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  “Nothing’s changed,” Bosko said, this time a lot louder. Then he left the locker room. The chatter died down and I put on my gear. When I pulled on my lucky socks, I thought about how important it was to win.

  The team had to see that Dad was the guy for the job, even if he didn’t do things exactly like Coach O’Neal.

  When I slipped into my shoulder pads, I knew it was time to play harder than ever before.

  I pulled on my jersey and took a deep breath.

  Then I grabbed my helmet and joined my team, ready to lead them to victory.

  * * *

  Nanaimo looked pretty threatening in their blue and black uniforms, but I could never figure out why they were the Penguins. I mean, why would anybody name a sport’s team after something that waddled?

  And would a penguin stand a chance against a cougar in the real world? No way. As far as I was concerned, in the lame name game, the Nanaimo Penguins were right up there with the Washington Capitals.

  And that was saying something.

  When the puck was dropped, we took possession right away and spent the first four minutes of the game close to the Penguins’ net. I was taking one shot after another, but their goalie was surprisingly good. Even Colin was having trouble getting shots past him, until he finally managed to flick the puck between the goalie’s legs.

  “Yes!” I shouted, slapping him on the back.

  Just a few seconds later, the Penguins’ centre lined up a shot and blasted the puck toward Chris, who was stuck in goal. My whole body got tense as I watched the puck sail toward him, and all I could hope for was that his eyes were open.

  Chris caught the puck in his right glove, and the home crowd cheered.

  Whew!

  “Nice save, Fullerton,” Colin called out to him.

  Chris nodded and got right back to business.

  Patrick passed me the puck and I headed for the Penguins’ goal, deking out both of their defensemen like it was nothing.

  We were already on our way to a win. I could feel it all the way to my toes.

  I’d spent the whole summer practising my slapshot and it was time to show it off. I raised my stick and swung hard, connecting right in the sweet spot.

  The puck must have been going a hundred kilometres an hour, because it buzzed past the Penguins’ goalie so fast, he didn’t even twitch, let alone try to save it.

  “Right on, Nugget!” Patrick shouted, patting my helmet.

  “Sweet shot!” Colin added.

  “I’m still up by one, Nugget,” Bosko called from the bench.

  “I know.”

  “Up by one,” he said again, with a grin.

  He didn’t have to be a jerk about it.

  The competition was my idea, mostly because I thought I’d win. I wanted to be like Gretzky, the only guy to score more than two hundred goals in a season. And he did it four times!

  But if two hundred was out of reach, I could aim for fifty.

  Or forty.

  Yeah, I’d probably be happy with forty.

  But if Bosko won, I’d be sorry I ever suggested counting and competing.

  Not that it mattered right that second, because the stomping of Nanaimo had begun.

  * * *

  During the second period, when Bosko was playing and I was on the bench, the game got a little tougher. The Penguins seemed to be getting more confident and taking more shots than they had at the beginning.

  Chris Fullerton was handling them pretty well, but he did let a puck slip by.

  Two to one wasn’t enough of a lead against these guys, and I knew I had to get back out there.

  “Put me back in, Dad,” I said.

  “Not yet, Nugget. Bosko’s got it under control.”

  “But I can —”

  “Not yet,” Dad said, more firmly.

  How was I supposed to score from the bench?

  I sat down and watched as Kenny let one of the Penguins breeze past him and take a shot.

  It went right in.

  “What?” I shouted, jumping up. “Come on, Kenny!”

  My pal shrugged at me, like he was sorry.

  But sorry wasn’t going to win the game.

  And we had to win it. The guys had to believe in Dad’s coaching.

  “Dad, can’t I just —”

  “Not now, Nugget,” he said, before I could finish.

  Obviously, he didn’t know I was about to light it up, so I waited as patiently as I could.

  It turned out that wasn’t very patiently.

  Dad pulled Kenny off the ice and he joined me on the bench. He’d been a professional benchwarmer up until his awesome play earlier in the season and he was all excited about getting more game minutes than he used to.

  “I just wish he’d put me back in,” I muttered to Kenny,

  “Me too,” Kenny said.

  “Because we both know I’m ready to rock out there, right?”

  “Uh …”

  “What?”

  “I meant I wish he’d put me back in.”

  “Oh,” I said, frowning.

  “Because I can tear it up, too, Nugget.”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “Sure you can.”

  But not like I could.

  Not even close.

  Bosko scored two goals in the second period, while I gritted my teeth.

  “He’s ahead by three, eh?” Kenny asked.

  Did he have to say it out loud?

  I might have stunk at Math, but I could count goals, for crying out loud.

  “Nugget, Kenny? You’re in,” Dad finally said, when I’d almost given up.

  We both jumped off the bench while Dad pulled Patrick and Bosko out. It felt awesome to be back out on the ice and ready to play.

  I was fired up!

  In a matter of seconds, I had the puck and I swear my stickhandling could have been part of an instructional video. I moved that puck past my opponents, through their legs and around the back of the net faster than my teammates could say, “Wait up!”

  I swerved around one side of the net and tried to find a shot, then slipped back behind when I couldn’t. One of the Penguins tried to steal the puck, but I fought him off with a couple of elbow jabs and a quick slam against the boards.

  I could hear the crowd getting rowdy, and I loved the sound of it. There was nothing better than knowing you had fans.

  And man, did I have fans!

  I whipped around the front of the net again and took another shot.

  Score!

  The goalie smacked his hand against his helmet and groaned.

  I glanced at Bosko and smiled. It was catch up time.

  “Nugget! Nugget! Nugget!” the crowd chanted, and I raised one arm in the air to let them know I could hear it.

  The next thing I knew, Kenny stole the puck from one of the bigger Penguins and started hauling down the ice. I kept pace with him, ready for a pass.

  When I got into position, just to the side of the net, one of the Penguin defensemen started giving me a hard time, poking me in the back with the heel of his stick.

  “Back off,” I told him.

  “Make me, Peewee.”

  Enough with the size, already. “That’s the best you can do?”

  He poked me harder. “Whatever, you little jerk.”

  As soon as the words left the guy’s mouth, Kenny whipped the puck to me. I spun around fast, slipping it right past the blade of the defenseman’s stick.

  Nice!

  All I could see were Penguin uniforms, totally surrounding me, but I didn’t care. I looked down at the puck and kept my eyes glued to it, trying to keep possession while hundreds of sticks (well, maybe two or three) tried to steal it away.

  “I’m open,” I heard Kenny shout, but there was no way I could pass.

  I grunted and shoved my way through the bodies and suddenly, I had a clear shot.

  Yes!

  I flicked the puck into the air, level with the goalie’s ribs, and he fell over trying to blo
ck it.

  Goal!

  “Nice job, Nugget!” Dad shouted, over the rest of the fans.

  Only one behind Bosko!

  Yes!

  “Man, you’re kicking butt,” Kenny said, whacking me on the back.

  “I know,” I told him. “We’re gonna win this.”

  “No doubt,” he said, smiling.

  The next thing I knew, Colin scored, and the crowd went nuts again.

  I wondered if we were on the way to our highest-scoring game ever.

  How cool would that be?

  The Penguins seemed pretty discouraged, groaning when they lost the puck or missed a shot (and they missed a lot of them).

  I almost felt bad for them, especially when I scored again.

  Me and Bosko were all tied up, and I was loving it.

  The Penguins’ coach called a time-out and the Cougars all skated over to our box.

  “Nice playing, Nugget,” Bedhead said.

  “You too,” I told him. “Same goes for everybody.”

  We were in the middle of patting ourselves on the back and getting ready for the last four minutes of play when the Penguins’ coach came over to talk to Dad.

  “You wanna take it down a notch?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry?” Dad said, looking confused.

  “This is kids’ hockey, not humiliation.”

  “I don’t understand,” Dad said, shaking his head.

  I didn’t either, and when I looked at the rest of the faces on my team, they looked as confused as I was.

  “The high scoring,” the coach said. “It’s unsportsmanlike.”

  “Unsports— … the boys are just playing the game,” Dad said.

  “My team didn’t travel all the way here to be embarrassed.”

  “I didn’t mean for them to —” Dad started to say.

  “Your attitude stinks,” he said, jabbing a finger right in Dad’s face before he walked away.

  When the ref blew the whistle, Dad didn’t move.

  “We’re just playing the game,” he said, quietly.

  Chapter Nine

  We ended up beating the Penguins by seven goals, which Dad seemed kind of sad about.

  I wasn’t sad at all.

  A seven-goal win?

  That was totally awesome!

  That’s what the game was all about, as far as I was concerned. Of course, I didn’t play just so I could send another team home crying, but losing was part of hockey too. I was willing to bet that getting smoked by us meant Nanaimo would practise harder and play better next time.

  “It was for their own good,” I said, on the way home.

  “Nugget,” Dad sighed.

  “You can’t let that coach get to you, Dad,” Wendy told him. “Nugget’s right.”

  Somehow, knowing Wendy agreed with me made me doubt that.

  “It’s still a game, though,” Dad told her. “It’s supposed to be fun.”

  “It was fun,” I told him. “It was the most fun game ever.”

  “I meant for both teams,” he said.

  “I had fun, too,” Kenny told him. “If those kids can’t handle losing, they shouldn’t be playing hockey.”

  I high-fived him for that.

  “Unsportsmanlike, he said,” Dad said, quietly.

  “Gord, let it go,” Mum told him. “If the Cougars had won by twenty goals —”

  “That would be sweet,” I said, practically drooling at the thought.

  “No,” Mum corrected. “That would be excessive. That would be the time you relaxed and let some of the kids who don’t play as much get out there.”

  “I think it would be the time you go for thirty goals,” I whispered to Kenny. “Like an all-time high. Guinness Book of World Records style.”

  “Watch out for that Volvo, Wendy,” Dad said, grabbing the door handle. “That was close.”

  “Can you guys relax?” Wendy snapped. “Just let me drive, okay? I know what I’m doing.”

  “But not which lane she’s doing it in,” Kenny whispered and I laughed.

  “Shut up, you two,” she said, glaring in the rear-view mirror.

  “The whole idea used to be play to win,” Dad said, shaking his head. “It wasn’t about hurt feelings.”

  “It still is play to win,” I told him. “The Penguins were just mad they weren’t the ones doing it.”

  “Back in my day, the coach didn’t have to think about the other team’s feelings,” Dad said, quietly.

  “Well, your day was like a thousand years ago,” Wendy told him.

  “Honey, losing is an important part of sports,” Mum said.

  “Just like fibre is an important part of our diet,” I said.

  She shot me a look. “So is confidence and self-esteem. I swear, Gord, if I thought you’d done anything wrong or should have coached differently, I’d tell you.”

  “Thanks, honey,” he said, turning to smile at her. When he turned back, he asked, very calmly, “You see that pedestrian, right Wendy?”

  “Duh,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “I’m talking about the one on your left,” Dad said, gripping his seat.

  “What?” Wendy asked, eyes bugging. “Oh!”

  The minivan swerved hard.

  “Slow down!” Mum said.

  “I am!”

  “Slower!” Mum shouted.

  Wendy slammed on the brakes and the van screeched to a stop. She unbuckled her seatbelt. “I can’t handle this anymore.”

  “You can’t?” I gasped, trying to catch my breath. My seatbelt was going to leave a bright red mark across my chest, like the sash from a freakin’ beauty pageant!

  Kenny looked ready to hurl.

  “You can’t just stop in the middle of the road,” Mum said. “Gord, do something.”

  Dad was already out of the car, waving for people to stop honking their horns. He walked around the back of the van and Wendy came around the front to take over the passenger seat.

  “I can’t believe you guys,” she muttered, as she buckled up. “You get all stressed and that totally freaks me out.”

  “You have to be in control when you’re driving,” Dad told her. “That includes control of the car and your emotions.”

  “She’s a teenager,” I reminded him. “Her hormones are going crazy and —”

  “Zip it, Nugget,” Wendy snapped. “Look, I drive better when I’m by myself, okay?”

  “Yeah, right,” Kenny whispered.

  * * *

  That night, the Canucks were playing an away game against the Avalanche and I was in charge of snacks.

  Just before game time, I headed for the kitchen, where I pulled out bowls and glasses for me and Dad. Then I started digging in the pantry for whatever could pass for chips and treats.

  The worst thing about Mum being a nutritionist was that she thought “snack” and “fruit” were the same thing.

  “Are things going okay at the rink?” Mum asked.

  “Uh-huh,” I told her.

  “Care to elaborate?” she asked. When I looked confused, she said, “You know how I feel about one-word answers.”

  I found the Tupperware container of carob cookies, which were actually pretty good, and some pita chips. If we had dip in the fridge, I’d be in business.

  “I think everything’s fine,” I told her. “Now that we’ve won a game, everything will calm down.”

  She raised an eyebrow, which was her best interrogation technique. “What needed to calm down?”

  “Oh, you know. The guys didn’t like some of the changes to practice.”

  “Well, the guys aren’t in charge,” she said.

  “I know, Mum. You asked, and I’m telling you.” I lined up the cookies on a plate. “Are you watching the game with us?”

  “No, I’m working on a diabetic meal plan for a new client,” she said, glancing at me and frowning. “And I’ll be working on one for you if you don’t put back at least half of those cookies.”

  “B
ut they’re the healthy kind,” I reminded her. “Made by your own loving hands.”

  “That doesn’t mean they should be eaten by the dozen.” She shook her head. “I’m serious, Nugget. Cut that down by half.”

  “Fine,” I sighed, putting most of them back in the Tupperware. “Do we have any popcorn?”

  “I see pita chips on the counter.”

  “I know, but —”

  “It’s in the pantry,” she sighed. “But you are not melting butter.”

  “What?” I choked. “We’re supposed to eat it plain?”

  “You pop it and I’ll season it for you.”

  “Season it? Mum, popcorn is made to be soaked in butter.”

  “And people are made to live past twenty-five.”

  “Whatever,” I groaned.

  When I grew up and had a place of my own, the whole pantry, fridge and even my closet would be jam-packed with junk food. I already had a lot of years to make up for in missed Doritos and ice cream.

  Once I had all my snacks perfectly organized and heard Dad turn on the TV, I remembered something super important.

  We’d blown past the first of the month without a height measurement.

  “Wait, let me get the ruler,” I told Mum, digging through the junk drawer.

  She knew what I was doing right away.

  “Why don’t we just wait until next month?” she asked hopefully.

  “No way!”

  In the last couple of months, I hadn’t even grown a centimetre, and I was pretty sick of waiting. Mum kept promising a growth spurt, but I was starting to doubt her, especially when I looked at the pencil marks next to the fridge, all stuck around the same place.

  I stood against the wall and pushed my shoulder blades back.

  “Fine,” she said, sighing as she reached for the ruler and the pencil.

  I stood as still as I could while she measured. “I don’t think this kind of obsession is healthy, honey,” she said quietly.

  “Neither is being the size of a four-year-old in grade six.”

  “You’re bigger than a four-year-old.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “You’re the one who brought it up,” she said.

  I closed my eyes and held my breath while I waited for her to finish.

  “Not bad,” she said, once she’d marked the spot.

  I spun around but didn’t open my eyes until I was facing the wall. The new mark was higher than the last one, but not by much.