Line Change (3 page)

His eyes bugged. “She does?”

“Yeah, because we have to leave by five-thirty.”

“Right,” he said, nodding. “Five-thirty. I’ll get on it.”

When he disappeared down the stairs, I turned to go into the bathroom. I glanced at my parents’ bedroom door, kind of wishing Mum wasn’t taking a turn sleeping in. I was used to practice mornings being just me and her.

We had a routine that really worked.

But maybe me and Dad would, too.

Once I was in the shower, I relaxed under the hot water and started thinking about how awesome it was going to be to have Dad as a coach, even if it was only for a few days. I hoped it would be longer than that because he would play me to my strengths, and I had the feeling I could score some serious goals.

Bosko and me had been splitting right wing down the middle, and we had a tight partnership, but an extra minute or two on the ice wouldn’t hurt my stats a bit. Dad calling the shots would be a good opportunity for me to take over the lead.

I was already looking forward to leaving Bosko in the dust.

I towelled off, threw on my sweats and grabbed my school books before heading downstairs.

When I walked into the kitchen, Dad was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee, reading yesterday’s paper.

I checked the counter for a toasted bagel or English muffin, but all I saw was a bowl of —

“Oatmeal,” Dad said, grinning like it was a good thing.

“Oh,” I said, carrying it over to the table and sitting down across from him.

“It sticks to the stomach,” he said, flipping a page.

From what I could tell when I tried to lift my spoon, it stuck to everything, including itself. “Thanks, Dad.”

“No problem.”

I shoved the first mouthful in and realized I was going to need something to wash it down. When I got up to get some milk from the fridge, I saw the time on the microwave.

“Dad, it’s quarter past.”

“Mmm,” he said, continuing to read.

“If you’re going to have a shower …”

“Right,” he said, folding the paper and drinking the last of his coffee in one gulp. “Be back in a flash.”

He was pretty quick in the shower and I had just finished loading the dishwasher when he came downstairs.

“Awesome look,” I said, happy to see him wearing his classic Nordiques jersey for practice. “Are you ready?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “I just have to grab my skates.”

He opened the door to the garage, which was a very bad sign. It was so jam-packed with stuff, I couldn’t have found a
car
in there, if there’d actually been room for one.

I’d never even seen skates in there.

Ever.

“Do you know where they are?” I asked, glancing at the microwave.

Nuts.

We couldn’t be late for his very first practice!

“Yeah, I think they’re hanging by my workbench.”

There was a workbench? Hidden under what?

While Dad tried to track down the skates, I grabbed my hockey bag from the mudroom. It was so heavy I could barely lift it. As I leaned against the kitchen counter and waited for him, I wondered why Mum hadn’t made Dad get his stuff ready the night before.

I always had to.

Luckily, by the time Dad found his skates, we were only two minutes late leaving. He grabbed his keys and started for the door.

“Uh, Dad?” I asked. “Where’s my lunch?”

“Your what?” he asked, turning the knob.

“My lunch. For school.”

“I thought you were making it while I was in the shower.”

“I thought you were making it while breakfast was cooking. That’s what Mum does.”

“She does?” he asked, sighing. “Look, let’s just get you a school lunch today and —”

“Mum doesn’t like me to —”

“Does Mum have to know everything?”

I smiled. “Maybe not.” That was cool with me. Sometimes they had fries in the cafeteria, and that was way more exciting than a Mum lunch.

On the drive to the rink, it started to freak me out a bit that Dad hadn’t even known where his skates were.

How long had it been since he’d played, or even been on the ice?

I was feeling a little nervous, for both of us.

But when he started talking about strategy and how he had some ideas he thought would really help the team, I knew it didn’t matter if he hadn’t skated for a while.

He might not have mastered the morning routine at home, but it was stupid of me to worry about the rink.

When it came to hockey, my dad knew exactly what he was doing.

Chapter Three

When we got to the rink, I hustled to the locker room to get into my gear while Dad headed for the ice.

On the way down the hallway, I could hear the guys goofing off, and as I got closer to the door, I knew they were going to razz me for getting there so late.

“Whoa, here he is,” Jeff said, when I walked into the room.

“Uh-huh,” I said, dropping my bag on the bench and opening it up.

“Sleep in much?” Patrick asked.

“I guess,” I said, with a shrug. I didn’t want to say that the holdup was Dad, tracking down his antique skates.

“Pretty cool that your dad’s coaching today,” Curtis said, as he headed for the door.

David and Patrick both nodded and said something about that being cool, but the only opinion I wanted to hear was Bosko’s.

He didn’t say a whole lot, but when he did, the guys listened. And since he’d seen my family in action during
our eight million tutoring sessions, I really wanted him to be the guy to say that Dad would do an awesome job.

But he didn’t say anything.

In fact, he finished lacing up his skates and followed Curtis out the door.

Kenny hung around while I was getting dressed.

“We’re doing all our usual drills and stuff, right?” he asked, handing me my jersey once I had my shoulder pads on.

What kind of a question was that?

“It’s still hockey, Ken. No matter who’s coaching it.”

“Cool,” he said, smiling. “I don’t like a lot of changes.”

“Especially when it comes to your socks, right?” I laughed, punching him in the shoulder before I pulled the most awesome helmet on the planet out of my bag. Its red and black flames were the perfect match for my Cougars uniform. I still couldn’t believe it was mine.

“Har dee har har,” he said, punching me back. “So, are we heading out there, or what?”

“Let’s roll,” I said, beating him out the door.

The closer I got to the ice, the more excited I felt.

The absolute truth was that the Cougars had one of the best starting lineups in the league, and I loved playing with these guys.

I was the smallest kid on the team (and in the league, and in my grade, and on the planet, it sometimes felt like), but I was one of the fastest. What I lacked in height, I made up for in strength. And our giant, Bosko? He was a beast! Never mind the fact that his skills were almost as huge as his hulking body. He was quick, a killer stickhandler, and our other go-to guy (along with me). He’d left the Shoreline Sharks when he moved to Cutter Bay, and even though I
wasn’t a fan to start with, he’d kind of won me over.

And not because he wanted to, because the guy honestly didn’t care what me or any of the guys thought.

Sometimes I wished I could be that way.

At left wing was Colin Bechter, who I’d played with since I was about five. He was a solid player and I could always count on him at game time.

At centre was Jeff McDaniel, who never failed to take possession when the puck was dropped. He was tight with Colin, but he got along with everybody. He was one of the strongest guys on the team, especially his breath, which was the worst on the island, mostly because of his beef jerky breakfasts.

Seriously gross.

Kenny Cavanaugh was my best friend on the team. He played defense with Patrick Chen. They were both nice guys and good players, but Kenny had really started to rock this season. He was finally getting to be as aggressive on the ice as he was when he watched his beloved Red Wings play on TV.

And that was saying something.

We also had the Watson triplets, who played left wing, centre and defense. Since no one could tell them apart, it’s hard to say for sure which one played which position, but they were all pretty good. At least I
think
they all were.

Bedhead McCafferty filled in on defense when we needed him (and when he was awake).

Our weakest position was probably goal (and it showed  — Chris Fullerton actually closed his eyes when we took shots at him during practice!). Our old goalie, Jason, moved to Calgary with his family, and that left the most gigantic team hole in Cougar history. We ended up rotating Chris
and our benchwarmers through that position. Jeremy Simpson hated it and the other subs were Tim Shaw and Curtis Blank, who’d been on the team forever, but didn’t play much. Tim’s knee was sometimes messed up and Curtis wasn’t much of an athlete. The two of them spent more time arguing over NHL stats than anything else.

*   *   *

When we got out on the rink, Dad was standing at centre ice.

“I think you all know I’m Nugget’s dad and I’m filling in for Coach O’Neal.” He held a whistle between his teeth while he was talking, which made him kind of hard to understand.

“When’s he coming back?” Kenny asked.

“I’m not sure,” Dad told him, letting the whistle drop out of his mouth. “I know he’s in the hospital and they’re figuring out how bad his back is.”

“Will he be here for Saturday’s game?” Kenny asked.

“He just said he didn’t know,” I whispered to him, and Kenny nodded.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Dad told him. “If he isn’t able to make the game, I’ll coach.”

“Cool,” Jeff said. “Were you really one of the Flames, Mr. McDonald?”

“No,” Dad said, raising his eyebrows when he looked at me.

“I didn’t say that,” I told him.

“I was
scouted
by the Flames, then had an accident and lost some vision.”

“What kind of an accident?” Patrick asked.

“Can we just play?” I muttered to Kenny.

“I got hit with a puck and I wasn’t wearing a helmet.”

“What?” all the guys gasped at once.

“I wasn’t playing when it happened,” Dad explained. “I was taking a break on the ice.”

“Did somebody do it on purpose?” Kenny asked.

Oh, brother.

“No,” Dad sighed, and I could tell he was getting as tired of the questions as I was. “It was an
accident
. That’s why it’s always important to gear up and be aware of your surroundings.”

“So if —” Kenny started, but I elbowed him.

“Now let’s get down to business,” Dad said.

He told us to skate a bunch of warm-up laps, which was exactly how Coach O’Neal always started practice.

Kenny looked relieved.

The team took off in one big herd, but some of us (like me) were faster skaters and pulled out ahead right away. Me and Bosko usually kept the same pace, and I’d gotten used to doing laps with him. He never said much, but that was okay. I needed to save my breath for more important things, like … breathing.

It was hard work, but it felt good to be pushing myself. Nothing sounded better than blades against the ice and a whole team of guys panting behind me. I counted off the laps as we went, hoping Dad wasn’t going to go overboard.

“Let’s pick it up!” he shouted, after a few minutes. “One more lap to go!”

Bosko and I both started gunning it, and I could feel the cold air freezing my lungs as I gasped for breath. Sometimes he beat me on the last lap, sometimes I beat him, but it was always a close finish.

“Nice work!” Dad called.

I gritted my teeth and skated even faster, because I wanted Dad to see me beat all the other guys. Especially Bosko.

I wanted to be the best, even if it was only a drill.

And, with a burst of energy and determination, I was.

“Yes,” I whispered, wanting to pump a victory fist in the air.

Instead, I bent to rest my hands on my knees and coasted for a few seconds, letting my heart slow down to normal.

“Nice speed,” Eddie said, doing the same thing next to me. “Somebody had their Wheaties this morning.”

“Thanks,” I said, thinking of the oatmeal glued to my stomach.

When the rest of the guys finished the final lap, Dad started dividing us up into groups of three.

“Where are the cones?” Kenny whispered. “Coach usually puts cones out next.”

“Relax,” I told him.

“Each group get into a circle,” Dad said.

“A circle?” Kenny whispered, like he didn’t know what it was.

“Do you mean a triangle?” Jeff asked. “I mean, since there’s three of us?”

“Sure,” Dad nodded. “Circle, triangle, whatever you want to call it, just spread yourselves apart.”

I was with Colin and McCafferty, who actually looked awake for a change.

Dad passed each group a puck. “We’re going to work on cycling.”

“Huh?” I heard Kenny ask.

“Cycling,” Dad repeated. “I want one guy in each group to take the puck.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, I’d snagged ours.

“Now everybody start skating in a slow circle.”

My group started skating and I heard Kenny say, “Coach doesn’t do this.”

Everybody ignored him and concentrated on what they were doing.

“When I blow the whistle, whoever has the puck needs to pass back to the guy behind him.”

Before anyone could bug him with questions, he blew the whistle.

It was kind of a funny angle for passing, but I shot the puck back to Colin and we kept skating.

In a few seconds, Dad blew the whistle again, and Colin passed to Bedhead.

I saw that some of the groups had lost their pucks already. Dad waited until everyone was back on track before blowing the whistle again.

And again.

Faster.

And faster.

As we were running the drill, my group got better at handling those weird angles, and all of our passes were good.

“Nice,” Bedhead said, when Colin slipped him the puck.

“The reason we’re doing this is to get in the habit of passing when we don’t have a good shot ourselves,” Dad said. “Sharing the puck is a crucial part of winning.”