All-Star Pride

Sigmund
Brouwer

Orca sports

Copyright © 2006 Sigmund Brouwer

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Brouwer, Sigmund, 1959-
All-star pride / Sigmund Brouwer.
(Orca sports)

First published: Dallas : Word Pub., 1995.

ISBN 1-55143-635-3

I. Title. II. Series.

PS8553.R68467A64 2006    jC813'.54    C2006-903490-7

Summary
: There's plenty of money to be made...if he's willing to pay the price for it. First published in the United States by Orca, 2006
Library of Congress Control Number:
2006929012

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover design: Doug McCaffry
Cover photography: Getty Images

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OOK
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Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on recycled paper.
09  08  07  06 • 5  4  3  2  1

Other books by Sigmund Brouwer
Rebel Glory, Tiger Threat,
Timberwolf Chase, Timberwolf Revenge,
Sewer Rats, Wired

Strangers don't smile at me. Even though I'm only seventeen, I'm too big to get smiles. I'm too wide. My nose is too squashed from being broken too many times. I give myself my own crew cut with hair clippers once a week because it saves me money at the barbershop. In other words, I'm about as pretty as my nickname: Hog—as in Hog Burnell, junior hockey player, hoping to make the big step from the Western Hockey League into the National Hockey League.

Since strangers never smile at me, I had no idea what to do as I walked down the aisle toward the back of the airplane. There were rows and rows of passengers. Each row faced the front of the airplane, so all the passengers faced me as I made my way past them. Row by row, everyone who was awake smiled at me.

I knew all those smiles weren't something I was imagining. I don't have an imagination. That's not my job.

My job is to skate as hard and fast as anyone in the
WHL.
My job is to pound all opposing forwards and defensemen into the boards whenever possible. My job is to score goals on those few times I have the puck and the net is so wide open that even an elephant in handcuffs couldn't miss.

So if it wasn't my imagination, why were all these people smiling at me as I headed for the restroom at the back of the airplane?

Maybe my zipper. I had been in the air— along with the rest of the guys on the team— for six hours, on the way to Moscow. I had managed to lay my head back in the cramped
seat and sleep some. I had only woken up because I needed to go to the bathroom. Maybe, after rising to stretch in the aisle, I had broken my zipper.

I checked. Nope. My zipper was fine.

I kept moving. People were still smiling, and the aisle of the airplane seemed to stretch forever. What was I supposed to do? Smile back at them?

Not a chance, I decided. Smiling was not part of my job either.

I walked faster—not only because I didn't like the smiles, but also because I had important business at the back of the plane. The very important business that had woken me.

Walking faster only brought me quickly to a blond flight attendant in a blue uniform. She was serving coffee from a cart that blocked the aisle. I had to stand and wait behind her.

On the other side of the flight attendant, I saw an old lady in a black dress lift her head and stare at me. She elbowed her husband in the ribs and said something to him in a
language I couldn't understand. Probably Russian. The raisin-faced man turned his eyes in my direction—and smiled.

What was going on?

The aisle seemed like a tunnel in a dream, where you're running like crazy but not getting anywhere.

It didn't help that I needed to reach the back of the plane so badly that I was ready to tap-dance in the aisle. Two other passengers, headed the same direction as I was, jammed the aisle behind me.

The flight attendant probably heard me grunt as I tried not to tap-dance. She turned, still holding a pot of coffee. Her eyes were about level with my chest. She had to tilt her head back to get a look at my face. She smiled too.

“I can see you obviously need to get past me,” she said. Was it the tears of pain running down my face?

“That would be very nice, ma'am. Thank you.”

Her eyes widened a bit, as if she was surprised someone as big as me could be
polite. Poor, but proud and polite—that was the way my family had raised me on our prairie farm.

The flight attendant pushed the serving cart toward the back of the airplane. I followed close behind.

Every single person who looked up smiled at me.

I just gritted my teeth and pushed on. I finally got past the flight attendant and reached the restrooms at the back of the airplane.

Naturally, both were occupied.

I moaned a quiet moan. I tapped my foot.

“I see you're a hockey player,” a man said from somewhere near my shoulder.

If I'm not good at smiling at strangers, I'm even worse at talking to them. He must have guessed from the hockey jacket I was wearing.

“Yes,” I said, turning to see a middle-aged guy in blue jeans and an expensive sweater. I know how much good clothes cost. Someday, if I made it into the
NHL
, I would
have a closet full myself. Nothing but the best money could buy.

“Part of a team?” he asked.

I could see the top of his head. One of the things I don't like about being tall is having to see the tops of people's heads. Especially those of middle-aged men. You can always tell when they're slicking their hair forward to hide baldness. Or worse, you see their dandruff like sugar sprinkles on a cake.

“Yes,” I said, “part of a team.”

But I was thinking, If you play hockey, you play on a team. That's what hockey is. A team sport. How obvious could it be? I didn't say it though.

“The team's going to Moscow?”

“Yes.” Where else was this plane headed? Timbuktu?

“But this is summer,” he said. “Hockey in the summer?”

“It's an all-star tour,” I said. “Seven games in ten days against the Russian all-star team.”

“Great! Go U.S.A!” he cheered.

“This all-star team has U.S. and Canadian players,” I explained.

“I see.” The guy was staring up at my crew cut as he talked, and it seemed like he was doing his best not to smile. I nearly told him that if I could afford a real haircut, I would get one. It was none of his business, though, why I worked so hard to save every penny I made.

“Well,” he said a few seconds later, “part of a hockey team. That explains it, doesn't it?”

One of the restroom doors opened. A little girl walked out. Her head banged my knee, but she shook it off and walked up the aisle to find her mother.

“Yes, sir,” I said to the guy as I turned to walk in. “I guess that explains it.” Even though I had agreed with him, I was wondering what it explained. I thought the guy was crazy—until I walked into the restroom.

Then I saw why everybody had been smiling. Then I understood why the flight attendant had said it was obvious I needed to get past her. Then I realized why the middle-aged man had stared at my crew cut and said being on a hockey team explained it.

In the mirror, I stared at a pile of white shaving cream perched on my head. A big pile of white shaving cream. A big, quivering pile of white shaving cream. I looked like a human ice-cream cone. A human ice-cream cone who had just walked past every single person on the airplane with a stupid pile of light and fluffy shaving cream on top of his head.

I slapped the shaving cream off and toweled my hair dry. I slammed the door open and stomped down the aisle back toward my seat.

I'd heard enough about his practical jokes to know that no one but the Portland Winter Hawks' star center, Chandler Harris, would have put the shaving cream on my head while I was sleeping. I didn't care that he was a veteran of this all-star team. I didn't care that I was a rookie.

Chandler Harris needed to find a parachute and a quick exit. Or we were going to have a very uncivilized discussion, very soon.

Because I have a temper and know I need to control it, I forced myself to take ten deep breaths. It gave me a chance to decide not to very publicly kill Chandler Harris. Our coach, Mel Jorgensen, was only two seats ahead of him. I hardly knew the coach, since all of the players had just been thrown together from different
WHL
teams for this tour. I didn't want his first impression of me to be a bad one.

Instead, when I got back to the front of the airplane I squatted in the aisle beside Harris. I looked straight into his green eyes. His sandy hair was slicked back, almost dark with hair gel. He wore a denim shirt, along with a tie. Team rule: Wear ties in public.

“Harris,” I said.

He was laughing. So were most of the other guys in the seats nearby.

“Harris,” I said again. Still squatting, I grabbed the front of his shirt and twisted it in my right hand. I didn't think I could lift him with just one arm, so I pulled him toward me and got my left hand on his shirt too.

“Hey, rookie, back off.”

Rookie or not, I had pride. “I don't like losing my temper,” I said.

“Rookie, I just told you to back off.”

“People six foot seven and 250 pounds should never lose their tempers,” I explained with a calm voice. “It can be unhealthy for everyone involved.”

He didn't have much laugh left. I had no idea what the other guys on the team were
thinking or doing. Chandler Harris had my total concentration.

I straightened from my squat. As I straightened, I began to lift him from his seat. He was a big hockey player; I was just a lot bigger.

Harris brought his hands up and grabbed my forearms. It didn't help him. I lifted him higher.

I stopped halfway up. No sense pulling him entirely out of his seat and letting everybody on the airplane see this. I held him there, with a lot of clear space between him and the seat below.

It took effort. But I pretended it didn't as I smiled into his green, wide-open eyes.

“Save your jokes and pranks for other people,” I said.

I set him down gently and went back to my seat.

No one bothered me during the rest of the flight to Moscow.

We arrived at 10:00
AM
local time, which gave us most of the day to rest before our
first game that evening. We were greeted in Moscow by scowling gray clouds outside the airplane window, and then by scowling gray men in dark suits who checked our passports, and finally by one pretty girl with a clipboard in her hands.

“Good morning to all,” she said. Her accent made it sound like she was chopping her words.

The team listened; we had lined up near the conveyor belt that was spitting out our suitcases and duffel bags.

Coach Jorgensen was with us too. He was tall, with a sagging tired face and strands of hair combed sideways across his nearly bald head. He wasn't really paying attention to the girl with the clipboard.