Last Shot Page 6

  The buzzer rang out. The scrimmage was about to begin. Rocket set off at top speed along the boards for a final skate. This was it.

  “Get to your benches,” a referee called out.

  Rocket cut across the ice to Red’s bench. The other Red players were crowded around Washington.

  “Give me Cash’s line first,” Washington said. He pointed at centre with his iPad. “Rainer and Big Z, you’re on D. Rest of you on the bench. Bourquey’s line is next.”

  Rocket waited for the others to go in, and then he took a place next to Bossy and Fryer near the middle of the bench. The referee blew his whistle. The centres lined up and the puck was dropped. Rocket figured he should get to know his new linemates.

  “You guys want to dump and chase or try to cycle it?” he asked them.

  Bossy seemed to find that funny. “Maybe you should try not to get yourself killed out there, little guy.”

  Rocket gripped his stick so tight he hurt his hand again.

  “How old are you?” Fryer said.

  “Old enough,” Rocket said.

  Bossy laughed outright.

  Fryer leaned over. “We’re veterans and about twice your size, so you might want to chill the attitude.”

  The hair on the back of Rocket’s neck rose.

  “I’d hate to find you taped up like a mummy after this scrimmage,” Fryer added.

  Rocket kept his eyes on the ice.

  “Good boy,” Fryer said. “Behave yourself.”

  Rocket had heard about the hazing that went on. These two guys could hold him down easy. He pictured himself wrapped up in tape and left on the floor of the dressing room. He’d never live that down.

  Cash had pulled the puck to Rainer, who one-timed it to Big Z. The defenceman snapped a pass to Gruny at the boards. Gruny fed Cash at centre, who sidestepped a winger and dumped it in deep for Hoffer.

  Rocket took a sip of water. His throat had gone dry. He took a deep breath and sat up straight. These two lunkheads weren’t going to intimidate him. Chill the attitude?

  Not in this lifetime.

  CHAPTER 8

  Washington tapped him on the back. “Rockwood’s line is up next. Let’s be ready.”

  Hoffer smirked. “Rockhead would be a better name.”

  “Leave the little guy alone,” Bossy chuckled.

  “Oh, that’s good,” Hoffer said. “Little Guy suits him.”

  Bourque swerved over for a change. Rocket stood and put his skate against the edge of the bench. No point responding to that garbage. When Bourque got close, Rocket hopped the boards and raced to Blue’s zone to forecheck. A defenceman had the puck behind the net. Blue had also taken the opportunity to change. Rocket veered to discourage a pass to the defenceman’s partner in the right corner. The defenceman came around the other side of the net. He had his left winger open for an easy outlet. Rocket cut back to force the pass.

  The defenceman brought the puck to his backhand and skated back to the middle, edging hard on his inside left skate. He wasn’t going to pass. He didn’t think Rocket could stop him.

  Rocket adjusted his angle, accelerated, lowered his shoulder and thundered into the guy’s chest. Already off balance, the defenceman fell. Rocket dug his skates into the ice, sending up a massive snow shower, and at the same time, he reached for the puck with his forehand. The goalie dropped into his crouch at the top of the crease. The left winger was behind Rocket, and the other defenceman was coming hard. Rocket didn’t have much time.

  He pushed off with his back skate. The goalie waited for him to make the first move. Rocket stickhandled twice, then brought the puck to his backhand, short-side. The goalie dropped to the ice and pressed against the post. Cash had shown off his A-move. Time for Rocket to show his. He whipped the puck to his forehand. The goalie threw his stick out to poke-check. That caused him to lower his glove — which was just what Rocket needed.

  Rocket put on the brakes in front, slipped the puck to his backhand and roofed it, glove-side. The puck nicked the crossbar and went in. A shot of pain went up his right arm.

  The next second he was flying over the goalie and found himself in the net with the puck. The defenceman he’d stolen the puck from had nailed him.

  “You’re so dead, it’s not funny,” the defenceman snarled.

  “Did you kill me before I scored?” Rocket said.

  The defenceman raised his chin. “Do you want to go?”

  “Go where?”

  A fight was the last thing he wanted. His hand was killing him. He could barely hold his stick.

  Rocket got up very slowly.

  Bossy skated up and pushed the defenceman aside. “Feisty work, Little Guy,” he said. He rubbed the top of Rocket’s head with his glove.

  The defenceman gave Bossy a look and backed away.

  Fryer tapped Rocket’s shin pads. “Little Guy’s got some jam. Not bad.”

  “Lucky goal,” Rocket said. “Let’s get a real one.” He tapped their shin pads.

  Bossy chuckled. “Sounds good. Let’s get ’er done.”

  They skated to centre. The referee already had a puck. Rocket swung around and set up. With his bad hand, he really only had the reverse-grip option. He had no power on his forehand. Blue’s centre came in aggressively, reverse grip also. He swung his left hand forward and threw his shoulder inside, sweeping his stick over the dot. His glove clipped Rocket’s chin.

  Rocket stood up. “Ref?”

  “Line it up,” the referee said to him.

  “Should be out of the circle for that,” Rocket muttered.

  “Stuff it,” Blue’s centre said.

  Rocket put his stick down. He figured the centre would try the move again. The whistle blew. Rocket relaxed his shoulders and bent his knees. The puck dropped. The centre’s left hand shot forward — too late. Rocket had pushed the puck between the guy’s skates. He tried to hold Rocket up by throwing out his hip, but he’d committed to the sweep. Rocket avoided the check easily and gained possession of the puck.

  The defencemen hovered at the blue line, unsure how to play him. Rocket was surprised to see Bossy charging alongside him on the left. Either Bossy had anticipated the move, or he had unexpected speed. Rocket went at the right defenceman, dangling the puck on his forehand. The defenceman charged. Rocket girded himself for another shot of pain and shovelled the puck over the defender’s outstretched stick to Bossy. The defenceman extended his arms, but Rocket spun to his right, his back brushing the defenceman’s gloves. He’d avoided the crunching check.

  Rocket hesitated so he wouldn’t be offside. The left defenceman had gotten back, the same player who’d challenged Rocket to fight. Bossy roared in over the line. Rocket figured he’d try to take it outside, but then — to Rocket’s total surprise — Bossy snapped a pass to him.

  Rocket cut wide right to create space. Now it was a two-on-one. In tight, he had to make a quick decision. He turned sideways, head up. Then, carving hard with his front foot, he kept going toward the net, waiting for the defenceman to commit. He didn’t want to shoot. He wasn’t sure his hand was up for it. Unfortunately, it seemed the defenceman wanted to force a shot, because he stayed right in the middle.

  Five metres out, Rocket resigned himself. The goalie was way out of the net, though — not much to shoot at. Rocket gritted his teeth, tried to grip his stick like normal and pulled the puck back on his forehand.

  Suddenly, the defenceman threw himself to the ice, feet first, going for the block. The goalie was still in a deep stance. Just as quickly, Rocket snapped the puck over to Bossy, who was charging hard for the net. The puck just made it under the defender’s sliding figure.

  Rocket felt another shot of pain in his hand, but it disappeared as he saw Bossy angle his blade and send the puck up and over the goalie’s right pad — another goal! The defenceman slid past him.

  Two goals in one shift. Gold and Alvo couldn’t help but notice.

  Fryer put an arm around Bossy’s shoulder. “Awesome pl
ay, Boss-man,” he said.

  “Way to go hard to the net,” Rocket said.

  Bossy grinned. “Nice pass, Little Guy. Even I couldn’t miss that.”

  Rocket turned back to centre. This Little Guy thing was bad. Bossy and Fryer were vets, and if they began to use it, all the guys would. Hockey players were like that, especially during a tryout. They liked to pile on.

  “Switch it up,” Washington called out.

  Rocket lowered his head and went to the bench. He’d barely stretched his legs.

  Cash stood next to the forwards’ open door.

  “Excuse me,” Rocket said.

  Cash leaned both arms on top of the boards.

  “Ooookay,” Rocket said. He walked behind Cash and shuffle-stepped his way to the middle of the bench.

  Cash held out his hand and high-fived Bossy and Fryer as they came off.

  “Nice wheels,” Hoffer said.

  Gruny punched Bossy’s glove.

  “I kept telling you guys I was wasted on the fourth line last year. I’m a goal scorer,” Bossy said.

  “You’re just a waste, bro,” Hoffer said.

  Bossy laughed it off, and he and Fryer sat down together.

  The whistle blew and the play started again.

  Rocket watched Red’s fourth-line centre, number 12. He never wanted a guy to do badly, but he certainly wasn’t cheering for his competition. Blue’s centre won the draw back to his left defence, and then he blocked number 12 from forechecking. The puck went cross ice, then back to Blue’s centre, who carried it over the red line and dumped it in.

  Rocket reached for a water bottle. He wasn’t thirsty, not after such a short shift. Bossy and Fryer were ignoring him, though, and he felt awkward sitting there. At least he could look busy. He took a few sips and then sent a thin stream of water over the boards. Blue was cycling effectively in the far corner. Number 12 was trying to win the puck. Blue’s centre was proving too much for him to handle. Blue got a few shots off and managed to regain possession each time.

  “Yo, number 12, get off the ice,” Cash yelled.

  Rocket wondered how he expected that to happen with the puck in Red’s end.

  “Guy’s been on for three minutes,” Cash fumed, slamming the shaft of his stick against the top edge of the boards.

  “Keep the lines rolling,” a woman’s voice rang out from the stands.

  “This is garbage, Coach,” a man added.

  Rocket looked up. The man was tall, very thin, with a pale complexion. The woman was tall, too, heavily made up, with bright red lipstick and green eyeliner. Her hair was bright blond and puffy, curled to just below her ears.

  Blue’s left defenceman fired a shot from the point. Glassy kicked it into the corner. Blue’s centre beat number 12 to the puck and the cycle started again.

  “Change it up!” the woman shouted.

  “Washy’s feeling the heat from the royal couple,” Bossy said quietly to Fryer.

  Rocket noticed Washington’s lips were tightly pressed together, his eyes fiery.

  “What do you think of our new star?” Fryer said.

  Bossy arched his back. “Haven’t seen enough. He’s got skills, obviously, and size. The guy can skate.”

  “Not sure Alvo will be able to handle the parents,” Fryer said.

  “He’s supposed to lead us to the promised Memorial Cup land,” Bossy said.

  “Kid’s only sixteen,” Fryer said.

  “Better not let Gold hear you,” Bossy said. “He’s already planning the parade.”

  They were talking about Cash. The couple in the stands had to be his parents.

  On the ice, Red finally got control and broke out of its zone. The right winger carried it over the blue line. Blue was caught with three forwards deep. It was a three-on-two.

  “Number 12, get off the ice this century!” Cash screamed.

  Number 12 either ignored him or didn’t hear. The three Red forwards pressed on. Cash looked up at the ceiling. The winger passed to number 12, who fumbled the puck a bit and then sent it on to his left winger. The left winger reared back for a slapshot, but the delay had let the right defenceman get his stick over and he deflected the puck into the netting.

  Cash flung the door open and charged onto the ice. Rocket noticed him say something to number 12 before continuing on to the faceoff.

  The guy looked bewildered as he came off. “What was I supposed to do?” he asked Washington. “It was an odd-man rush.”

  “That was ridiculous, Washington,” the man in the stands called. “Who’s the first line?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Washington said to number 12.

  Number 12 stepped past Rocket and sat down. Rocket felt bad for him — not the best shift.

  “Good work defending,” Rocket said to him. “They didn’t really have a good chance.” No point kicking a guy when he was down.

  “I didn’t get a good warm-up,” number 12 said. “Legs felt dead out there.”

  Gold leaned over the glass from the stands. Washington went over, and Gold whispered something in his ear.

  “Let’s watch the length of our shifts,” Washington said loudly. “Last shift was too long. Can’t have that.”

  “Hear, hear,” Cash’s mom said.

  “Puck’s in our end, and then a three-on-two …” grumbled number 12.

  Red’s right defenceman had the puck at the point. Cash called for it in the corner. Instead of passing to him, the defenceman shot the puck at the net. Cash smashed his stick on the ice.

  Gold obviously wanted Cash out there, and Bourque’s line was next. Rocket stretched his legs out. It felt like he hadn’t even played yet.

  “Let’s double-shift,” Gold called out. “Get aggressive. I want my coaches obsessed with winning, like me.” He went and sat down next to Cash’s parents.

  Rocket looked over at Washington. The assistant coach had his eyes closed. He didn’t look happy.

  Rocket took another sip of water. This shift wasn’t ending any time soon.

  CHAPTER 9

  Rocket zipped up his hockey bag. He was tired, but in a good way. In the end, the scrimmage had gone great. Despite Cash hogging a lot of ice time, Rocket and his linemates had connected for two more goals: Fryer from in close, Bossy off a one-timer from the top of the circle. Rocket had assisted on both.

  After lunch they’d gone back on the ice for drills, and he’d done well — he was up among the leaders in the skating. The two-on-ones were a bit difficult with his hand. He passed as much as he could. On the breakaway drills, he always deked. He’d scored his share today, so he was happy. But he also knew he couldn’t keep that up all camp. Eventually, he was going to have to shoot.

  He was going to ice his hand all night. It had to get better.

  The other great thing was that Kyle and Nathan had finally got a chance to show their stuff this afternoon. Kyle was a good, all-around player, and Nathan had one of the wickedest shots Rocket had ever seen.

  The chirping was getting irritating, though. The vets were giving everyone a hard time, so Rocket knew not to take it personally. The bad news was that the Little Guy handle was beginning to stick, and for that reason Rocket had no desire to hang out after practice.

  He rolled his bag to the stick rack and reached for the door.

  “See ya later, Little Guy,” Cash called out.

  A few guys snickered.

  Rocket froze, the door half open. If he didn’t answer, he’d be Little Guy and a wuss.

  “Better Little Guy than Big Mouth,” Rocket said.

  “Oooooooohhhh,” the boys sang.

  Cash’s eyes narrowed. “Like, you’re joking, right? The midget is talking trash? You’d better hurry, Little Guy. The daycare kids are going down for their naps.”

  “Whatever,” Rocket said.

  He left. As soon as the door closed, a cold sweat came over his body. Had he done the right thing? Talking trash was part of hockey, and he was a rookie. So was Cash, though. W
hy did he have the right to chirp at guys?

  Rocket headed slowly toward the lobby.

  But Cash wasn’t just a rookie. He was The Rookie, and Gold’s favourite. Plus, Strohler seemed to expect Rocket to be Cash’s buddy.

  “Dumb, Bryan,” he muttered to himself.

  Strohler was talking to Cash’s parents near the snack bar. He was out of luck if he thought Rocket was going to be Cash’s new BFF.

  Devin spotted him from the corner. He took off his headphones. “How was practice?” he said.

  “Not bad, thanks. You been here long?”

  Devin smiled weakly. “Dad wanted to check out his prospects. He has his eye on a couple of them, like that Cashman. I was keeping stats on them, like their number of shots, how many times they scored.”

  “You watched the scrimmage?”

  “And the drills. Dad really wants Cashman. He’s over there with Cashman’s parents, telling them how well he did. Like, his percentage on two-on-ones and stuff. His parents were watching, too, so I don’t really get why I had to keep the stats.”

  “You must really love hockey to watch an entire day of training camp,” Rocket said.

  Devin shrugged, then looked over at Strohler. “Dad wants me to find out how you did with Cashman.”

  “You guys don’t fool around,” Rocket said. He stifled a laugh.

  Devin was dead serious.

  “My dad just wants to know what you talked about, how you’re getting along and what Cashman is thinking, about agents and stuff. It’s kind of important. It’s sort of why you’re living with us.”

  Rocket was a bit taken aback. The reason he was living with them? “Um … it was a busy first day — not a lot of time to talk, really.”

  Devin leaned forward. “You can’t tell him that. He’ll freak. Dad says you’re our Trojan Horse. You’re supposed to be our secret agent on the inside. Think of something. Make it up, even. But make it good.”

  He sounded worried.

  Strohler was shaking hands with Cash’s parents.

  “Okay, Dawn, I’ll speak with you tomorrow,” he said to Cash’s mom. “Chris, your boy looked real comfortable out there. Impressive.”