Face-Off (6 page)

“Let’s get ’em back,” said Skinny as the buzzer sounded and Lines Two replaced Lines One on the ice.

Face-off. The puck dropped. Sticks clashed. Skates blazed across the ice. Here and there black satin uniforms mixed with the
gold. Suddenly, a crash at the side boards. The
phreeeeep!
of the whistle. Scott saw a Beetle down on the ice, Del Stockton on top of him.

A fight? No. Boarding. One minute in the penalty box. Del rose and skated off, his head drooped.

It was five men against six now. The face-off. The fight for the puck. It skittered toward the boards. Scott, Bernie, Skinny,
and two Beetles sprinted after it.

Scott, faster than the rest, reached it first. He hooked it with the blade of his stick, spun around, and dribbled across
the center line, then the blue. He looked up, saw the Beetle goaltender crouched in front of the goal, legs apart, stick held
ready. On each side of him was space.

Scott fired. The puck sailed like a rocket toward the right of the goalie. The goalie’s hand snapped at it like the tongue
of a frog snapping at a fly. He missed.

Goal!

Thunder resounded as Golden Bear sticks banged against the boards. “Thataway to go, Scott!”

Golden Bears 4, Beetles 4.

Again the face-off. Again the struggle for the puck. Then the minute was up. Del came back on the ice. The Bears skated brilliantly.
They bodychecked, passed, shot, and
shot again. The buzzer sounded. It was time for Lines Three.

Three minutes later the first period was over. The score was still 4 to 4.

“Nice shooting, Scott,” said Skinny as they headed for the locker room.

Scott smiled, and looked for Del. Their eyes met for a moment, then Del looked away.

They quenched their thirst with soft drinks and sucked on slices of oranges while Coach Roberts looked proudly at them.

“You guys are playing good hockey,” he said. “You’re skating fine. A little shy about taking shots, but that’s okay. Pass
a little more. And pass in
front
of your man, not at him. Watch yourselves about boarding as Del did. Boarding, charging, or illegal body-checking are violations.”

The second period started.

Lines One got on and off without scoring. The Beetles’ Line Two threatened in the first thirty seconds when Stinky Marsh belted
the puck against goalie Paul Carson’s skate from just beyond the crease. The puck ricocheted toward the boards, only to be
picked up by Stinky again.

Skating brilliantly, he dribbled behind the goal. Scott, suspecting what Stinky was going to do, skated in front of the crease
to help Paul defend the goal. Stinky swooped around the corner of the net, brought his stick back, and let it fly at the puck.

Scott saw it leave the ice like a rocket and head for him. He lifted his arm, closed his eyes and ducked.

Crack!

T
he puck struck his helmet and glanced over the net against the boards.

Scott stood frozen, his heart pounding. The thought of what had happened hit him, and he sucked in his breath and held it.
Around him black and gold uniforms were flashing every which way. A Beetle bumped him. He spun, fell.

A gold uniform appeared before him. He looked up into Skinny McCay’s face. “Scott! You okay?”

He nodded, and tried to rise to his feet. His knees were rubbery and he fell again.

Phreeeeep!
The whistle brought the blur of gold and black uniforms to a stop. The ref skated forward, helped him to his feet, and guided
him off the rink. Coach Roberts met him at the gate.

“Scott, you hurt?”

“No.”

He was dizzy. He wanted to sit down. The coach helped him to the bench. “Take it easy,” he said. “You’ll be all right.”

He sat down. In a while his head cleared. He saw that Vern Mitchell was in his place, and felt ashamed. He was breathing easier
now, but his heart was still pounding and sweat was dribbling down his cheeks into the corners of his mouth.

The coach unsnapped his helmet, took it off, wiped the sweat off with a handkerchief.

“Just relax and watch the rest of the game from the bench,” he advised. “You played a good game. You showed a lot of spunk.”

“I showed that I’m still scared of the puck,” murmured Scott.

“That’s all right. You’ll get over it. But it takes more than one game, or two games, or even three. It’s not easy.”

“I’ll never get over it,” said Scott.

“That’s crazy talk, kid. You think you’re the only one who’s ever had that problem? Some pros have it, too. Yes, pros. I know.
I’ve seen them.”

Stinky Marsh scored a half a minute before the three-minute time was up. Fat McCay tied it up when Lines Three went in, but
it was Stinky again who later broke the tie. And that was the way the game ended. Beetles 6, Golden Bears 5.

Coach Roberts met Dad and Mom at the exit door.

“Hi, Dick,” said Dad. “How’s Scott? Think we should keep him off the rink for a while?”

Scott’s heart jumped to his throat. He looked from his father to Coach Roberts.

“No. I don’t think we ought to get him away from the game entirely. I’ll just watch him. Leave him to me.”

The coach met Scott’s eyes and he winked.

“There’s practice Monday at six-thirty,” he said. “Can you be there?”

Scott smiled. “Yes.”

S
cott and Cathy went to the pond Sunday after church and skated till noon. Scott saw that Cathy was keeping a safe distance
away from the falls and smiled to himself. He knew she was doing it so that he wouldn’t go near them himself.

Don’t worry,
he thought.
Once over those icy falls is enough!

That afternoon they rode with Dad and Mom in the country. The roads were clear and the snow-covered trees stood erect and
still in the white fields. They passed
snowmobiles that glided swiftly over the fields, leaving twin trails behind them.

Passing by a mountainside they watched skiers riding on a ski lift to the top of the mountain and skiing down the long, slanting
slope. Halfway down, one of the skiers fell, lost a ski, and skidded nearly to the bottom of the hill before he got back on
his feet.

It was nearly dark when they returned home. He and Cathy helped Mom put supper on the table and Mom cooked hot chocolate and
they ate and talked about the things they had seen.

Scott went to Cass Rink on Monday evening. The Golden Bears practiced skating backwards for fifteen minutes, then worked on
bodychecking and hipchecking (bumping the side of the puck-carrier with your hip to knock him off stride), passing, and shooting.
The last half hour was devoted entirely to scrimmage.

The following evenings their practice routine remained the same. By game time Saturday Scott thought he had really licked
his problem.

The Golden Bears played the Bullets. When Lines Two took over the ice from Lines One in the first period, the score was 1
to 0 in the Bullets’ favor.

The Bullets wore gray, red-trimmed uniforms with white letters and numbers. A picture of a bullet with wings on it was on
the front of their jerseys. Slim Jason was their center.

The face-off. The dropped puck. The two hockey sticks batting at it. Then Slim struck it solidly, sending it across the Golden
Bears’ blue line.

Joe Zimmer intercepted it and dribbled it back up the ice. A Bullet rushed at him and Joe passed to Scott. Scott stickhandled
the puck across the red line into Bullet territory,
saw a Bullet sprinting toward him, and passed to Del. Del shot, missing the goal by a foot.

A Bullet retrieved the puck behind the goal and dribbled up the ice.

“Get back!” Del yelled at Scott.

Scott spun, saw that all five Bears, including himself, had left their side of the rink wide open. He started to skate backwards,
his eyes on the puck-carrier. But the Bullet had picked up speed and was sprinting down the side. Scott turned and sped after
him. He reached out to hook the puck. The blade of his stick caught the Bullet by the ankle, and down he went.

Phreeeeep!
went the whistle.

“Nice going!” Del grunted as he skated by.

The ref motioned Scott toward the penalty box, then skated there himself. “Tripping,” he said to the timekeeper.

The Bears tried hard to keep the puck down in Bullet territory, but, with twenty seconds remaining of Scott’s penalty, Slim
Jason blasted a shot past goalie Paul Carson into the net.

The Bullets had the puck in their possession when the timekeeper turned to Scott. “Okay. Time’s up.”

Scott rushed out onto the ice, eager to make up for that lost minute.

He seemed to have surprised the puck-carrier, for the man glanced around at him wide-eyed as Scott sneaked up from behind
him, bodychecked him aside, and stole the puck.

He dribbled the disk across the center line and the blue line with Bullets on both sides of him. He saw Skinny come into his
view at his left and passed the puck to him. The pass was good. Skinny caught it with the
blade of his stick, dribbled toward the Bullets’ goal, and wrist-snapped it.

Goal!

Golden Bears’ sticks clattered against the boards. “Nice shot, Skinny!” yelled the fans.

Del skated up beside Scott and smiled. “Nice play.”

“Thanks,” said Scott, who thought,
That’s one of the nicest things he’s said to me.

The buzzer sounded and the lines skated off, giving the ice over to Lines Three. The Bullets’ line proved stronger than the
Bears’ and scored twice before Fat McCay got hot and banged in two to tie it up again, 3 to 3.

Buggsy assisted with a score and shot one in himself to put the Bears back in the lead, 5 to 3.

Lines Two went back on the ice. Hardly six seconds ticked off after the drop of the puck when Slim Jason smashed a line drive
directly for the goal. The puck shot like a
small black meteor at Scott, who was in it’s way. For the first time in a long time the little black puck turned into a little
black monster.

It was shooting directly for his face.

S
cott ducked.

At the same time he knew that if the puck sailed by him it might shoot past Paul Carson for a goal.

He raised his hand.
Smack!

The puck struck the pocket of his glove, clung there for just a fraction of a second, then dropped.

“Nice stop, Scott!” yelled Del.

Golden Bears’ sticks clattered against the sideboards, and just for a second Scott Harrison smiled. He felt good.

A Bullet sped toward him, hockey stick
held out to grab the puck. Like a shot Scott dropped his stick and flicked the puck to Del, whom he saw skating up at his
left.

Del caught the pass and dribbled it across the center and then the blue line into Bullet territory. Two Bullet defensemen
went after him. Del passed to Skinny and Skinny shot. The puck blazed through the air like a rocket, but the Bullets’ goalie
stuck out his gloved hand and stopped it.

This time Bullet hockey sticks rattled the sideboards, and cheers rang out for their goalie. “Nice save, Ed!”

Skinny and a Bullet defenseman stood ready for the face-off in the circle at the front left of the Bullets’ goal. The puck
dropped and Skinny got control of it almost instantly.

He sprinted toward the goal. A guard struck him with a bodycheck, knocked him to the ice, and the puck skittered toward the
goal crease. Another guard hooked it with the blade of his stick and whisked it away up the center of the ice.

Scott back-skated hurriedly to cover his zone. Del went after the puck-carrier, who passed to a teammate skating near the
sideboards several feet in front of Scott. Scott stopped back-skating and shot forward. Just as he started to reach for the
puck the Bullet pulled back his stick and swung.

Scott clamped his eyes shut and raised a hand.

No! No!
Quickly he opened his eyes and dropped his hand, in time to see the puck whizz past his legs.

The buzzer sounded, ending the three minutes. Lines Two went off, Lines Three went on.

Scott expected Del to remind him of what he’d done, but Del didn’t. Nor did Coach Roberts.

Neither team of Lines Three scored and the buzzer sounded, ending the first period.

While Scott sucked on a slice of orange Skinny, sitting beside him, said softly, “Scott, Del ever tell you who really wanted
you to play with us?”

Scott frowned. “Wasn’t it you?”

“No. It was Del. He’d seen you skate and thought you were the best he’d ever seen.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Ask him,” said Skinny.

Scott stared at Skinny a long minute. “I guess I’ve really disappointed him,” he said. “No wonder he acted like he did.”

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and saw that it was Del. Del smiled as he tossed a sucked-out slice of orange
into a rubbish can and wiped his mouth. “Not anymore,” he said, smiling.

“You sure?”

Del’s smile spread. “Look, I think I’ve
learned to keep my mouth shut when I’m supposed to. Oh, by the way, Skinny and I decided we want you with us again.”

“As an Icekateer?”

“Of course!”

“Come on, boys!” interrupted Coach Roberts. “On the ice. Hustle!”

Lines One created a lot of action on the rink, but that was all. Lines Two continued the action, with one difference: Slim
Jason scored to put the Bullets one point behind the Golden Bears, 5 to 4.

Fat McCay fouled twice for Line Three, keeping him out most of the three minutes and giving the Bullets an opportunity to
score twice, going ahead of the Bears, 6 to 5.

“Our last time around,” Scott said to Del as Lines One shot the puck all over the rink for three minutes without getting a
good shot at the net. The buzzer sounded and Lines Two took over.

“And this is our last chance,” said Del. “How do you feel, Scott?”

“Fine.”

“Good. Let’s knock in a few.”

The face-off. The dropped puck. The fight for it. The clatter of sticks. And then Slim Jason had the puck, dribbling it down
center ice, ice chips flying from his skates as he sped. He was stickhandling the puck with one hand, zigzagging the disk
with speed and the greatest of ease.