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“It was for their own good,” I said, on the way home.

“Nugget,” Dad sighed.

“You can’t let that coach get to you, Dad,” Wendy told him. “Nugget’s right.”

Somehow, knowing Wendy agreed with me made me doubt that.

“It’s still a game, though,” Dad told her. “It’s supposed to be fun.”

“It
was
fun,” I told him. “It was the most fun game ever.”

“I meant for both teams,” he said.

“I had fun, too,” Kenny told him. “If those kids can’t handle losing, they shouldn’t be playing hockey.”

I high-fived him for that.

“Unsportsmanlike, he said,” Dad said, quietly.

“Gord, let it go,” Mum told him. “If the Cougars had won by twenty goals —”

“That would be sweet,” I said, practically drooling at the thought.

“No,” Mum corrected. “That would be excessive. That would be the time you relaxed and let some of the kids who don’t play as much get out there.”

“I think it would be the time you go for thirty goals,” I whispered to Kenny. “Like an all-time high.
Guinness Book of World Records
style.”

“Watch out for that Volvo, Wendy,” Dad said, grabbing the door handle. “That was close.”

“Can you guys relax?” Wendy snapped. “Just let me drive, okay? I know what I’m doing.”

“But not which lane she’s doing it in,” Kenny whispered and I laughed.

“Shut up, you two,” she said, glaring in the rear-view mirror.

“The whole idea used to be play to win,” Dad said, shaking his head. “It wasn’t about hurt feelings.”

“It still is play to win,” I told him. “The Penguins were just mad they weren’t the ones doing it.”

“Back in my day, the coach didn’t have to think about the other team’s feelings,” Dad said, quietly.

“Well, your day was like a thousand years ago,” Wendy told him.

“Honey, losing is an important part of sports,” Mum said.

“Just like fibre is an important part of our diet,” I said.

She shot me a look. “So is confidence and self-esteem. I swear, Gord, if I thought you’d done anything wrong or should have coached differently, I’d tell you.”

“Thanks, honey,” he said, turning to smile at her. When he turned back, he asked, very calmly, “You see that pedestrian, right Wendy?”

“Duh,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“I’m talking about the one on your left,” Dad said, gripping his seat.

“What?” Wendy asked, eyes bugging. “Oh!”

The minivan swerved hard.

“Slow down!” Mum said.

“I am!”

“Slower!” Mum shouted.

Wendy slammed on the brakes and the van screeched to a stop. She unbuckled her seatbelt. “I can’t handle this anymore.”

“
You
can’t?” I gasped, trying to catch my breath. My seatbelt was going to leave a bright red mark across my chest, like the sash from a freakin’ beauty pageant!

Kenny looked ready to hurl.

“You can’t just stop in the middle of the road,” Mum said. “Gord, do something.”

Dad was already out of the car, waving for people to stop honking their horns. He walked around the back of the van and Wendy came around the front to take over the passenger seat.

“I can’t believe you guys,” she muttered, as she buckled up. “You get all stressed and that totally freaks me out.”

“You have to be in control when you’re driving,” Dad told her. “That includes control of the car and your emotions.”

“She’s a teenager,” I reminded him. “Her hormones are going crazy and —”

“Zip it, Nugget,” Wendy snapped. “Look, I drive better when I’m by myself, okay?”

“Yeah, right,” Kenny whispered.

*   *   *

That night, the Canucks were playing an away game against the Avalanche and I was in charge of snacks.

Just before game time, I headed for the kitchen, where I pulled out bowls and glasses for me and Dad. Then I started digging in the pantry for whatever could pass for chips and treats.

The worst thing about Mum being a nutritionist was that she thought “snack” and “fruit” were the same thing.

“Are things going okay at the rink?” Mum asked.

“Uh-huh,” I told her.

“Care to elaborate?” she asked. When I looked confused, she said, “You know how I feel about one-word answers.”

I found the Tupperware container of carob cookies, which were actually pretty good, and some pita chips. If we had dip in the fridge, I’d be in business.

“I think everything’s fine,” I told her. “Now that we’ve won a game, everything will calm down.”

She raised an eyebrow, which was her best interrogation technique. “What needed to calm down?”

“Oh, you know. The guys didn’t like some of the changes to practice.”

“Well, the guys aren’t in charge,” she said.

“I know, Mum. You asked, and I’m telling you.” I lined up the cookies on a plate. “Are you watching the game with us?”

“No, I’m working on a diabetic meal plan for a new client,” she said, glancing at me and frowning. “And I’ll be working on one for you if you don’t put back at least half of those cookies.”

“But they’re the healthy kind,” I reminded her. “Made by your own loving hands.”

“That doesn’t mean they should be eaten by the dozen.” She shook her head. “I’m serious, Nugget. Cut that down by half.”

“Fine,” I sighed, putting most of them back in the Tupperware. “Do we have any popcorn?”

“I see pita chips on the counter.”

“I know, but —”

“It’s in the pantry,” she sighed. “But you are not melting butter.”

“What?” I choked. “We’re supposed to eat it plain?”

“You pop it and I’ll season it for you.”

“Season it? Mum, popcorn is made to be soaked in butter.”

“And people are made to live past twenty-five.”

“Whatever,” I groaned.

When I grew up and had a place of my own, the whole pantry, fridge and even my closet would be jam-packed with junk food. I already had a lot of years to make up for in missed Doritos and ice cream.

Once I had all my snacks perfectly organized and heard Dad turn on the TV, I remembered something super important.

We’d blown past the first of the month without a height measurement.

“Wait, let me get the ruler,” I told Mum, digging through the junk drawer.

She knew what I was doing right away.

“Why don’t we just wait until next month?” she asked hopefully.

“No way!”

In the last couple of months, I hadn’t even grown a centimetre, and I was pretty sick of waiting. Mum kept promising a growth spurt, but I was starting to doubt her, especially when I looked at the pencil marks next to the fridge, all stuck around the same place.

I stood against the wall and pushed my shoulder blades back.

“Fine,” she said, sighing as she reached for the ruler and the pencil.

I stood as still as I could while she measured. “I don’t think this kind of obsession is healthy, honey,” she said quietly.

“Neither is being the size of a four-year-old in grade six.”

“You’re bigger than a four-year-old.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” she said.

I closed my eyes and held my breath while I waited for her to finish.

“Not bad,” she said, once she’d marked the spot.

I spun around but didn’t open my eyes until I was facing the wall. The new mark was higher than the last one, but not by much.

Great.

“A pinch,” I told her, frowning.

“A smidge,” she said, ruffling my hair. “You’ll get there.”

“When I’m eighty?”

“Look at your sister,” Mum said, with a shrug.

Sure, Wendy was hoping she wouldn’t hit six feet before she graduated from high school, but she’d never had to wait for a growth spurt. She’d been tall all along.

It wasn’t fair.

At that moment, the doorbell rang and Wendy ran to answer it, which meant it had to be Shane. As I carried my tray of snacks into the living room, I ignored the slurpy kissing noises.

Gross.

“Ready?” Dad asked, as I put the tray on the coffee table and flopped onto my favourite side of the couch.

“Definitely,” I told him, grinning. I loved watching games with Dad because we both got totally into it.

Sometimes we cheered, sometimes we screamed, and sometimes we even ended up rolling on the floor and kicking our feet.

What can I say? We were fans.

Just as I grabbed a handful of popcorn, Wendy and Shane walked in.

“Hockey game, Mr. McDonald?” Shane asked.

Duh.

“We’re about to destroy Colorado,” I told him.

“How are things going with the coaching?” Shane asked, totally ignoring me.

Bosko told me he ignored almost everybody.

Except Wendy.

“Pretty well, I think,” Dad said.

“Cool,” Shane said, nodding. “My little brother’s digging it.” I almost laughed, amazed to hear anyone call the only kid in grade six with a mustache “little.”

“Do you two want to join us?” Dad asked, starting to make room on the couch.

“No way,” Wendy said, rolling her eyes.

“Thanks, anyway,” Shane said. “I’m not much of a hockey fan.”

“That’s right,” Dad nodded. “You’re a rugby guy.”

“No pads,” Shane shrugged, like that made him some kind of a superhero. “No helmets.”

“No brains,” I muttered.

“What did you just say?” Wendy asked.

I could tell by the look in her eyes that if she couldn’t pin me right then, she’d definitely do it later.

“Nothing,” I said, shoving a handful of popcorn past my lips.

Mum might have thought snacks would be the death of me, but that night a mouthful probably saved my life.

Chapter Ten

On Monday morning, I woke up for practice with a huge smile. Our big win guaranteed that my teammates would be on board with Dad’s coaching, my own four goals were a career high for me, and I was ahead of Bosko by a goal.

Nugget McDonald takes the lead!

Awesome?

Oh, yeah.

I sang to myself in the shower, but very quietly, so I wouldn’t wake Wendy up. I didn’t need a perfectly good morning ruined by the crabbiest teenager on the planet.

As I dried off and got dressed, I cut the singing back to humming.

Practice was going to be just like I imagined, with me and Dad as joint heroes.

Never mind the fact that all of my homework was done. I’d understood every bit of my Math assignment (except for three of the questions, but still) and I’d finished the book we were reading for English class a whole week early.

Mrs. Foster had continued to freak out every time
I raised my hand to answer her questions in class. It should have gotten old by then, but she was still surprised that I’d turned my study habits around.

I was amazed how much I liked reading now, and not just hockey books. The one we’d been reading in class was about a kid who had to choose between his two best friends, who were going in totally different directions.

When I thought about how things had been going between Dad and the Cougars, I could totally “identify,” as Mrs. Foster would say. But luckily I wasn’t like the kid in the book. Thanks to the weekend win, I didn’t have to choose sides.

We were all on the same team again.

I joined Dad in the kitchen, where a plate of toast was waiting for me.

“Hot diggity,” I said, smothering a slice with peanut butter.

“How did you sleep?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Good. I had a dream that me and Jean Ducette won the Stanley Cup.”

Dad laughed. “I wouldn’t have wanted to wake up from that one.”

“Me neither,” I said, taking a bite of my toast. It was kind of burnt, but the peanut butter covered up the taste a bit. “It’s easier to get up on practice days, though.”

Dad loaded the dishwasher and wiped the counters while I ate.

“Did you already have breakfast?” I asked him.

“I’m not feeling hungry,” he said.

For the first time, I noticed he had bags under his eyes.

“How did
you
sleep?” I asked him.

“I don’t know,” he said, with a shrug. “I tossed and turned a bit, thinking about what that coach said.”

“Geez, Dad, you can’t let it get to you. The guy was just mad his team was losing.”

Losing big.

No, make that
huge
.

“I know, but —”

“Seriously, Dad. He wanted to psych you out, and it worked.” I shoved the last bite of toast into my mouth and chased it down with a huge gulp of milk. I rinsed off my dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then headed for the mudroom.

“Don’t worry about your gear,” Dad said.

“Thanks,” I said, figuring he must have loaded it into the van already. “I could have carried it out, Dad.”

“It’s still in the mudroom,” he said. “I meant don’t worry about bringing it.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach.

“You won’t need it today.”

I stared at him. “Dad, we’re leaving for practice in like, two minutes.”

“I know,” he said, laughing. “Are you awake yet, Nugget? I’m saying you don’t need gear for today’s practice. Just wear what you have on and make sure you grab some running shoes.”

I couldn’t be hearing him right.

“What about my stick?”

“Leave it.”

Leave it?

My stick? The tool of my trade?

He disappeared out to the garage and I was left standing there, with my stomach sinking even deeper.

How were we supposed to have a hockey practice with
no pads, no skates, and no sticks?

When he came back, I knew I had to say something.

“Dad, I know you have a plan and everything, but the guys aren’t going to go along with this.”

He laughed. “Of course they are. Do you think they will have forgotten about Saturday’s win already?”

“Um, I’m pretty sure we would have won that game no matter what.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “I’m just going to do what I can to keep the streak going, Nugget.”

“Seriously, Dad. A hockey practice without gear is like …
not
a hockey practice.”

“Trust me, son,” he said.

And I wanted to.

But the guys wouldn’t trust him at all.