The Monkeyface Chronicles (27 page)

The horn blows, ending the first period. Grant Brush is ahead of me by one goal for the league scoring title.

It's nineteen minutes into the second period now, and I've been on the ice for just three shifts of less than a minute each. Three lousy minutes. And it isn't just that Mr. Packer is coaching against me, my own teammates are
playing
against me. Of our defensemen, Michael's buddy Brian has been passing pretty much exclusively to him, while Turner Thrift and Trevor Blunt have been consistently delivering the puck to one of the two Brush brothers. The only two guys who haven't been playing favorites are my line mates Billy and Toby, who I suppose will get to share the glory if I win the scoring trophy at the end of the game. But that result seems less and less likely as Michael and the Brush brothers continue to get four times as much ice time as Billy and Toby and me.

The score is still two-nothing. The Clementville Lightning are playing a tough defensive game against us, maybe their best game of the season. They refuse to just roll over and die. I, for one, understand.

The play moves back into the Lightning zone. Michael once again out-maneuvers the Lightning defensemen and is unchecked in the slot, but, rather than pass the puck to him, Graham Brush risks a long cross-ice pass to his brother, who is wheeling in on the left wing. Clementville's fastest forward hustles in from the neutral zone, intercepts the pass, turns and blows past Grant toward our goalie. Grant chases after the Lightning player and slams him into the boards in front of our bench with a nasty but legal body check. The whistle blows, and the guy wobbles on his skates as he gets up off the ice.

“When they give me the scoring trophy,” Grant mumbles as he skates past the Lightning player, “they should give you the pussy award, ya fag.”

The Lightning player swipes at the back of Grant's helmet with his gloved right hand, and Grant embellishes the tap by pitching his head forward and sprawling on the ice. The referee blows the whistle — a two-minute penalty to the Lightning player for roughing. As the Lightning player skates to the penalty box, Grant taunts, “Suck-AAAAAHHHH!”

“Power Play Unit Number One on the ice!” Coach Packer hollers theatrically. Our top power play squad normally consists of our top four scorers — Michael, Grant, Graham, and me, along with one of our defensemen, usually Brian Passmore. Before Packer has a chance to reconsider this arrangement, I jump onto the ice.

Michael wins the face-off in the Lightning zone, and chips the puck to me. Graham, Grant and Michael immediately form a passing box around the goal. Michael is open again, and he shouts for the pass, but I surprise our opponents and my own teammates when I rush straight at the net. I snap a high shot into the corner, but the Lighting goalie's blocker flashes in front it. Robbed! The puck bounces to my left, and I backhand it toward the net again, which the goalie kicks away. I feel the puck against the curve of my stick blade for the third time. Half the net is open now. I aim. My stick shaft flexes.

My skates are hauled out from under me and I hit the ice, sliding on my chest. I look back to see Graham Brush pulling his stick away. He has tripped me to keep me from tying his brother for the scoring title. Then I look toward the goal; the puck floats there in front of the net. I slash at it one-handed with my stick. It flips end-over-end, over the goaltender, against the twine.

The whistle blows. Goal!

I am even with Grant Brush once again.

The ref blows the whistle, gestures at a nearby Lightning player, who he gives a two-minute penalty for tripping. The guy shakes his head and skates to the box.

The Lightning goalie is enraged. He saw Graham, my own teammate, trip me. When Graham skates past him and says, “Hey, man, stellar moves! No wonder you pussies aren't in the playoffs,” the furious goaltender chops at Graham's shin pad with his stick. The whistle blows, and the referee calls him for unsportsmanlike conduct. Another dejected Lightning player skates to the penalty box.

I look up at the scoreboard. 19:32. Twenty-eight seconds left in the second period, and we're playing with a five-on-three advantage. Twenty-eight seconds for me to take the lead again.

Michael takes the face-off again. The puck hits the ice, and Michael passes it right onto the blade of my stick. One Lightning player skates after me, the second rushes to the blue line after our defenseman, and the third covers Grant. A stupid play by the flustered Lightning — they've left Michael and Graham wide open in front of the net. I wind up to pass the puck to Michael, but my peripheral vision detects a slight crack between the goalie's pad and the goalpost, so I redirect and take the shot myself.

The shot rings off the post and careens out into the neutral zone. Michael and a Lightning player race after the puck, but the buzzer sounds, and the second period is over.

Faireville Memorial Arena rings with cheering as we file off the ice toward the dressing room. Michael grabs me by the shoulder. “Come with me, Philip,” he says, his eyes burning with anger. “We need to talk.”

I follow him into the empty nurse's room between the two dressing rooms. He closes the door behind us.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” he shouts, gesturing wildly with his gloved hands. “Twice I was wide open, and twice you took a crappy shot instead of passing to me for a sure goal. Why? Would you rather have Grant win the scoring title than one of us?”

“Grant's a dick,” I reply.

“But you'd rather have
him
win it than
me
, wouldn't you?” Michael says. “Why, Philip? You've had this chip on your shoulder all season. What are you trying to prove?”

“There isn't anything to
prove
, is there, Michael? You already
know
that you were designed to be better than me, don't you?”

The volume of his voice drops. “What?”

“Come on. You
know
. You were designed to be the perfect offspring, and I'm just the waste material.”

“What the . . . ?”

“Aw, don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about, Mister Nice Guy. You and I were a genetic engineering experiment. Our father designed
you
to be perfect, and
me
to be the waste material. And you
know
it.”

“Are you kidding me?” Michael yells.

“Dennis told me everything, Michael.”

Michael shakes his head and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the fire is gone. “Philip,” he sighs, “he told me the same thing about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He told me the same thing about you,” he repeats. “Dennis told me that
you
were genetically engineered by Dad to be smarter and stronger than me and him, and that your facial deformity was an unexpected consequence of your genetic modifications. Dennis said that they schooled you at home to make sure you got a superior education, not just cookie-cutter public school learning. He said that your genetic engineering was why you got so good at everything so fast — school, hockey, everything.”

“I don't believe it,” I say, as much to myself as to Michael, “Why would he play us against each other like that?”

“He didn't play
us
against each other, Philip. He played
you
against
me
. You actually
believed
him. I never believe
anything
Dennis says.”

I don't know what to say.

“Look, Philip,” Michael says, “Forget about it for now. There's something else at stake here.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Our grandfather wants to run for mayor again, and he doesn't want Brush to have the opportunity to showboat if Grant wins the scoring trophy today.”

“How do you know that?”

“He explained it to me a few nights ago. I've been going over to his house every once in a while for drinks and cigars.”

“Oh,” I say. “Okay.” I feel so stupid. I thought that this was something special that my grandfather did with
me
.

“Listen, Philip, we're starting the next period with a power play, and we'll be on the ice together almost the whole time. The only person Graham is going to pass to out there is
Grant
. You and I can play the same game. If you're open, I'll pass to you. And I want you to do the same thing.”

“Okay, Michael.”

“Grant Brush
can't
win the scoring trophy today. It has to be one of us. You only need a goal to beat him. I need four now, but I'm feeling lucky today.
Really
lucky. But I don't care if it's you or me who wins, as long as it's one of us.”

He slaps me on the shoulder, and says, “Remember back in grade eight, that gym class when you and I scored ten goals together?”

“I remember.”

“Let's win that trophy. For our grandfather.”

Only a few seconds have passed, but it seems like I've been hovering here forever in the slot with the puck on my stick. The goalie hesitates; he expects me to shoot, like I've done every other time. I hold onto the puck, dribbling it back and forth from forehand to backhand. Finally he lunges from his crease to poke-check the puck away, and I backhand it over to Michael, who blasts it decisively against the back of the net. The people in the crowd, especially the girls, go wild. Caitlin, Carrie and Lara jump up and down, screaming orgasmically and waving their “MICHAEL SKYLER IS #1!!!!!!!!” bed sheet.

Mayor Brush glares at Coach Packer from across the rink.

Packer calls us in to the bench. I'm expecting him to sit me again and put the forward line of Michael and the Brush brothers back out, but instead he says, “This game's in the bag, boys, so I want to experiment with some line changes, just in case we need ‘em during the playoffs. O'Malley, you move up to Line One-A with the Brush boys, and Michael, you centre Line One-B with your brother and Frenier.”

Fifteen minutes into the third period, Michael, Toby and I have had three quick defensive shifts, while O'Malley and the Brush brothers are so tired from skating, they've turned over the puck half a dozen times in our own zone. Clementville has managed to strike three times as a result. A four-goal shutout has turned into a desperate one-goal game. If this is supposed to be a practice for the playoffs, the Faireville Blue Flames don't look so great. A few people in the crowd are booing.

“Line One-B,” Packer yelps, sweating profusely and dancing on his toes, “get out there and give One-A a rest.”

Without Grant and Graham out here to obstruct us, there is a real chance that Michael and I can score now. We weave around our opponents, passing the puck back and forth to each other, reading each other's minds just like when we used to play on the frozen creek behind our house.

I've got the puck, and the goalie moves forward to cut my angle, but I snap it right onto the tape of Michael's stick. He makes his second goal of the game look easy, and the crowd chants,
“Michael! Michael! Michael!”
He raises his stick in the air to acknowledge their cheers.

Coach Packer immediately pulls our line and puts Grant, Graham and Billy back on the ice, but again he runs them for too long, and one of the Lightning players picks Grant's pocket in the neutral zone and blasts one in from the point. And again it's a one-goal game.

Packer has no choice but to put our line back out on the ice, but when he sees Mayor Brush scowling and shaking his head behind the glass across the ice, he yelps, “Graham! Grant! Stay on! Stay on!” So, when the puck drops, it's me, Michael, Graham, Grant and Billy on the ice. All forwards, no defensemen. Nice coaching, Packer.

The crowd is edgy, rumbling darkly, but when Michael picks up the puck in our zone, everyone in the arena feels the momentum. They gasp as he maneuvers through four different Lightning players; their voices rise as he closes in on their goalie, and they cheer wildly as he rams the puck right through the five-hole. Baseball caps rain down on the surface of the ice in celebration of Michael's Hat Trick.