Breakaway Page 6

  I’d be wearing one too, in about twelve hours. I couldn’t wait to pull on that green and blue jersey and learn from a pro.

  Before we split into teams, I listened to the guys talking about how cool Holbrook was.

  “I saw him on the phone while you guys were playing,” I said. “Who was he talking to?”

  Chris shrugged. “I don’t know. He said it was an important call.”

  “I bet it was another player,” I said.

  “Probably.” Chris smiled. “Or maybe it was someone from TSN, interviewing him.”

  I know I wasn’t the only guy who started daydreaming when we heard that. How awesome would it be to have TV guys calling to ask me questions about my pro career?

  Seriously awesome.

  “Are we gonna play, or what?” Bedhead asked.

  “Yeah,” Patrick said. “Let’s do this.”

  “I’ll take Nugget,” Colin said, and I tried to play it cool as I walked over to stand next to him.

  I loved being the first guy picked!

  “I’ll take Patrick,” Chris said.

  “Kenny,” Colin said.

  “That Watson,” Chris said, pointing.

  “Me?” one of the triplets asked, frowning. “We have names, you know.”

  “Yeah, of course I know that,” Chris said.

  The Watson crossed his arms over his chest. “Then what are they?”

  “Warren, Quinn and Simon.”

  “Very good. Which one am I?”

  Uh-oh.

  I didn’t think a single one of us could tell them apart.

  Chris licked his lips and glanced from one brother to the next and the next and back again. “Warren,” he said.

  All three Watsons shook their heads.

  I had the feeling this conversation had been coming for a long time. Suddenly, I felt awful that I’d been lumping them all together forever.

  But they were seriously identical. And they even dressed the same!

  “Quinn?” Chris asked, hopefully.

  Three more head shakes.

  I think every guy there was glad he wasn’t the one being asked.

  “Simon,” Chris said, with a nod, like he’d known all along. “Okay, I pick you, Simon.”

  It was Colin’s turn to choose and he obviously didn’t want to get caught up in the confusion because instead of making the smart choice (either Quinn or Warren Watson) he picked Tim (a benchwarmer).

  Great.

  Tim gave me a dirty look when he joined our side, and I kind of wished I hadn’t said anything about the benchwarming at camp.

  “Nugget,” he said, with a quick nod.

  “Hey,” I said, nodding back and hoping things weren’t going to get awkward.

  It stunk that since I’d joined Gunnar’s team, hockey was suddenly more about feelings than faceoffs.

  Once the rest of the guys had been picked for teams, I could forget about all of that. All of the Cougars were ready for action.

  It was game time!

  I got into position, and when Jeff took possession of the orange ball, he passed it right to me.

  I took off like I was on fire, making my way toward the goal.

  “Shoot!” Colin shouted.

  But I wasn’t ready. I knew from experience how important it was to line up the shot just how I wanted it. I kept tight control of the ball, so when Patrick came after it, he didn’t stand a chance.

  “Shoot!” Colin shouted again.

  This time, I did.

  I swung the stick and knew the shot was golden as soon as it hit the air.

  Bedhead lunged for it, but tripped. He ended up skidding across the pavement on one elbow and the side of his face.

  That was the tricky part about street hockey: no gear.

  All of us gasped at once, like we were sucking all the oxygen out of Cutter Bay. When he stopped sliding, a few of us ran over to make sure he was okay.

  I gritted my teeth when I saw the bumpy road rash that was already turning his cheek red. About forty percent of my body knew how that felt.

  “Are you all right?” Kenny asked.

  Bedhead looked a bit shocked, but when he touched his face and didn’t see any blood on his fingers, he nodded.

  “Yeah, shake it off,” Colin said, when Bedhead got back on his feet.

  “You still wanna play?” Jeff asked.

  Bedhead stared at him like he was crazy. “Are you kidding me?”

  We all laughed with relief.

  “So, it’s one–zip,” I said, ready for more.

  It felt good to be out there with the rest of the guys, all playing together on pavement instead of split up on the ice.

  My team turned out to be a pretty good combination of players and I was surprised to see that Tim was actually better than I’d thought.

  “I’m open,” I shouted, when I saw him struggling to keep possession of the ball.

  He pressed one foot on the ball while he turned around. He gave it a quick tap with his shoe to get it away from Patrick’s stick, then passed it to me.

  Chris was on me right away, scraping his stick against the pavement as he dug at the ball.

  But I wasn’t going to give it up. I twisted so my back was facing him, blocking his way.

  “Shoot, Nugget!” somebody yelled.

  I didn’t have a clear shot, so I looked for somewhere to pass. Kenny was barely being covered by maybe Warren Watson, so I flicked the ball over to him.

  Kenny took off with it, dodging past another Watson (Simon?) and finding an opening. He licked his lips and sized up the shot.

  Bedhead braced himself for it.

  He didn’t need to, though, because Kenny fired it way over the net and past the lights. The last I saw of the ball was a flicker of orange as it disappeared into the darkest, deepest bunch of trees ever.

  We’d never find it.

  “Great,” I sighed.

  “Nice one, Cavanaugh,” Chris groaned.

  “Does anybody have another ball at home?” Jeff asked.

  Most of the guys shook their heads while Tim mentioned something about a basketball, like that would help.

  “I guess the game’s over,” Patrick said, shaking his head.

  He was right, of course. We’d tried to play without a ball before, but rocks, pine cones and rolled-up socks just didn’t do the job.

  I stared into the trees, wondering if Canadian Tire could order some glow-in-the-dark balls.

  Night hockey was awesome, but it definitely had some drawbacks.

  * * *

  The next morning, my alarm went off and I hit the snooze button but didn’t fall asleep again. Instead, I stretched a bit, feeling how sore my muscles were from Gunnar’s drills. Sore in a good way, though.

  When I was finished, I lay there for a couple of minutes, trying to think of what I would say to her when I got to the rink.

  She’d kind of shot down the idea that I didn’t need more drills when she said my footwork could use some improvement. (My head was still spinning a bit over that one. Had she seen me skate?)

  She probably wouldn’t understand that I wanted to play with my friends, either, especially with four other Cougars on her team already.

  How was I going to convince her to let me switch?

  I sighed as I rolled out of bed and headed for the shower.

  I was relieved to see that Mum had stocked up on guy shampoo and my Tuesday was off to a better start than Monday.

  That is, until I tried to lather up my hair with shampoo and yelped with pain. Man, I thought my legs were sore, but they had nothing on my shoulders! Which one of Gunnar’s drills was making me feel like I’d spent all day lifting Mum’s minivan over my head?

  Hockey was about being tough, so I pushed through the shampooing as fast as I could.

  After my shower, I dressed in my sweats and went downstairs to pull the grey Gunnar jersey out of my hockey bag.

  When I held it up, I realized it was actually cooler than Holbro
ok’s. I’d been so focused on staring at the green and blue across the ice, I’d never really looked at hers again.

  “What’s that?” Mum asked, from the doorway to the mudroom.

  I held the jersey up so she could see the front.

  With the wings on either side of the puck, the logo didn’t really look as much like Detroit’s as I’d thought. The blue and black helped, too.

  “Great design,” Mum said. “I love it.”

  I was surprised to realize I did, too.

  “I don’t need it, since I’ll be on the other team,” I said, dropping it on the little bench over the heater and re-packing my old Canucks one.

  “But someone else will, won’t they?”

  I hadn’t thought about that.

  “Yeah. Whoever switches with me, I guess,” I said, nodding.

  Whichever girl replaced me would probably be pretty happy to get out of Holbrook’s penalty box for a change. Sure, she’d be stuck doing drills with Gunnar, but at least she’d be out on the ice.

  I shoved the jersey back into the bag.

  The truth was, now that I’d really looked at it, I kind of wanted to keep it for myself.

  Chapter Seven

  Mum dropped me off at camp with a lunch I had the sinking feeling was way overloaded with vegetables.

  On my way into the rink, I saw that Ashley Bosko was already going through the front door, but Eddie was lagging behind.

  “Hey, Bosko,” I called out, then caught up to him.

  He nodded to me. “How’s it going, Nugget?”

  “Good,” I told him. “I’m being traded.”

  I loved the sound of that. It was like a pre-season deal in the NHL.

  “You’re what?” he asked, in a way that kind of ruined the moment.

  “I’m switching to Holbrook’s team today.”

  He turned to look at me, his thick eyebrows bunched together, like he was confused. And Bosko was never confused. “Seriously?”

  I stared right back. “Uh, yeah.”

  “Why?”

  What did he mean, why?

  “Holbrook,” I said, shrugging.

  “What about him?”

  I reached for the front door and pulled it open. As I walked through, I reminded him, “The guy was a Canuck, Bosko.”

  “And?” he asked, following me through the door.

  “I’d rather learn from the best.”

  Bosko laughed. “Okay, NHL players are only the best in North America.”

  “Only?” I gasped.

  “Let me finish,” he said, holding up one massive hand to stop me. “Gold medalists are the best in the world.” He paused. “Gunnar was on the team that was the best in the world.”

  “Twice,” I said, quietly.

  “Right. So even if Holbrook had won a Stanley Cup —”

  “He didn’t.” No one to remind me that the Canucks never had. That was the most painful part of being a fan. I could never forget.

  “Even if he had, the Olympics are a whole other level.”

  I sighed. “I get what you’re saying. It’s just that I’d rather be on Holbrook’s team.”

  Bosko shrugged. “My sister says Gunnar’s a pretty good coach.”

  “I guess,” I said. “But, you know.”

  “What? That she’s a … she?” he asked.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “You really can’t get past that?” he asked, chuckling. “Your own sister is the best volleyball player I’ve ever seen.”

  “You watch volleyball?” I asked, snorting.

  Bosko elbowed me a little harder than he needed to. “Wendy’s beautiful —”

  I almost puked right there.

  “— and a great athlete,” he finished.

  “Your sister isn’t bad, either.”

  Before I even knew what was happening, Bosko had my feet off the ground as he pinned me to the wall.

  “What did you say?”

  “Your sister,” I choked, feeling totally panicked. It was my worst Bosko nightmare come to life (and probably death, for me!). “She’s a good athlete. A good hockey player.”

  He stared me in the eye for a few seconds, then let me go. I slid down the wall and when I was standing again, I tried to make my knees stop shaking.

  “Yeah,” he finally said. “She’s not bad.”

  “Exactly.” I nodded, trying to catch my breath. Total terror had wiped me out.

  “But don’t mess with her,” he warned.

  My heart sped up again. “What do you mean, mess with her?”

  “No playing rough out there, Nugget.”

  “I wouldn’t. Not with a girl, anyway. And I’m not even going to be on her team after this morning.”

  He didn’t seem to be listening.

  “If she gets hurt, I’m holding you responsible.”

  “What?” I gasped.

  “You heard me.”

  I pictured the girl who’d told me to man up and bossed me around on the ice.

  “She’s not going to get hurt,” I told him. “You don’t have anything to worry about. She’s kind of a thug.”

  Bosko’s nostrils flared as he took a step closer to me. “Did you just call my sister a thug?”

  What?

  I couldn’t say she was beautiful (not that I wanted to — gross!), or that she was tough? What did the guy want from me?

  I took a deep breath. “All I’m saying is she seems like she can take care of herself.”

  “But she won’t have to,” Bosko said, poking me in the chest with a thick finger. “Because you will. Right?”

  It was another one of those rhetorical questions that didn’t need an answer. Mostly because it wasn’t a question. It was a threat.

  I nodded and followed him into the rink, wishing I’d kept my stupid mouth shut.

  * * *

  I walked into the locker room and dropped my bag on the floor so I could start unpacking my gear. While I unzipped my bag, I listened to Kenny tell a joke I’d heard a hundred times before. By the time I’d pulled out my Canucks jersey, three different guys had shouted out the punch line.

  “Why’d you guys have to wreck it?” he asked, pulling his Holbrook jersey over his Red Wings shirt.

  “Because you keep telling it,” Chris said.

  “Because it’s funny,” Kenny said.

  “Only the first time,” Jeff told him.

  I didn’t really talk to anybody while I was getting my gear on, mostly because I was hurrying to get out to the office to talk to Gunnar before we got started for the day.

  I’d taped my stick on Christmas Day, but after all of the work Gunnar had us do on day one, it was already looking kind of messed up.

  And speaking of messed up, I’d felt okay when I’d stretched at home, and I’d thought the shower had finished the soreness off, but once I got out of the car, my muscles had really started to ache. Suddenly, my whole body was stiff, like I’d done a triathlon instead of one day of holiday camp.

  “Are you sore, too?” Patrick asked, wincing as he lifted his helmet onto his head.

  “Yeah,” I told him, surprised.

  “She really worked us out.”

  “Seriously?” Chris asked, looking up from the skates he was lacing.

  “Yeah,” Tim said, bending to stretch his back out, then his legs. “It feels good, though.”

  He was right about that. I knew from years of playing hockey that there was nothing like the stiffness of muscles and the crack of bones to make you feel like you’d really done something out on the ice.

  Once I was dressed, I laced my skates and pulled the Gunnar jersey out of my bag so I could turn it in.

  “Are you gonna wear two at once?” Colin asked. “Or wave one like a flag?”

  “It’s for my replacement,” I told him. “I’m switching teams.”

  “She’s letting you?” one of the Watsons asked. “I wouldn’t mind switching too.”

  “I thought you liked her,” I said, surpris
ed.

  “I do. I mean, she’s a good coach and everything, but what if Holbrook’s better?”

  “What?” I asked. Where was this guy when I needed backup? “This is like, the opposite of what you were saying yesterday.”

  He frowned. “I didn’t say anything about her yesterday.”

  “That was me,” another Watson said.

  “Which one are you?” I finally asked, and the whole locker room went quiet, like I shouldn’t have.

  But none of us knew! Somebody had to ask.

  “Which what am I?” he asked.

  “Which Watson?” I decided that honesty was probably the best move. “We can’t tell you apart.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Chris said, even though he’d already proven he was as stumped as the rest of us.

  “We’re totally different people,” another Watson said

  “Sure, but —” I began.

  “His favourite colour is blue,” the first Watson said, pointing to his brother. “And mine is orange.”

  “Seriously?” Kenny asked. “Why orange?”

  Totally not the point. “Favourite colours don’t help,” I interrupted.

  “Okay, well, he’s allergic to strawberries,” the third Watson said, pointing at the second.

  “That also doesn’t help us tell you apart,” I groaned.

  “It would if we were eating strawberries,” the third one argued.

  “Yeah, my face would be all puffed up,” the second one said.

  “You guys —”

  “I’m Simon, he’s Warren and he’s Quinn,” one snapped, tilting his head at both brothers as he named them. “Anyway, the point is, I wouldn’t mind switching teams, too. It might be pretty cool.”

  “Yeah,” Tim said. “Holbrook would be funner than Gunnar.”

  “Good one,” Warren said, high-fiving him.

  “Sure, if funner was actually a word,” Patrick said. “It would be more fun to be on Holbrook’s team.”

  “I think so, too,” I nodded.

  Patrick spun around to scowl at me. “I don’t mean I think it would be more fun.”

  “Well, four of us do,” I told him.

  “Three, actually,” Quinn said. “I think I’ll stay where I am.”

  “You’re changing your mind?”

  He frowned. “I never said I wanted to switch.”

  I gave up on ever being able to tell them apart.

  “Okay,” I said, doing the math. “It just so happens that there are three girls on Holbrook’s team who can be traded.”