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I never thought I’d be begging Eddie Bosko to talk Math, but I couldn’t take the stinkin’ girl talk anymore.

We got down to business, and just like he always did, Bosko started to make sense of everything Mr. Holloway was talking about. Not perfect sense, but sense.

It was no surprise, considering my hulking hockey teammate was a bona fide Math champion. His “Meeting of the Math Minds” team had actually won at Nationals.

“Are you getting this?” he asked me, when our time was almost up.

“Yeah.”

He gave me one of his classic stare-downs. “Don’t just say yeah if you aren’t.”

“I’m not. I’m getting it.”

“Cool,” he said, patting his hair into place and glancing at the stairs.

Oh, brother.

Just then, Dad came in the front door, with his briefcase and a stack of magazines.

“Hey guys,” he said, leaving the briefcase on the floor
and carrying the magazines over to us. “Check these out.”

When he put the stack on the table, I saw that they weren’t magazines at all. They were catalogues, packed with hockey training equipment.

“Sweet,” Eddie said, flipping through the top one.

“There’s some great gear out there for speed and strength training.”

And maybe it should stay “out there.”

I wanted to remind him that there was also something called a puck, which the Cougars liked to use every once in a while.

I cleared my throat. “Sure, Dad. But the thing is, a lot of the guys are starting to complain about not playing at practice.”

“I think it’s cool,” Bosko said, still checking out the catalogue. “The plyometrics and all that.”

“I think so too,” Dad said, glancing at me. “They’re very beneficial.”

“I’m sure they are, but —” I tried to tell him, just as Wendy came downstairs.

“Ready?” she asked.

Bosko whipped around to check her out and almost knocked over his milk glass.

Geez, Louise.

“Sure!” he said, leaving me and Dad in the dust while he scrambled to get all of his books into his bag. “See you at the game,” he called over his shoulder as he headed out the front door.

Wendy shrugged as she walked by us, but she was actually smiling, for once. I’d told her Bosko liked her, and I could tell she kind of enjoyed watching him drool over her.

She was twisted like that.

When Dad and I were alone, he sat down on the couch and invited me to join him.

“Big game tonight,” he said. “Kenny coming over?”

“Yup. Ducette’s been even more awesome than usual lately. The Bruins are toast,” I said, with no doubt in my mind.

The Canucks were rocking and with my hero playing better than ever, the game would be in the bag.

I didn’t have to wear all the gear, like Kenny did, because my Canucks didn’t need luck. They were too good for that.

“So,” Dad said, frowning a little. “The Cougars aren’t too keen on the training, eh?”

I didn’t know what to say, because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. At the same time, I wanted him to switch back to doing things the way Coach O’Neal did. The way we all did.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “It’s just different, I guess.”

“Different doesn’t have to be bad, Nugget.”

“I know.”

“And they haven’t tried for long enough to see what a difference the drills will make. I think it’s a good idea to shake things up.”

Couldn’t he see that the only thing he’d really shaken up was me?

“Uh-huh,” I sighed. Obviously, he was sticking with his plan, no matter what I said.

“Having a powwow?” Mum asked, coming in from the kitchen and flopping onto the recliner next to us.

“Just talking about the team’s reaction to plyometrics,” Dad said.

“Good?” Mum asked.

I shook my head slightly.

“Well,” she continued, “Your dad knows what he’s doing, Nugget.”

“I know, it’s just —”

“They’ll get used to it,” she said, like that was the end of it. “What do you guys think about chicken enchiladas for dinner?”

I looked at Dad and we both smiled.

It was that easy for me to ignore the fact that everything was starting to go haywire.

All it took to distract me was shredded chicken and perfectly melted cheese.

*   *   *

When Kenny came over that night, he brought a huge bag of Cheezies because he knew the ripple chips were a total fluke last time. If the package didn’t say “whole grain” or “no preservatives” it rarely made it into Mum’s grocery cart.

I could tell that even Dad was excited when he saw the bag.

“Kenny!” he said. “Good to see you. Let me grab a bowl for those.”

“Uh, sure,” Kenny said, as Dad took off with the Cheezies. When he was gone, Kenny asked, “So, have you talked to him about practice?”

“Kind of,” I shrugged.

“That doesn’t sound good,” he said, settling at one end of the couch.

“Not tonight, okay?” I asked, ready to drop it.

“But —”

“
Kenny
,” I warned, and he took the hint.

A couple of practices were bad enough. I hated to think what would happen
when the guys found out Coach O’Neal was having surgery.

I didn’t even want to think about it.

By the time Dad got back with a full bowl, the game was about to start and his fingertips were already bright orange from whatever made Cheezies taste so good.

“Game on!” Kenny shouted as the NHL logo flashed onscreen.

The Canucks looked ready to rule the rink, and I almost felt sorry for those stinkin’ Bruins.

Almost.

My favourite announcer, Dave Hodgkins, was calling the game, and even though I knew he was supposed to be unbiased, I also knew he loved the Canucks.

He and I were on the exact same page, especially when he started talking about Jean Ducette’s phenomenal season.

The truth was, I was ready for a phenomenal season of my own, but it sure wasn’t turning out that way.

Not wanting to think about it, I concentrated on the game.

When the puck was dropped, I watched Sean Masters scoop it up and pass it straight to my hero.

I couldn’t help smiling as I stuffed my face with Cheezies and Ducette deked out three of the Bruins, heading straight for the net.

When he took the shot, it was beautiful.

“Yes!” I shouted, jumping off the couch. “Ducette is the man!”

“Cool your jets, Nugget,” Dad said, laughing. “He’s just getting started.”

And Dad was right.

The guy was on fire!

It wasn’t until the first period ended that I had a great idea. If the Cougars won, no one could complain about Dad’s training methods. All I had to do was lead the team to victory, just like Ducette.

And I could do that.

Chapter Seven

I woke up on game day with an excited buzz in my ears, just like I always did.

The Nanaimo Penguins were about to get seriously creamed, courtesy of Nugget McDonald (and the rest of the Cougars, of course, but mostly me). I was going to play as hard as I could and take every possible shot for a win. I’d probably even pull ahead in my competition with Bosko.

Awesome.

And when we crushed Nanaimo, I couldn’t wait for me and Dad to share the spotlight as the heroes of the day.

I could practically hear the crowd screaming as I scored another unbelievable goal. And I could see all the parents patting Dad on the back for coaching a team that couldn’t lose.

I jumped out of bed and hit the shower, picturing the stunned look on the Penguin goalie’s face when I came at him again, and again, and again.

It was going to be a game to remember.

Once I was out of the shower, I threw on my sweats, including my lucky Canucks hoodie, and I was ready to head to the rink.

Three hours early.

The game was scheduled for eleven, which meant no matter how much time I spent eating breakfast, there would still be hours to kill before I hit the ice.

I joined my parents at the kitchen table, surprised to see Dad scribbling notes on a pad of paper.

“What’s that?” I asked, peeking over his shoulder while Mum put a plate of buckwheat pancakes on my placemat.

Bring on the maple syrup!

“Some new plays I’m working on,” he said.

“For the Cougars?”

“Absolutely.”

New plays?

I cleared my throat, ready to tell him that Coach never drew anything for us. He just told us what to do and we did it.

“Your dad’s getting pretty serious about all of this,” Mum said, smiling at me.

“Yeah,” I said, deciding to keep quiet.

Maybe his notes would be a good thing.

Maybe.

I sat down and loaded my pancakes up with syrup. I loved every drop of that gooey, sweet, sticky deliciousness and could probably drink it straight from the bottle.

“That’s enough, Nugget,” Mum warned.

I stopped pouring, licked my fingers clean and dug in.

“I can’t believe how much fun I’m having with this,” Dad said.

“That’s great, honey,” Mum told him, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

”Of course, I know it’s only been a couple of practices, but I can’t help feeling that the Cougars have the makings of a championship team.”

I stopped chewing. “Seriously?”

“Sure,” Dad said, nodding. “You guys already managed to beat Shoreline once this year, and they’re by far your toughest competition.”

He was right about that.

“Yeah, and we beat them without Bosko or me,” I pointed out. While I was sidelined for size, Bosko had been neck deep at Nationals, calculating Math stuff I couldn’t even imagine (and didn’t want to).

“Every season, that’s the one team standing in your way.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, slowly chewing. “Sure, but they aren’t the only team who beat us last year. Nanaimo won too. And so did Courtenay.”

“Right,” Dad said, nodding. “But those losses could have been prevented. Coach O’Neal is great, but he hasn’t had you doing some of the drills that could take you over the top.”

“Plyometrics,” I said, once I’d swallowed my mouthful. The pancake kind of got stuck in my throat, despite all the syrup. I reached for my milk glass and took a big gulp.

“Exactly. The right training.”

I took another bite and thought about what he was saying.

My master plan to dominate the ice was only about winning one game, but if Dad was ready to guide the Cougars to a championship victory for the first time ever, everyone would love him.

They’d probably put a statue of him in front of the rink.

“You really think all it’ll take is plyometrics?” I asked, starting to get kind of excited about the whole thing.

Where would I put my championship trophy?

Would the Cougars have our picture in the paper?

“Plyometrics and some other new drills. Maybe some different configurations on the ice and —”

“Different what?” I asked.

“Move the players around,” Mum explained, handing me a napkin.

“You mean, like, we play new positions?” I asked.

Dad just nodded.

I couldn’t speak. I’d never even thought about switching the guys around. I’d been a right winger for my whole life.

Geez, I didn’t want to end up playing defense or goalie or something.

How was I supposed to score?

“I think Bosko might do well at centre,” Dad said circling something on his notepad.

Now
that
sounded good. I’d keep right wing, which I’d mastered, and Bosko would be stuck in a brand new slot.

I chewed faster, getting excited again.

It was genius!

We’d win games and I’d take the goal competition.

The doorbell rang just as I was imagining skating around the rink, holding the Island league trophy high above my head.

“I’ll get it,” I said, jumping up from the table and leaving my empty plate behind.

When I opened the door, Kenny was standing on the front step, holding a tennis ball and his stick.

“Wanna play?” he asked.

I looked at him like he was crazy. Of course I wanted to play. “Hold on.”

I ran upstairs for some shoes, then back down, wincing as Wendy yelled at me to be quiet. She even said something about beauty sleep.

“Whatever,” I muttered. If beauty was what she was after, she’d be sleeping for years.

No matter what Bosko thought.

“Ready?” Kenny asked from the doorway.

“Meet me in the driveway,” I told him, zipping through the kitchen to grab my stick from the mudroom.

“Where’s the fire?” Dad asked.

“Me and Kenny are going to play until we have to leave.”

“Does he need a ride to the game?” Mum asked.

“I’ll ask.”

His family was … difficult at the games and that made me feel sorry for Kenny. After all, my family behaved pretty well when they came out to cheer us on.

Kenny’s dad liked to yell at the refs.

But not as much as his grandma did.

When I got outside, Kenny had already pulled the net out from the side of the house. It had taken a pretty serious beating over the years, and some of the holes were big enough to let a bowling ball through, but that was okay.

“You need a ride to the game?” I asked.

Kenny glanced at me with relief. “If that’s okay with your mum.”

“She’s the one who asked.”

“Cool,” he said, smiling. “So, you think we’re gonna win today?” he asked, taking a shot.

I thought about Dad leading us straight to the championship. “No doubt,” I told him.

“I don’t know, Nugget. Nanaimo’s pretty tough,” he said, digging the ball out of the bushes with his stick.

“But they’ve only beaten us once in the last two seasons.”

“Yeah, but …” he passed me the ball and didn’t finish what he was saying.

“But what?”

“Nothing,” he shrugged.

I lined up a shot and watched the ball fly right into the top corner of the net. “But what, Kenny?”

“I don’t know. We’re kind of off our game.”

“Off our game? What are you talking about?”

“The guys were saying how no scrimmages at practice meant we wouldn’t be, you know, warmed up for the game.”

I snorted back a laugh. “It’s only been two practices. If we’ve all forgotten how to play, we couldn’t have been any good in the first place.”