Face-Off (5 page)

In that fraction of a second the man struck the puck. It flashed past Scott like a bullet. Scott turned and sprinted after
it. On a rink the play would be icing, for the puck was heading to the left of the goal. The goalie was chasing after it,
but he was like a turtle after a rabbit.

Scott skated as fast, or faster than, he had ever skated before. He knew that the falls were just over the curved edge, but
the puck was slowing up. He felt sure he could get to it before it reached the edge.

He soon realized that he couldn’t, and a wave of horror swept over him. He saw the puck disappear over the edge of the frozen
falls. He lowered his body and tried to turn around in a circle to clear the dangerous edge.

He didn’t make it. The edge of his skates got too much of a bite in the ice, and he was thrown off balance.

A loud, ear-piercing yell split the air as he left the ice and went hurtling through space.

T
he yell stopped when he saw the swirling white foam rush up at him. He struck the roaring, gushing foam head first. Even as
he went under and felt the cold water swallow him he kept his eyes open.

He went down… down…

Then he began to stroke and kick hard to get to the surface. His clothes and skates were heavy on him. They, and the falls
striking the water above him, kept him from rising to the surface. He thought that he would never see daylight again.

His lungs ached for air. He wanted so
much to take a breath, but he knew that doing so would only fill his lungs with water and he might drown.

He looked up and saw water gushing down through the frothy surface, and thousands of air bubbles rising and popping above
him. He would never make it to the surface here. The plunging falls would just force him back down.

He swam past the falling water and the bubbles. And, just when he felt his lungs were ready to burst, he broke out of the
water, sucked in the cold, fresh air. Although he was wet and freezing, he was so happy he wanted to shout. And he did.

Then he swam to shore, his body feeling as though it weighed a ton. He crawled on his hands and knees to the jagged ice that
lined the shore, then got up and walked onto the hard-crusted snow.

Skinny and Fat were the first to reach
him. Behind them came Cathy, her face white as the snow.

“Come on,” said Skinny, grabbing his arm, “we’ve got to get you home.”

Fat grabbed his other arm. “You do that for kicks?” he asked.

Scott thought his face would crack as he forced a smile. “Just thought I’d go sw-swimming for a change,” he said.

Cathy’s watery eyes looked at him. “You—you okay, Scott?”

“I’m f-fine,” he stammered.

“Skinny, you’re the fastest here,” said Fat. “Get his shoes.”

While Skinny ran after Scott’s shoes, Scott sat on a log and Fat and Cathy took off his skates. Skinny arrived with the dry
shoes and the boys put them on.

Scott shivered as he got to his feet and started to run, Cathy beside him. “Better
call a doctor the minute you get home,” advised Skinny.

Scott arrived home and thought Mom would faint when she saw him in clothes that were caking over with ice.

“Scott!” she screamed. “What happened to you? Get into the bathroom! Take off those clothes and get into the tub as quick
as you can!”

“He fell over the falls,” explained Cathy.

“Over the
what?”
cried Mom.

“The falls,” said Cathy.

Scott got out of his ice-caked clothes and into the tub. He sat shivering in it while he turned on the faucets and waited
for the tub to fill. He was still in it, and beginning to feel warm and comfortable when there was a knock on the door.

“Scott, Dr. Wilkins is here,” said his mother’s voice.

He climbed out of the tub and, with the
towel wrapped around him, he opened the door. Dr. Wilkins smiled at him.

“Well, hello, Scott. You get thawed out?”

Scott grinned. “I think so,” he said.

“Let me give you a bodycheck anyway,” said the doctor. “This one won’t hurt. Put on your shorts and lie on your bed.”

Ten minutes later Dr. Wilkins was taking a small glass container out of his black case and putting it on the nightstand beside
Scott’s bed.

“Give him two now, then one every four hours until they’re all gone,” he said to Mrs. Harrison. “And keep him in for the next
couple of days.”

Scott stared at him. “But Dr. Wilkins, I feel okay!”

The doctor smiled. “This stethoscope tells me different. Don’t worry. By Tuesday you’ll be good as new.”

Tuesday was a long time coming.

S
cott practiced with the Golden Bears at Cass Rink on Tuesday, and realized that re-cuperating for two days had taken some
of the strength out of him.

He felt stronger on Wednesday, with one thing on his mind above anything else:
I must stop being afraid of the puck. That’s the only way that I can get Del and the rest of the Golden Bears feeling that
I’m really one of them.

The team had intrasquad scrimmage, the lines taking turns playing against each other. The moment that Line Two went in against
Line One Scott felt the excitement bubble inside him.

He watched the puck drop from Coach Dick Roberts’s hand in the face-off, watched Del Stockton knock it across center ice toward
the opposite goal only to be intercepted by Buggsy Smith.

Buggsy dribbled it back across the center line and then socked it hard as Bernie Fredricks scooted at him from the side, his
stick stretched out for the puck. Bernie hit Buggsy and both crashed against the boards.

The puck skittered down the ice toward the goal, Scott Harrison and Joe Zimmer bolting after it together. Scott reached it
first and belted it back up the ice. An instant later he saw Del Stockton cross in front of him, glaring hotly.

“How about passing it once in a while?” yelled Del.

Scott flushed. In his anxiety to strike the
puck up the other end of the rink he had forgotten to look for a receiver.

“The puck, Scott!” someone yelled.

Scott ducked and saw the puck skittering toward him. He hooked it with his stick and dribbled it across the blue and then
the center lines. An opponent rushed at him from his right. He put on more speed and stick-handled the puck expertly down
the left side of the ice while at the same time he looked for a teammate to pass to.

Del was covered. So were Skinny and Bernie. One man stood in front of the goal, protecting it with the goalie.

For a moment he thought,
Should I head for the goal and try a shot? Why not?

He bolted forward. Left defenseman Al Podeski charged at him and tried to slap the puck. Scott stickhandled it away. He faked
a shot to Del, who stared as if to say,
Don’t pass now, you nut!

Then Scott skated past the crease in front of the defenseman guarding it. Without slowing up he turned to his right and at
the same time snapped the puck past the de-fenseman’s legs, and the goalie’s, into the net.

“Well! You did it, man!” yelled Del.

Scott grinned shyly as he skated back down the ice to his position, realizing he had done something probably few of his teammates
had noticed. He had scored while skating backwards, a feat he had learned only within the last two weeks.

Coach Roberts blew his whistle and called in Line Three to play against Line Two. “Fine skating, Scott,” he said. “Rest awhile;
I want Vern Mitchell to get in some practice, too.”

The following two nights put him in good shape for Saturday’s game against the Beetles. Their name,
Beetles,
and a drawing of a
beetle were in bright red on the front of their black satin jerseys.

After a minute and eleven seconds of play Art Fisher knocked in a goal. Thirty seconds later Buggsy rapped one in between
the goalie’s legs to put the Golden Bears in front, 2 to 0.

Fourteen seconds before the three-minute time was up the red light went on behind the Golden Bears’ net for a Beetle score:
2 to 1.

The buzzer sounded. Lines One left the ice and Lines Two came on. The face-off. The scramble for the puck. Scott saw it skitter
on it’s edge toward the side of the rink and sprinted after it. He didn’t see the Beetle going after it until both of them
were within five or six feet of the puck.

He stretched out his stick. At the same time the Beetle pulled back his and swung at the puck. For a very brief instant Scott
sensed what could happen and lifted his arm.
You’re doing it again!

He dropped his arm. By then the Beetle’s stick had swung and struck the disk, sending it like a black bullet down the ice.

“Chicken!” yelled Del as he zoomed by Scott.

Just then a Beetle brushed by him, striking his stick. The impact knocked his stick against another kid’s leg. Del’s!

Del swerved and came at him, his eyes blazing. He pulled up in front of Scott, his face only inches away, so close Scott felt
his warm breath.

“I’m sorry,” said Scott. “It was an accident.”

“Accident! Yeah!”

“Come on, you guys!” yelled Skinny. “Let’s play hockey!”

They broke apart, and Scott saw that goalie Paul Carson had stopped the puck
with his stick and was tossing it to the referee. The ref skated toward the circle to the left and in front of the goal, and
waved Skinny McCay and a Beetle to come forward.

The face-off. The battle for the puck. Skinny batted it against the boards and it ricocheted back onto the rink toward the
center line. Del scooted after it, dribbled it across his blue line, and passed to Bernie. Bernie nabbed the pass and shot.

A save!

Face-off again. The puck skittered toward center ice. A Beetle belted it. Swish! Down the length of the rink went the puck!

Scott got it behind the net. The whistle shrilled and the ref took the puck to the opposite end of the rink for the face-off.

A Beetle pass! A teammate intercepted it, dribbled down the ice, then shot. The puck blazed past Scott’s legs. He stuck out
his
stick, but too late. The puck whisked between Paul Carson’s outstretched foot and the goal post for the Beetle’s second score.

Scott looked at the face that suddenly came into his view.

Say it!
he thought.
Tell me I should’ve stopped that shot!

But Del didn’t say a word.

F
ace-off.

Del Stockton’s lightning moves got the puck away from Stinky Marsh, the Beetles’ center. Del dribbled it across the Beetles’
blue line and was met head-on by two Beetles.

He shot the puck to Skinny McCay skating up from his left side a second before the Beetles crashed into him. Down went all
three of them.

Skinny sprinted for the goal, ice spraying from his skates as he stickhandled the puck. Scott, hovering behind the center
line, saw a
Beetle swooping toward Skinny, leaving the area behind him wide open. Realizing that this was a good chance to get the puck
and try for a goal, Scott bolted forward.

“Skinny!” he shouted.

Skinny snapped the puck. It skittered across the ice toward Scott, who was already skating toward the goal. He stopped the
puck with the blade of his stick, took a couple of long, hard strokes, and snap! The Beetle goaltender almost did a split
as he kicked his left foot out to stop the streaking puck.

He missed. Goal!

“Nice play, Scott!” cried Skinny, smiling.

“Thanks for the assist,” Scott grinned.

Golden Bears 3, Beetles 2.

The face-off. This time Stinky Marsh’s fast moves got the puck away from Del. He passed to a teammate, who started to dribble
the puck up the center of the ice.

Scott charged after him. The Beetle smacked the puck, sending it whizzing past Scott. Scott sprinted after it, stretching
out as far as he could reach with the blade of his stick.

Crash! Down went a player as he tripped over the stick. A Golden Bear!

Oh, no! groaned Scott. It was Del again!

Del went skidding across the ice against the boards. He sat there, glaring at Scott, who skated to him.

“Sorry, Del,” Scott apologized, holding out a hand. “I didn’t see you.”

“Get outta here,” muttered Del as he scrambled to his feet.

A second later there was a loud roar, followed by the banging of sticks against the boards, from the Beetles’ side. They had
scored a goal to tie up the score, 3 to 3.

“They can thank
you
for that,” grunted Del.

Scott’s heart ached. Del was right. But this time Del should’ve seen my stick, he told himself. He just couldn’t brake in
time so he puts the entire blame on me.

Seconds after the face-off the buzzer rang. Lines Two skated off and Lines Three skated on.

“You two are getting pretty reckless out there,” observed Coach Roberts bluntly. “What’s the matter with you guys?”

“Nothing,” said Del.

“I can smell that lie a mile off,” replied the coach.

Del’s face colored. “He tripped me.”

“Tripped you? Why would he want to trip you?”

“I’ve been yelling at him.”

“Oh. Why?”

Del shrugged. “He’s been making mistakes.”

“So? Haven’t I been trying to correct
them? Or do you think you can do a better job by yelling at him?”

Del looked straight ahead, his ears beet-red. “No, I don’t,” he admitted. “I’m sorry.”

“And I’m surprised,” said the coach. “Didn’t you and Skinny bring Scott into the club?”

Del nodded.

“I don’t know,” sighed the coach. “Maybe you’re not pleased with Scott’s performance. But this is his first season. You’ve
got to give him a chance. Okay. Let’s drop the matter right now. One of the easiest ways of losing a hockey match is to have
at least two members of the same team cross sticks with each other. Let’s end that as of this minute. Okay?” He paused. “Del?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Scott?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine.”

They watched the remaining minutes of the game between Lines Three in silence. Lines One took over, and the Beetles knocked
in another goal, putting them in front, 4 to 3.