Hat Trick Read online

  So far, drinking milk wasn’t helping and neither were stretching exercises or “thinking tall,” and that stunk.

  “You’re wiggling,” Mum said.

  “Sorry,” I whispered, then held my breath.

  If you flipped through our photo album, the first thing you’d notice was that in every single team picture since I started playing, I was sitting on the ice in front of everybody else. While they stood in a row behind me, I was cross-legged, holding the Cutter Bay Cougars sign in my lap. That’s because if the photographer lined me up next to the rest of the guys, I would have looked like the team mascot.

  I’d been waiting for the growth spurt Mum kept promising for about three years, but nothing was happening. And I mean nothing. After all, we kept track.

  I crossed my fingers even tighter as Mum stepped closer to the fresh pencil mark to write the date. I didn’t turn around to look, figuring it was probably bad luck.

  “So?” I finally asked.

  “Mmmm … a pinch,” she said, frowning a little.

  That wasn’t good. “A pinch or a smidge?” I asked her.

  She hesitated. “Well, it might be closer to a smidge, hon.”

  I whipped around to check my latest measurement.

  Nuts!

  There was barely any space for Mum to write, because the new line and date was in the exact same spot as the month before. I was the same stinking height as thirty days ago! That wasn’t a smidge!

  Of course, it could have been worse. Sometimes she had to measure me twice because it actually looked like I’d shrunk, and that was enough to keep me up at night. In seven months, I’d only grown two centimetres, and no matter how nicely Mum told me what a big change that was, two measly centimetres was nowhere near enough to make a difference.

  “Great,” I groaned.

  Ella Patterson and I were tied as the shortest kids in my grade. And even though we were the exact same height, she had the advantage. When she wore certain shoes or piled her hair on top of her head in a crazy bun thing, she was definitely taller.

  What was I supposed to do, wear super-thick socks? Spike my hair?

  “I’m sorry, honey,” Mum said, rubbing my back. After a minute she added, “I really think we should start doing this every two or three months.”

  “No way,” I said stubbornly.

  “Jonathan, it’s not worth getting upset over.”

  I looked at her like she was crazy and she pulled me into a tight hug. I let her do it because sometimes you have to let Mums give you a squeeze. (And because I liked it.)

  “You’re way taller than you were last year,” she whispered.

  “So’s the front lawn,” I muttered.

  Sometimes I hoped the growing I’d been missing out on would catch up with me all at once. I dreamed I’d wake up one morning and when I rolled out of bed, the floor would look like it was an escalator ride away. Even better, I’d be able to reach the kitchen cupboards without that stupid wooden stool.

  Sure, I knew that if I grew a bunch overnight I’d be awkward and uncoordinated, with zero control over my limbs. But if that magical miracle happened, believe me, I would figure out a way to adapt. If I had my turbo growth spurt, I’d tower over the kids at the bus stop and Mr. Su, who taught grade six P.E. and coached boys’ basketball, would be following me down the hallway during lunch hour, begging me to try out. Or maybe he’d skip the tryouts and automatically put me in as a starter because he was so awestruck by my mutant, Guinness Book of World Records height.

  Of course, it goes without saying that I didn’t want to grow so I could play basketball.

  After all, hockey was my life.

  I could forget everything else when I was on the ice. Just like that morning, when I was out of breath, sweaty and feeling awesome. When I played, I was totally happy. It didn’t matter if we were running drills or beating the Lewis Lions (we always won by a landslide), or if there were only a couple of mums in the stands, sipping coffee and talking to each other instead of watching us practise. I could pretend I was at Rogers Arena, wearing a Canucks jersey and skating my tail off to win the Stanley Cup.

  “Let me guess,” Dad said, opening the fridge. “Six centimetres?”

  “I wish,” I groaned.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, pulling out a carton of milk. He put it on the counter before patting my head. “You’re getting there, Nugget.”

  “J.T.,” I reminded him as he filled a glass.

  “J.T.,” he repeated, with a wink.

  Wendy finally hung up the phone, checked the wall, then turned to face me. “You need to get over it, J.T. Enough about your stupid height.”

  Easy for her to say. My sister was already taller than Mum and worried about hitting six feet by seventeen. She was the star of the high school volleyball team.

  “I know, but —”

  “It’s about speed and skill,” she said.

  “I have speed and skill,” I told her.

  “So what are you complaining about?”

  “Wendy,” Mum interrupted, with a warning tone. “Can you please finish folding the laundry upstairs for me?”

  My sister started toward the door while I stared at the wall and wished the pencil mark was about a foot higher.

  “If size means that much, maybe you should forget hockey and be a jockey,” she said as she walked by.

  “Maybe you should be a giraffe,” I muttered.

  She stopped in her tracks and glared at me. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” I told her, knowing from years of experience how easily she could pin me.

  * * *

  Back in my room, I tried to shake off my frustration and disappointment. Maybe I’d grow a bit extra in the next month to make up for it. Anything could happen, right? My day had been proof of that, considering King Kong was about to become my Math tutor.

  I flopped on my bed and made it through the first two chapters of Over the Moon, totally surprised when I kind of liked it. In fact, I actually cared what would happen next and probably would have read even more, but I knew there was Math homework to be done.

  Our assignment was a whole page of percentage calculations, and of course I had the make-up homework to deal with too. I spent almost an hour messing around with the stupid percentages, and my brain felt like it might explode. When I finished, I wasn’t sure about all of my answers, but figured if I got half right, that would be good enough.

  Fifty percent was a passing grade, after all.

  I was just about to get started on my make-up assignment when I saw that it was three minutes past eight.

  Nuts!

  I pushed my chair back from my desk, grabbed Shoot! Third Edition, and ran down to the kitchen.

  Wendy was leaning against the wall, yakking on the phone again. I dragged the stool across the room and climbed onto it so I could reach the radio on top of the fridge.

  “What are you doing?” Wendy snapped.

  It seemed obvious. “Turning on the radio.”

  “I’m on the phone, Nugget.”

  “It’s cordless, Wendy.”

  “Nothing,” she muttered into the phone as she left the room. “Just my annoying little brother.”

  I turned the dial until I found PUCK Radio and sat down at the table with my book and a notepad, ready to roll. After a commercial for Mattress Land, some guy named Big Danny Donlin came on the air, talking about the Anaheim Ducks trading Yuri Karanov for Paul McFarland and Chris Marchand.

  It took a few minutes for him to mention the trivia contest, and when he did, I scrawled the number to call on my notepad.

  The phone! Wendy was hogging the stupid phone!

  Why couldn’t my family join the rest of the planet and get cell phones? I knew the answer, of course. I could practically hear Mum’s voice in my head: “Because texting rots the brain.”

  I looked around the kitchen in a panic until I heard Big Danny Donlin’s voice again. “Remember, folks, you can only win once.”r />
  I stopped in my tracks, realizing I didn’t need the phone to call in for some random hockey book or jersey. Not when I could wait for a chance at the game tickets and a shot from centre ice.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding.

  Whew.

  In the meantime, I figured the questions leading up to the big one would be the perfect practice for me.

  After another batch of commercials, Big Danny Donlin was back. “Okay, sports fans, it’s time for tonight’s trivia question. Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” I said to the empty room.

  “What are you doing?” Dad asked, from behind me.

  “Shh. It’s a contest,” I whispered, pointing to the radio.

  “Okay,” Dad whispered back as he passed me to pour himself a glass of water.

  “Tonight’s question,” Big Danny Donlin said, “is for a Canucks sweatshirt.” The sound of a cheering crowd came through the speakers. “We’re looking for caller number seven to tell us what team Bobby Hull played for before he joined the Winnipeg Jets.”

  I whipped open Shoot! Third Edition and started flipping through pages.

  Nuts!

  I was on a waiting list for the Bobby Hull biography at the public library.

  “The Chicago Blackhawks,” Dad said, leaning against the counter with his water.

  I looked up from the book to stare at him. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” he said, laughing. “I’ve been a hockey fan for a long time, son. I’m sure.”

  We sat in silence, waiting for the seventh caller to get through.

  “PUCK Radio, this is Big Danny Donlin.”

  “Hi Danny, this is Mike from Saanich.”

  “Mike from Saanich, have you got an answer to win this Canucks sweatshirt?”

  “Was it the Rangers?”

  A buzzer blasted through the speakers.

  “Ouch! Sorry, Mike. Next caller.”

  “The Chicago Blackhawks,” Dad said again, shaking his head.

  “This is Jim from Nanaimo.”

  “Hey Jim,” Big Danny Donlin said. “For a brand new Canucks sweatshirt, what’s your answer?”

  “The Chicago Blackhawks.”

  Bells and whistles filled the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!”

  “You were right,” I said, smiling at Dad.

  “I’m not just a pretty face,” Dad said, with a shrug.

  “The contest is on every night.”

  “Interesting,” Dad said, grinning as he started to leave. Just before the doorway, he bowed and said in a deep voice, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll be here all week.”

  Oh, brother.

  I got myself a glass of milk and went upstairs to work on the extra Math assignment, but it wasn’t long before I was reading Shoot! Third Edition instead. Where was that stinking fourth edition? I needed it.

  For every thing I knew about hockey, there were probably a hundred I didn’t. The very first trivia question had already shown me that. Sure, I knew lots of stats for my favourite players, and I knew more than any of my friends about the old guys from the books I’d read. But if the sweatshirt question was that tough, would I really know the answer for the grand prize?

  I skipped brushing my teeth, put on my pyjamas and climbed into bed. I slowly turned the pages, reading about the old days, when the Canadiens were first nicknamed the Habs and Anaheim didn’t even have a team. Then I read up on specific players, like Mario Lemieux, Sergei Federov, and, of course, Wayne Gretzky, which got me daydreaming.

  What if I wasn’t only an NHL player, but a legend? What would it feel like to have my picture on the cover of a magazine? To see my last name on a fan’s jersey? To be asked for an autograph? What if my family was in the stands, jumping up and down, cheering me on as I fought for the Stanley Cup? Man, I’d be excited enough to just watch a game, but to be a player?

  That would be the most awesome thing on the planet.

  As my eyelids started to get droopy and the words were blurring together, there was a light knock on my door.

  “Are you still awake?” Mum asked, opening it. “It’s after ten, honey.”

  “I was just reading,” I mumbled as my eyes closed.

  “You’ve got practice in the morning, Jonathan. You need to get some sleep.”

  “I will.”

  “Is your homework all done?”

  “Mmmhmm.” I hadn’t finished the extra Math assignment, but I could probably do it at recess or something.

  “Have you packed your bag for practice?”

  I hadn’t, but I could easily grab my gear in the morning. “Mmmhmm.”

  I felt her hand stroke my forehead then push my hair to the side so she could give me a kiss. “Goodnight, my little nugget,” she whispered.

  For once, I didn’t mind the nickname.

  Nugget McDonald shoots and … he scores!

  I pulled the blankets up to my neck and turned out my reading light, the stats for teams and players still spinning through my head.

  It had been a long, brutal day and I could have easily slept for a hundred years, but my alarm was set for five a.m.

  Chapter Five

  When my alarm went off, my eyelids seemed to be stuck together, like someone had attacked me in the middle of the night with a glue stick. I rubbed them hard and rolled out of bed.

  “Are you up?” Mum asked, rapping her knuckles on my door.

  “Mrmph,” was all I could say.

  “Let’s get moving, Jonathan,” she called from farther down the hallway.

  Usually I had no problem getting up for practice, but that morning, it was tough. I felt like all the stuff that was bugging me, from Eddie Bosko to Math trouble, was wrapped around my ankles, and it was hard to lift my feet.

  The bathroom light was way too bright and I had to squint to brush my teeth but luckily, the shower was the perfect temperature. That is, until someone flushed the downstairs toilet.

  “Blargh!” I choked, plastering myself against the tile while I reached to turn the burning hot water off.

  Clean enough, I thought, even though I didn’t have all the shampoo out of my hair. I’d been awake for less than ten minutes, and I already knew it wasn’t going to be my day.

  When I made it back to my room, I threw on my clothes, then hurried down to the mudroom to pack my hockey gear. I crammed it into my bag as fast as I could, so Mum wouldn’t know I hadn’t taken care of it the night before. I found everything I needed but my red and black striped hockey socks. I ran back up to my room and didn’t see them anywhere. I should have just packed the night before!

  “Are you ready?” Mum called up the stairs.

  “Almost!”

  “I’m trying to sleep!” Wendy shouted from behind her closed door.

  “Sorry,” I called back.

  “Don’t be sorry, be quiet.”

  “Take it easy, Wend,” Dad said through her door as he passed it. “Nugget, Mum’s waiting.”

  “I know. I’m coming.”

  Where were the stupid socks? I checked under the bed, in my school bag and even in the legs of the jeans I’d dumped on the floor, but I couldn’t find them anywhere.

  “It’s five-thirty!” Mum called from the kitchen.

  “And I’m still trying to sleep!” Wendy shouted.

  “I’m coming,” I muttered, giving up the search and heading back downstairs.

  When I got to the kitchen, my packed lunch was on the table, waiting for me. Next to it was a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast. “I can’t find my hockey socks,” I admitted, reaching for the sandwich.

  “They’re in the wash,” Mum said.

  What?

  “But … I didn’t ask you to wash them.”

  Mum turned to me. Her hands were on her hips. That was never a good sign, and it seemed to be happening an awful lot lately. “No, you didn’t ask me to, but those socks were practically standing up on their own, begging to be clean.”

 
“But I need them for practice. Today.”

  “Well, I just put them in the dryer. They’re soaking wet.”

  “But —”

  “Why didn’t you pack your bag last night?” Dad asked, as he poured a cup of coffee.

  Great, they were tag-teaming me, which was something else that seemed to be happening a lot.

  “I was doing homework,” I told him, knowing that wasn’t entirely true.

  “No, you were in here,” Mum said. “Listening to the radio.”

  Did she wash the socks to punish me? And if so, what kind of a crazy family did I belong to?

  “That was only for a few minutes. Just for the contest.”

  “The contest?” Mum asked, frowning.

  “Hockey trivia,” Dad took a sip of his coffee then leaned in to kiss her cheek.

  “A contest,” Mum sighed. “Here’s hoping the grand prize is a passing grade in Math.”

  “Even better,” I told her. “Two tickets to a Canucks game and a chance to shoot from centre ice. For money and prizes.”

  “Is that right?” Dad asked. “A shot from centre? I thought it was just memorabilia.”

  “Nope,” I told him.

  “Rogers Arena, eh? Now that’s a prize!”

  “Don’t encourage him, Gord,” Mum warned.

  It was kind of a strange thing to say, considering parents were supposed to encourage their kids.

  “So, what am I going to do about the socks?” I asked.

  “You only have one pair?” Mum asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you needed more?”

  “Because I didn’t think you were going to steal them right when I needed them,” I said, taking a bite of my sandwich. I knew it wasn’t the right thing to say as soon as the words were out of my mouth because the temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees.

  In two seconds.

  Oops.

  Mum and Dad both stared at me.

  “Sorry. I meant —”

  “That you’d like to start taking responsibility for your own laundry?” Mum asked in a tone that would have sounded sweet to anyone who didn’t know her.

  But I knew her.

  “Uh —”

  “Or maybe you’d like to pack your own lunches for school?” Dad suggested.