathers. Jenny was getting the first start in the tournament, and she was nervous. More shots were going in than she was keeping out.
Travis’s legs felt good. They had been a bit rubbery after the long flight and then the Swedish-style practice, but now everything was back. He moved without effort, quick, fluid, and smooth. He hoped he looked good to the Russians. He hoped they’d noticed his C for “Captain” he had already noticed the K for “Kaptain” on number 13.
Muck called them all over to the bench. This was most unusual for Muck, who usually spoke only in the dressing room.
“You’re here to play, not watch,” Muck said. “Don’t let what you see hypnotize you out there. You want number 13’s autograph, you can line up and get it when the game’s over.”
Travis thought Muck was going too far. Slava didn’t seem that special. Sarah could skate as well, and Andy Higgins could shoot a puck as hard as any thirteen-year-old Travis had ever seen. He himself was a pretty good playmaker, wasn’t he? And who was faster than Dmitri on a break?
“Sarah, he’s your check right through the neutral zone,” Muck said. “He crosses our blueline, Nishikawa, and he’s all yours. I want you to stick to him like Krazy Glue, both of you. Understand?”
No one said anything. No one had to. Travis hammered his stick on the ice and the others followed suit and then broke from the bench to tap Jenny’s pads and get the game under way.
Sarah’s line would start. Nish and Data were on defence. Travis felt a little uneasy being back on left wing, but he knew they would play better with Sarah’s speed at the middle position. And besides, Sarah had to stick with Slava, who was starting centre for CSKA.
The two teams exchanged gifts–small Canadian flags for the Russians, CSKA pins for the Canadians–and after they had dropped them off into a pillowcase Mr. Dillinger was holding out from the bench, they skated out to start.
Sarah won the face-off cleanly, knocking the puck on her backhand towards Travis. Travis picked it up, spun back, and dropped the puck to Nish, who looked up and decided to hit Sarah as she broke to split the Russian defence. It was a set play, one they had worked on in practice, and it had gone beautifully before–a quick attack before anyone realized the game had even started.
Nish passed, but the puck slammed straight into a pair of shin pads that seemed to arrive out of nowhere. It was number 13, Slava! Two strides and he had left Sarah flying in the other direction–Sarah, who had been supposed to stick to him like Krazy Glue in the neutral zone.
Slava Shadrin split the Owls’ defence and flew in on Jenny so fast that the unbelievable happened. Jenny first skated quickly out to cut down the angle, and then, realizing he was simply going to blow by her, she caught and tried to switch instantly into reverse. The move was too sudden and she fell over backwards, flat on her back.
Slava Shadrin went in around the fallen goaltender, spun in a circle, and dropped the puck between his own legs and into the empty net.
CSKA 1, Screech Owls 0.
Sarah’s line knew they were going off even though they’d been on for only eight seconds. They skated off, heads down, and Nish and Data followed.
Muck tapped Andy Higgins on the shoulder. “Tell Jenny to come over here,” he said.
Travis looked up, puzzled. Was Muck going to pull her?
Andy’s line went out and Jenny skated over to the bench. She was crying.
Muck spoke to her. “Sarah missed her check. Nishikawa missed his check. You were the only one in position. So forget it even happened, okay?”
Muck paused a second, and came as close to smiling as he ever did while working the bench.
“And one more thing,” he said. “No matter what happens, you’re our goaltender today.”
Jenny couldn’t speak. By now, everyone knew she had been crying, but no one thought it was funny. She nodded, her mask exaggerating the movement, and turned and skated quickly back to her net. Travis could tell from the way Jenny slammed her stick against the posts and set that she was right back in the game.
Sarah’s line didn’t get another shift until the second half of the first period, and by then Travis had had every opportunity to see why Slava Shadrin was considered so special.
He had never seen anyone–not even Sarah–skate like that. Slava didn’t look particularly fast, his legs didn’t pump very quickly, but he moved about the ice so cleverly that he always seemed to appear where he shouldn’t be. He was as quick going to both sides as ahead, as fast backchecking as attacking.
When Slava was out there, CSKA always seemed to have the puck. He didn’t keep it for himself; he could have it just for a moment–a moment in which it seemed every one of the Owls was turning to check him–and then it would be gone. His passes were like darts, quick little flicks that snapped the puck onto his teammates’ blades, and they would no sooner have the puck than, instantly, Slava was in a wide-open stretch of ice calling for it.
The Russians were up 3–0 when Sarah’s line was given another chance. This time she was ready. Wherever Slava went, she went too. She dived to block passes, she stuck to him like a shadow, and Slava seemed to enjoy it.
Once, Slava came in on Nish and stopped so fast that ice chips flew into his face as if they’d been thrown from a snowblower. Slava let the puck slip on under its own momentum and right through Nish’s skates. One quick turn and he was once again home free. He cut across the net, getting Jenny to follow, and then slipped a pass back to his winger, who knew exactly what to expect.
CSKA 4, Screech Owls 0.
The Owls found themselves a bit in the second. Sarah knocked a pass from Slava out of the air and hit Travis as he broke up the boards. With the Russian defenceman squeezing him out, Travis remembered what Muck always preached: A shot at the net is never a bad decision. The goaltender let a fat rebound come off right onto the stick of Dmitri, who roofed the puck on his backhand.
CSKA nearly
scored again when Slava put a pass back through his legs to the point and the biggest Russian defenceman wound up for a mighty slapshot. Travis knew if he dived he might block the shot, or at least tip it up and away, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He stuck out his stick warily and the shot screamed right through and clanged off the crossbar. Lucky for Travis.
Next shift, Muck kept Travis on the bench. Muck was letting him know that he had seen him back off. Travis was still afraid of getting hit with a shot.
As he sat out the shift, Travis glanced up into the crowd. Annika and some of the Malmö team were there, singing and waving their club banner, and, every once in a while, shouting “EEEE-AWWW-KEEE!” when Nish had the puck.
A man was standing beside the Owls’ bench. There was something about the cut of his suit and the look of him that told Travis he was another Russian. The man was chewing on a toothpick, and when he worked his lips Travis could see the flash of a gold tooth. He looked nasty. But Travis supposed that was how a Russian undercover cop would look.
Late in the game, Sarah scored on a beautiful solo rush when she split the defence, and big Andy Higgins scored on a shot that went in off the toe of one of the CSKA defence. But they couldn’t come all the way back.
The horn sounded and the first game of the tournament was over. CSKA had beaten the Screech Owls 6–3, but it could have been much worse. Jenny Staples had made so many great stops after the first disaster that she was named Canadian Player of the Game. Jenny and Slava Shadrin, the obvious Russian Player of the Game, both received tournament banners.
They lined up and shook hands. Travis was in front of Nish, who was still complaining about one of the goals. Nish hadn’t had a great game. Travis came to Slava, who had his hand out and was smiling, his big teeth protruding slightly.
“Good game, captain,” Slava said.
“You, too,” said Travis. He felt a thrill that such a good player would even notice him out there. And he had noticed Travis’s C, as well!
Slava passed on to Nish, who had his hand out but without much enthusiasm. Slava took it, pumped it, and made a kissing sound with his lips.
“Get a life!” Nish growled.
Travis woke with a start. He’d been dreaming about the man with the gold tooth. The man had a gun and was chasing them. They were in a rink, Travis and Nish, and they were in bare feet, and the man was on skates. And he was raising his gun to fire…
There was light streaming from the bathroom. Four of them were sleeping in the room, and on his left Travis could see the mound that was Data, and beyond Data, with the sheets kicked off and lying flat on his stomach, was Lars. So it had to be Nish in the bathroom. Travis waited, but there was no sound. No water running. Nothing. He remembered Nish had gone down to the little mall in the evening. He had said he had to get to a drugstore. Maybe he’s not feeling well, Travis thought. Maybe I’d better check on him.
He rolled out of bed. The sheets stuck to his back. He’d been sweating. Frightened.
“You okay, Nish?” Travis called lightly.
“Fine,” the answer came back, sharply. The door slammed shut.
Travis waited a while longer. Lars was stirring now and starting to get up. They would be leaving for Malmö at nine, so everyone had to get up and pack. They would need the bathroom.
Travis got up and went to the door, Lars–scratching his sides–right behind him.
“Can we come in?” Travis called.
“In a minute!”
Lars yawned. “He’s in a good mood this morning.”
“I don’t think he’s feeling well.”
They waited a moment longer. Travis tapped his knuckles lightly on the door.
“Okay, okay, okay!” Nish called from inside.
They could hear him fiddling with the lock. The door opened–and someone they had never seen before was standing in front of them!
All they could see was the hair. Dark hair, standing almost straight up. Hair moulded into shiny, black spikes. Like stalagmites in a dark cavern. Still dripping with something oily.
“Nish?” Lars said.
Below the shining, black spikes, a big Nish grin spread across a vaguely familiar face.
“How do you like it? Just like Borje Salming, don’t you think? A little mousse, a little Swedish gel–cost me less than thirty krona.”
Travis didn’t know what to say. His hair was, well, bizarre. It was a bit like Borje Salming’s, but this was also something entirely unique.
“Well?” Nish demanded.
Lars pushed by, giggling. He elbowed Nish out, closed the door, and locked it. He had to use the facilities.
“Well?” Nish said again.
Travis still didn’t know what to say. He swallowed hard.
“I think you look like an idiot.”
“You’re just jealous,” Nish said, pushing Travis out of the way so he could dress.
Nish’s new hair was the highlight of the trip to Malmö. Sarah laughed so hard she had tears rolling down her cheeks. Wilson and Data stood behind his seat holding their noses, for Nish’s slicked head had a certain distinctive smell.
“We’ll have to drill holes in the top of his helmet,” said Muck, shaking his head.
They set off by double-decker tour bus on a cold March morning, but in sunshine so bright it soon heated up the vehicle. Some of the seats were positioned around little card tables with special holders built in for drinks, so the players drank Cokes and played hearts.
They drove south along the coastline and then cut inland, travelling on good, clear highways across the frozen south of Sweden. Travis took off his Screech Owls jacket and stuffed it against his window, then turned and stared out. The bus rolled through countryside with more frozen lakes than Travis had ever seen. On some of the lakes people were ice fishing. There were cars out on the ice, and along the shore Travis saw several saunas–some with smoke rising from them. Once, he could swear he saw a naked man and woman and child rolling in the snow beside one of them, but he didn’t say anything.
He didn’t want Nish ordering the bus around for a photo opportunity.
“EEEE-AWWW-KEEE!”
Nish was up at the front of the bus even before it passed the Malmö train station on the way to their hotel. They turned left, then right, and finally down a street so narrow it seemed the bus would scrape along both sides until it got stuck. They were at the Master Johan Hotel, their home for the next four nights.
“Sit down, Nishikawa!” Muck ordered from his seat just behind the driver.
But it was no use. Nish was already down the stairwell and at the door. Outside, running to catch up, were several Malmö kids, Annika in the lead.
“EEEE-AWWW-KEEE!” Annika shouted.
“Nish has found his true love!” Lars called. Everyone laughed.
The Owls spilled off the bus. They were stiff and tired. Sarah and Dmitri were jogging on the spot, trying to loosen up. Nish was high-fiving Annika and her friends and acting as if he were some visiting ambassador.
“Gillar du hans hår?” (“How do you like his hair?”) Lars asked Annika.
“Häftigt!” (“Awesome!”)
The Malmö team had already beaten the team from Germany and they were all planning to attend the Screech Owls’ game against Finland.
“We’re going to cheer for Canada,” Annika told Nish.
Canada? Travis hadn’t thought of it that way before. To him, they were the Screech Owls. But to these kids, they were Team Canada–just as Kariya and Gretzky and even Paul Henderson had played for Team Canada. They were representing their country. Travis felt a tremendous glow of pride come over him. And responsibility.
He was captain of the Canadian team.
The Master Johan was perfect. The rooms were huge, with cots thrown in so there could be four or five players per room. It was the fanciest hotel Travis and most of the other Owls had ever stayed at–marble sinks, deep carpets, and a huge courtyard under a glass roof where they served breakfast.
They slept well–no nightmares for Travis this time–and in the morning were given time off to do anything they wanted. Most of the parents were going shopping or to the art museum. A few of the mothers were even going to take the hovercraft across the sound to Copenhagen, in Denmark, for a day of shopping. Heading across the sea to another country seemed no more unusual to the people of Malmö than getting in the van to drive down to the mall.
“There’s a castle about five minutes from here,” Mr. Johanssen told the kids.
“A castle!” Data screeched.
Mr. Johanssen laughed. “You’re in Europe, young man. There are castles everywhere. This one is more than five hundred years old–and it used to be a prison.”
“Did they torture people there?”
“I don’t know, but some prisoners were executed,” Mr. Johanssen said. “But that was a long, long time ago.”
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” shouted Data.
But not everyone wanted to go. Several of the Owls were headed off shopping with their parents. Nish insisted on going to McDonald’s with Annika and her friends. In the end about a half-dozen of the Owls went with Mr. Johanssen to see Malmöhus Castle. Data, of course, and Wilson, Andy, Travis, Dmitri, and Lars.
The castle wasn’t at all like the one at the entrance to Disney World’s Magic Kingdom, but it did have an old moat, and two gun towers were still standing, and it felt very old. Travis ran two rolls of film through his camera.
Mr. Johanssen and Lars led them on a tour. What they couldn’t see they had to imagine. The castle had also been used as a mint for making coins, as a home for the poor, as a prison–and even as an asylum.
Now it was used for various exhibitions, usually art, but this month featured a special display, “Arms and Armour: Norse and Viking Warriors.” They passed through room after room of shiny metal armour, chain mail, shields, swords, spiked flails, mace, and spears.
“Hollywood got it all wrong in the Viking movies,” Mr. Johanssen told them. “The basic Viking weapon was the spear, not the sword.”
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 2 Page 3