Breakaway (33 page)

“Look who’s in jail now!” Courtney laughs.

– Chapter Forty-seven –

S
he covered the puck
with her glove in the crease. Why isn’t that a penalty shot?” I ask the referee. I try to sound objective, like I’m cupping my hands beneath her fountain of knowledge. But when it’s the last three minutes of Game Five of your first playoff series, and the score is 2–2, and your team is killing a five on three, it’s brutally hard.

She gives me a benevolent smile. “She realized what she did, and she took her hand away. She didn’t do it intentionally.”

“Okay. So if I check someone from behind, but I
realize
I did it, you won’t give me a penalty?”

The smile slides like jello off her face. “Go line up,” she says.

“An infraction is an infraction,” I tell her, “intentional or not.”

“Go line up,” she repeats, her voice brittle.

When I relay this information to Bud, he glares at the referee, but he doesn’t wave her over. I line up with Carla and Kathy in Weyburn’s end, where, a few moments ago, Kathy’s aggressive forecheck forced Number 14 to fall on the puck. Randi and Whitney are the two players in the sin bin. I hope Randi’s interference call and Whitney’s unsportsmanlike don’t cost us the game.

Kathy leans in, head cocked and stick poised, as the linesman snaps the puck. She wins the draw back to my side, and I fire it in deep along the boards, ready to back pedal if Number 23 beats Kathy to it.

Soon all three of us are transitioning to D as Weyburn’s top line breaks out and brings the puck up the ice. I motion for Carla to take away the pass, as I focus on Number 9, who has the puck. I poke check it away, but Kathy can’t get to it in time. My stomach sinks as Number 5 scoops it up, slides into the low slot, toe dragging around Carla, and pulls the trigger.

There’s no possible way Amy can see the shot, not with the screen Number 18 is throwing. But her reflexes are flawless, as they have been the entire series. She snatches the puck out of the air and waits for the whistle.

“Holy, do you have x-ray vision?” I ask her, smacking her pads with my stick.

Amy tosses the puck to the linesman. “We are
so
knocking Weyburn out of the playoffs.”

Kathy says, “Nothing sweeter than closing out a series in your opposition’s rink.”

“I sure hope this kind of talk doesn’t piss off the hockey gods,” I say.

Dayna, Jennifer and Larissa come out to relieve us, and I check the time on the clock as I skate to the bench. 1:15 left in Whitney’s penalty, and :32 left in Randi’s. The music in Crescent Point Place pounds in my ears as our fans bang on the glass. I crowd surf for Liam and Russell MacArthur, but I can’t find them. I haven’t seen them at a game since before Christmas.

As soon as we step inside the box, the music stops and the play resumes.

Number 3 wins the faceoff back to her right D, who rips a slapshot on net. There’s a scramble for the puck, and Jennifer goes down awkwardly and stays down. The ref’s whistle stops the play.

“Not good,” Carla says. “I think she hurt her wrist.”

We can’t afford another injury, not with Miranda and one of the Rookies nursing sprains. Crystal’s mom heads out onto the ice, hanging on Kathy’s elbow for support.

It’s a long time before Jennifer gets up, and when she does, she’s cradling her right forearm.

“Good chance it’s broken,” I say. “We’re down to three D.”

Mrs. Jordan gestures at the St. John’s ambulance people sitting above our box, then takes Jennifer straight to the dressing room.

“Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars,” Kathy says. “Now what?”

Bud calls a timeout, and we gather around him and Sue.

His eyes roll over each of us. “Kathy, I’m moving you to D,” he says at last.

“Okay,” Kathy says. “Should I tell the Weyburn coach you’re spotting them a couple of goals. Because that’s what’s going to happen.”

“It’s not going to happen,” Sue says calmly. “I assume you’ve played D once or twice in your star-studded career?”

“I was a blue liner in Novice,” Kathy replies. “My coach told me he’d never seen anybody with less defensive instincts.”

“Your coach didn’t know what he was talking about.” Bud pulls out his whiteboard and uncaps the marker with his teeth.

“He was my dad,” Kathy says. “Mr. Parker. I think you’ve met him.”

Bud waves a hand in dismissal. “Today, you’re Carla’s new D-partner.”

“Suit yourself,” Kathy says.

Bud draws up the play and quickly outlines it. I’ve learned to pay close attention to these drills because Bud rarely repeats himself.

I skate to the faceoff dot with Dayna, who’s making little burping noises.

“This is not the time to let nerves get the best of you,” I tell her.

She swallows another burp. Her breath smells like vomit.

“Hey, you can do it,” I say. “Deep inside, you know you can.”

Despite her nerves, Dayna
does
execute – perfectly.

And so does Kathy, despite what her dad told her in Novice.

We kill the rest of the five on three, and are hanging in there for the five on four, when Number 18 takes a hooking penalty on Kathy. It’s Weyburn’s turn to question the call. Their assistant coach works over the referee while one of the fans threatens to trash her car.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you hanging on to
her
stick?” I ask Kathy as I take her spot at the next faceoff.

Kathy grins and gives me a little poke before she skates away.

I take a second to soak it all in, the crowd noise, the music, the score on the jumbotron, my teammates.

Please don’t let this be my last Midget game.

We need to get control of the puck in Weyburn’s end, so Amy can head to the bench, and Kathy can spill back out, as a forward.

I turn my head towards Carla, my D-partner for this last crucial ninety seconds. She gives me a little nod.

The puck drops. Whitney loses the faceoff. Number 15 tries to ice it. Carla chops it down, and it falls like a gift at her feet. She slides it over to me, and I rip it in deep. Larissa and Randi pile into the corner on top of Number 14, and Randi comes up with the puck. She dodges 14, trying to create space for herself. I hear skates behind me, and I know Amy’s gone to the bench. Kathy has a full head of steam as she blows by me, and she’s calling for the puck as she moves into the high slot. Randi pivots and puts the puck right on Kathy’s blade.

Number 27 lies down to block the shot. The Weyburn goalie is squared away, negating the corners. Kathy slides it past 27 and cuts hard to the left. When the goalie moves with her, she passes to Larissa behind the net. Larissa flips the puck behind the goalie and it rolls down her back and in.

Sick.

Howling, my teammates pile on top of Larissa while the Gold Wings move like members of a funeral procession back to their bench. There’s a yard sale on Oiler equipment all over the ice.

Losers – them.

Winners – us.

“Where did you learn that move?!” I scream in Larissa’s ear. It’s not easy to find it under the pyramid of churning bodies.

“You’re not the only one who watches the highlights on Sports Centre!” she shouts. “Ouch, you guys!”

–

A
t practice on Monday Bud gives us five minutes to bask in the glory of our win.

Then it’s all business. Notre Dame business. We’re playing the Hounds in the next round, and they’re still undefeated this year.

We have the best practice we’ve had all year. Even Whitney executes the drills the way she’s supposed to.

After practice, I’m hauling my equipment to my car when I hear Whitney call my name.

“Can I talk to you for a sec?” she asks. “It’s important.”

Therapy. I should hang out a shingle.

“Sure.” I hope she makes this quick. It’s starting to snow.

“Will you give me a ride home?” she asks.

I want to refuse. I’ve got a couple of hours of homework ahead of me.

“Please?” she begs.

There’s hardly room in old Sunny for one bag of equipment, much less two, but I fold down the back seats so we can stuff them in, along with our sticks.

She doesn’t say anything until we’re out of Estevan.

“Thanks for the ride,” she says.

I adjust the setting on the windshield wipers.

She doesn’t say anything else for a while. We’re nearly at her turnoff before she blurts out, “I know you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Whitney,” I reply.

“Well, you should. I’m the one who told Teneil you got drunk at the rookie party.” She tucks her hands under her thighs. “I didn’t actually tell her. I just let her draw her own conclusions. She
wanted
to believe it. She was mad at you and everyone else because she didn’t make the team, and she was jealous of you for being voted captain.” She pauses for a few seconds. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her looking at me expectantly.

“What about Jodi?” I ask. “Did you let her draw her own conclusions too, or did you out and out lie to her?”

Whitney starts to cry.

I don’t say anything more. I’m not going to make it easy for her.

“I never thought she’d go and quit!” she says at last. “I was so jealous of you. But I didn’t think Bud and Sue would find out. If I’d known all that stuff was going to happen, I never would have said anything.”

I keep on driving.

“I probably should have owned up to you and the rest of the girls a long time ago.”

“You got that right,” I say.

She pushes her head back and stares at the ceiling. “But if you already knew, why didn’t you tell everybody?”

“We got our coaches back. That’s the only thing that mattered.”

Whitney sniffs loudly and swipes her fingers under her nose. “I am such a loser,” she says.

We drive in silence for a few seconds.

“Start thinking like a leader,” I tell her. “Next year you’ll have lots of opportunities to choose between the high road and the low road. And any time you’re not sure, the high road is
always
the best choice. Understand?”

“I think so,” she says.

By now we’re stopped in her driveway. Snow settles on the windshield in large lacey flakes, sliding and melting. I reach for my door handle.

“If I ever get to be captain, I’ll try to be as good as you are,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say.

“I’ll miss you next year,” she says.

“I’ll miss you too,” I lie.

– Chapter Forty-eight –

W
hitney’s dad charters
a bus for Game One against the Hounds. A real bus. With a bathroom and everything.

When we head out of the rink parking lot on Tuesday after school, we are all sure we’ve finally hit the Big Time.

Crystal reaches between the seats and jiggles my arm. “Remember the time we went to Davidson on the Beastie Bus, and we lay on our equipment to keep warm and squished our helmets?”

“Yeah.” I lean my head against the window, trying not to get emotional.

It brings back an image of Amber Kowalski, redfaced, trying to jam on her lid. We all howled when we figured out what had happened. “Head cases,” we called ourselves. I feel a little pang, thinking about Amber and how much she would’ve enjoyed this year. Or maybe she’d have been miserable, riding the pine and watching the Rookies take her place.

“Do you know if Amy’s starting?” Crystal asks, sliding into the empty seat next to me.

“Not a clue,” I lie. I plug in my ear buds and pull down the brim of my toque. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. Maybe you should too.”

Crystal goes back to her own seat and leaves me to my thoughts.

–

P
redictably, we play like scared rabbits against the Hounds. Bud starts Miranda in net, but it’s clear her ankle is bothering her. She lets in four goals in the first period and limps off the ice afterward.

Amy shuts out Notre Dame for the final two periods, in spite of the fact we play most of those forty minutes in our own end. They outshoot us 41–15.

And the big goose egg on the scoreboard above Guest is a bitter reminder that many teams haven’t scored a single goal against Notre Dame this year.

“If Bud had started Foxy in net, we’d have stood a chance,” Randi whispers in my ear as she loosens her shoulder pads.

“We had to put the puck in the net, and we didn’t,” I whisper back. “We can’t win if we don’t score.”

–

W
hen we suit up against the Hounds two nights later at Spectra Place, we get our biggest crowd yet. Some football players come, but I don’t see Liam.

Momentum has a lot to do with a singular act. A goal, a great save, a blocked shot, a brilliantly executed PK – all these things can get the ball rolling.