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  Losing to the Eagles was the lowest and most depressing point in my whole hockey career and we needed to get back to the way things were.

  Did he have to be so stubborn?

  Was it really that big a deal to let us play hockey at hockey practice?

  “I think this is stupid,” Colin said, as he laced up his running shoes. “This isn’t even hockey anymore.”

  “Totally,” Kenny nodded.

  The guys looked pretty surprised when I nodded too.

  “What’s going on, Nugget?” Chris asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, shrugging. I was tired of all the drama.

  “Is there something you aren’t telling us?” Colin asked, “Again?”

  “No, I’m just … I’m frustrated too.”

  “So do something about it,” Colin said. “He’s your dad.”

  “Look, I’ve tried talking to him and he won’t listen.”

  “Maybe we should go on strike,” Jeff suggested.

  “Yeah,” a couple of the guys agreed.

  What?

  “Brilliant idea,” Patrick said, sarcastically. “Then we don’t have a season at all.”

  “Better than a losing season,” Colin muttered.

  “No it isn’t,” Patrick told the whole group as he dropped his bag on the bench. “Any season is better than none. Don’t you guys remember when we were little and the whole NHL went on strike?”

  “No,” Colin snapped.

  “I do,” Kenny sighed. “It stunk.”

  “I know,” I said, remembering a fact I’d read. “It was the only year since 1919 that no one got a Stanley Cup. They didn’t play a single game.”

  No one said anything.

  “Look, a little running isn’t going to kill us,” Patrick said. “And we’ll be back on the ice for double the time at our next practice.”

  “Things better start turning around here,” Colin said, pushing past me and heading for the rink, Kenny right on his tail. “Or else.”

  “Or else what?” Patrick asked, but didn’t get an answer.

  “Are you coming, Nugget?” Colin called over his shoulder as he led Kenny and Jeff out to the hallway.

  I looked at Patrick, who’d stood up for Dad, and I felt my face turn red.

  “Bosko would have said something,” Patrick said quietly. “Bosko would have shut them up.”

  “Yeah, but he’s not here,” I said quietly.

  Where the heck was he? Dad’s best supporter was gone.

  In that second, I decided to follow the guys and leave Patrick, Bedhead and Dad’s other supporters behind. I was glad Bosko wasn’t there to see it.

  I walked down the hallway, surprised that he was a no-show. He never missed practice.

  Ever.

  When I got to the rink, the guys were all standing around, totally quiet.

  Dad was nowhere in sight.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “My dad and Mr. Cavanaugh are here to talk to your dad,” Colin said, with a smirk.

  I could hear voices near the concession stand, so I walked over, feeling my palms getting sweaty. I heard the rest of the guys following behind me, whispering.

  When I got to the three dads, they were all red-faced.

  Uh-oh.

  “You’re not even qualified to coach,” Mr. Bechter said.

  What?

  I felt like I’d been slapped in the face, and Dad looked like he actually had been.

  Then Kenny’s dad said, “Yeah, almost being a Flame isn’t the same as actually being one, Gord.”

  “I never said it was,” Dad told them. He looked seriously steamed. “And I have nothing to prove to either of you. If you felt this strongly about it, you should have volunteered to cover for Coach O’Neal.”

  “I wasn’t —” Mr. Bechter started, but Dad cut him off.

  “Here?” Dad asked. “Of course you weren’t. You haven’t been to a single game this season.”

  “But —”

  “You just introduced yourself to me because I’ve never even seen you in the seven years these boys have been playing together.”

  Mr. Bechter’s face turned an even deeper shade of red.

  “Yeah, well I’ve been here and —” Mr. Cavanaugh started.

  “And you have full knowledge of the sport?” Dad asked, looking doubtful.

  “Yes!” Kenny’s dad said, and some blobs of spit shot into the air.

  Gross.

  “Okay, I’m going to test you on that, Glen. If one of our players cross-checks the other team’s goalie while he’s in the crease, what happens?”

  “A major penalty,” Kenny’s dad said, shaking his head like it was a dumb question.

  “And?” Dad asked.

  “And what?”

  “I’m asking you, Glen.”

  “He’s off to the penalty box.” Kenny’s dad shook his head again, but this time he didn’t look as sure.

  “The ref’s also going to call a Game Misconduct.”

  Kenny’s dad frowned. “So?”

  “So you need to know the rules to coach, Glen. How about another one?” Dad asked, then didn’t wait for an answer. “Let’s say Kenny breaks his stick out there.”

  “He drops the broken pieces on the ice, then gets rid of them,” Mr. Cavanaugh said, like he was some kind of genius.

  “And then he does what?” Dad asked.

  “This is ridiculous,” Mr. Bechter said, shaking his head.

  “He gets a new one,” Mr. Cavanaugh said, rolling his eyes.

  “What if the broken stick belongs to the goalie?”

  “Same thing,” Mr. Cavanaugh said, shrugging.

  “So, the goalie picks up a new one from the team bench?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Only if he wants a Delay of Game penalty,” Dad said.

  “What?”

  Dad shook his head. “You can say what you want about my methods, but the simple fact is that I’m the only guy who stepped in for Coach O’Neal. Now, until you’ve read the Rule Book from start to finish, don’t waste any more of our practise time.”

  The two dads looked at each other, then at all of us.

  “Colin, get over here,” Mr. Bechter said. “We’re leaving.”

  Colin looked shocked. “But Dad —”

  “Now.”

  For a kid who’d been ready to go on strike, Colin looked miserable as he walked back to the locker room.

  “You too, Kenny,” Mr. Cavanaugh said. “Get your gear and let’s get out of here.” When Kenny walked away with his head hanging down, Mr. Cavanaugh turned to Dad. “This isn’t the end of the discussion,” he said as he and Mr. Bechter turned toward the exit.

  “Not by a long shot,” Mr. Bechter added.

  And then they were gone.

  Jeff looked at me. “Are you gonna stay?”

  “Well … yeah. What about you?”

  “I don’t want to leave,” he said, shrugging.

  I waited for Dad to say what jerks those dads were, but he didn’t. He blew his whistle instead.

  “The clock is ticking, guys,” he said. “Let’s hit the pavement.”

  As we jogged through the dark streets in sprinkling rain, the guys were pretty quiet. The only comments I heard were about how cool Patrick thought it was when Dad stood up to the other men, and how stupid they looked when he started quizzing them. “Mr. McDonald really knows his stuff,” Patrick said.

  “Well, duh,” Jeff said, like he hadn’t been siding with Colin all along. “The guy was a ref, for crying out loud. He’s an expert.”

  I kept pace with the rest of the guys, but on my own and off to the side, so I could think.

  I was super proud of the way Dad had stood up to those guys, and they’d definitely ended up looking foolish. But while Patrick had taken over sticking up for him, I’d been stupid enough to follow Colin.

  Now Jeff had switched sides and I felt like an idiot.

  Nothing was going the way it should.


  And the biggest problem of all?

  The Cougars might have to win without Colin and Kenny.

  And how were we supposed to do that?

  * * *

  I didn’t expect to see Bosko at school, since he wasn’t at practice, but once Math class rolled around, there he was, looking like nothing had happened.

  “Where were you this morning?” I asked.

  “In bed,” he said, digging into his pack.

  “In bed,” I repeated.

  “Yeah, I slept in.”

  “And missed practice,” I said, even though he already knew that.

  Bosko stared at me. “You got it.”

  “Well, are you going to be there on Wednesday?”

  “Probably.”

  “Bosko,” I sighed. “I don’t know if you heard what happened this morning, but —”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay, so we’ve got no Kenny or Colin now. And you know if you miss the practice right before the game, you don’t play.”

  “I know, Nugget.” He dropped his books on his desk with a thud. “Look, I had to talk my dad out of coming down this morning, okay?”

  “Seriously?” I’d never seen Bosko’s dad before, but imagined he had a lot in common with King Kong.

  “Yeah. He’s not too crazy about the whole centre thing.”

  “But —”

  “And neither am I.”

  “Obviously. Nice penalty to finish off the game.”

  He glared at me. “I’ve been the best player on every team I’ve been on for my entire life.”

  Was he including the Cougars? Because I was pretty sure I was outscoring him.

  “Do you know what it was like not to score a single goal on Saturday?”

  “Um …”

  “Of course you don’t,” he snorted. “You were too busy being the star.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “But did you have to charge that kid?”

  “I was mad, Nugget. So yeah, I did.”

  “Even though it cost the team?” I challenged.

  “Right now everything is costing the team. I like your dad and I get what he’s trying to do, but there’s no way I’m gonna play like that again.”

  “Bosko, centre doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

  “Why, because you’ll outscore me for the season?”

  “No, it could be a really good thing. Just think … we could be like the Sedin twins —”

  He laughed. “Yeah, right. I’m about three feet taller than you.”

  It was a total exaggeration (he was maybe two feet taller), but I let it go.

  “I don’t mean the twin part, but the awesome duo part.”

  “Whatever,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I think Dad’s on to something,” I told him, taking the opportunity to stick up for Dad after I’d blown it that morning. “Look at Jamie Benn.”

  “From Dallas? I hate the Stars.”

  “My point is that they switched him from wing to centre and he’s playing awesome.”

  “Nugget,” Bosko sighed.

  “Did you know Mark Messier played left wing before he switched to centre?”

  “Yup.”

  I wasn’t expecting that, so I had to think fast. “The guy won six Stanley Cups, Bosko.”

  “Last time I checked, we were a kids’ team in an island league. I don’t think we’re in the running for a Stanley Cup this season.”

  “You’re the one who was talking about an NHL career and working hard. Why can’t you see the big picture here?”

  He gave me the stare-down. “Why don’t you draw it for me?”

  “Paired up on the ice, we can be even stronger than ever.”

  “It’s not about that,” he sighed. “It’s about right wing. Gordie Howe played right wing.”

  “He was ambidextrous.” I had to look the word up when I read it in Shoot! Volume 2, so I knew it meant he was both left- and right-handed.

  “Yeah, but he always played right wing. Him, Brett Hull, The Rocket. They all played right wing.”

  “Yeah, but centre? Geez, man. Gretzky, Lemieux, Yzerman,” I counted off, glad I had plenty of ammo. “Federov played centre and right wing and defense. Bosko, you’re the freakin’ Sergei Federov of Vancouver Island if you pull this off.”

  “Exactly, Nugget. If. And you saw what happened at Saturday’s game.”

  “I know. But you have to at least try.”

  Bosko was quiet and I couldn’t tell if I’d managed to change his mind.

  “Look,” he finally said. “I respect your dad, and I respect his coaching, okay? I don’t like the idea of centre, but I’ll roll with the position change if I have to.”

  Yes!

  “Cool,” I said, nodding.

  “Yeah, well, my dad won’t be quite as cool. It was better to miss practice this morning than let him chew your dad up.”

  Chew him up?

  I swallowed hard. “Thanks, man.”

  “No problem,” he said. “For now, anyway.”

  I sat at my desk and waited for Mr. Holloway to pass all of the tests back.

  I closed my eyes and imagined a seventy-five or an eighty marked in red ink at the top of the page. All of Bosko’s tutoring had to pay off, didn’t it?

  I opened my eyes when I heard the teacher’s steps walking toward me.

  “Mr. McDonald,” he said, handing me the page and giving me a slight nod.

  Barely breathing, I glanced at the page.

  A seventy-seven.

  Yes!

  Bosko turned to face me and I whispered my score.

  He gave me a thumbs-up.

  Whew.

  So, Math wasn’t going to keep me off the ice (for that week, anyway). I closed my eyes again, totally relieved.

  After all, without Kenny and Colin, the Cougars’ hockey season was in more than enough trouble already.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bosko and I left Mr. Holloway’s class together, ready to head to the library for tutoring. But I hadn’t even made it to my locker when I heard my name over the P.A. system.

  “Jonathan McDonald, please report to the principal’s office.”

  What?

  “Busted,” Bosko, said, punching my shoulder.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I told him.

  “That’s your story. Stick to it,” he laughed.

  I couldn’t think of a single thing I’d done that would get me sent to the office. Geez, I’d been in school all stinkin’ day!

  As Bosko and I walked, a bunch of kids made stupid comments about what kind of trouble I was in.

  When we finally got there, I walked in the door and almost crashed into my sister.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Picking you up, dork.” She pulled her purse onto her shoulder and walked past me and Bosko, who was staring at her, as usual.

  My sister was almost six feet tall and ninety percent of her height was legs. She walked in huge steps and I was always hurrying to catch up.

  But not Bosko. My giant was right at her side, grinning like a fool.

  “Where are we going?” I called out to her.

  “Where do you think?” she asked, over her shoulder.

  “I don’t know. The mall?”

  “Ha! As if I’d be seen with you toads at the mall.”

  Hadn’t she tried dragging me there just a few days ago?

  “Then where?”

  “Home, dummy.”

  “But we’re going to the library,” I told her.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Wendy, seriously, what’s going on?”

  She stopped and turned to face me with her hands on her hips. “The only way Mum would let me borrow the van was if I picked you up.”

  “But —”

  “Get moving.”

  Once we found the van, even Bosko cringed.

  It was parked diagonally and took up almost three spaces. I wouldn’t have thought it was pos
sible if I hadn’t seen it myself.

  “Whoa,” Bosko said, under his breath.

  “Just wait,” I told him. “It gets worse.”

  And it did.

  When Wendy wasn’t slamming the brakes on the way home, she was swerving toward the double line, and just when I thought I wouldn’t survive the ride, she pulled out her cell phone.

  “What are you doing?” I gasped.

  “What does it look like?”

  “You’re not allowed to call people when you’re driving.”

  “I’m not going to,” she said.

  I let out the breath I was holding. “Good.”

  “I’m sending a quick text.”

  “What?” I choked.

  “Isn’t that illegal?” Bosko asked, with a gulp.

  I’d never seen him scared before, and it would have been funny if I hadn’t been terrified, myself.

  “What are you, a hall monitor?” she sneered.

  I stared at her. “Okay, that doesn’t even make sense.”

  “Shut up, Nugget,” she snapped, steering with one hand while she typed letters with the other.

  “You’re going to kill us,” I told her.

  “Yeah, right,” she said.

  “Stop, Wendy,” I said, seeing the traffic slowing down in front of us.

  “I’m almost done.”

  “No, I mean stop!” I shouted.

  The car in front of us wasn’t moving.

  But we were.

  Fast.

  There was a huge crunch and I was thrown forward, hard. I was glad I was wearing my seatbelt, because otherwise I would have been hurled in the air for a couple of blocks, probably all the way into a booth at KFC.

  When all the noise stopped, we didn’t say anything for a moment. We just stared at the car in front of us.

  “No way,” Wendy whispered, covering her mouth with her hand. “No way did that just happen.”

  “Are you okay?” Bosko asked.

  Even he looked kind of shaken up.

  “No way did that just happen,” she said again.

  “I heard you the first time, and it did,” I told her. I watched the driver in front of us get out of his car and check for damage.

  He didn’t have to look very hard.

  He frowned and signalled for Wendy to get out of the car.

  My sister shook her head and didn’t move. “This can’t be happening,” she mumbled. “They’re going to kill me.”

  “Who?” I asked, imagining the other guy’s car was loaded with gangsters or bloodthirsty zombies.