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“But we’re awesome!” Kenny argued.

“Yeah,” I said, rolling my eyes at him. “That’s the point, you goof. We’ll be fine.”

Better than fine, actually.

We were going to stomp on Nanaimo.

I would make sure of it.

*   *   *

When it was time to head for the rink, Wendy insisted on driving. If we’d taken Dad’s car, that would have been fine, but I wasn’t a big fan of her skills with the minivan.

Mostly because she didn’t have any.

“How about picking a lane?” I asked, when she almost took us into oncoming traffic.

“How about zipping it, twerp?” she snapped, turning the
wheel so hard we almost ended up in a ditch instead.

Mum didn’t say anything, but she had a white-knuckle death grip on her armrest.

“How about a little less chatter?” Dad said, wincing as the tires squealed on a corner. “And a little less speed.”

“This is like Disneyland,” Kenny whispered.

“Without the happiness,” I told him, and we both laughed.

“Shut up, you guys,” Wendy said, swerving as she shot us a look in the rear-view mirror.

“Eyes on the road,” Mum said quietly.

“I
know
,” Wendy growled.

“When are you getting your license?” Kenny asked.

Wendy’s glare was back. “I already have it,” she snapped.

“Holy smokes,” Kenny whispered.

“That doesn’t mean she’ll keep it,” I whispered back and we both snickered.

“I heard that, Nugget,” Wendy growled.

“Everybody mind your own business and let’s just get there in one piece,” Dad said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wendy snapped. “I’m a perfectly good driver when I’m not being harassed.”

“Just watch the road, honey,” Mum told her, closing her eyes as Wendy swerved hard to miss a squirrel.

“If I die, you can have my rookie Viktor Slatov card,” Kenny whispered.

“I’ll probably die with you and I hate that guy,” I whispered back.

“I hope your parents paid their insurance.”

“My dad sells it, Kenny.”

“Then he’s a smart guy,” he said, as his body slammed against me on another hard turn.

Of course he was.

My dad was about to lead the Cougars to the championship.

No doubt about it.

Chapter Eight

When Kenny and I got to the locker room, it had to be the gloomiest place on the planet. No one was talking and joking like they usually did. Instead, my whole team was dressed for the game, but acting like they were on their way to a funeral.

“What’s the deal?” I asked, dropping my bag on the floor.

“My dad went and saw Coach at the hospital last night,” Colin sighed.

“He’s having surgery,” Jeff groaned.

“I know,” I told them, then wished I hadn’t when they all turned to stare at me at once. “What?”

“You
knew
?” Patrick asked.

“Yeah, my mum told me the other day.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Colin demanded.

“I didn’t have a chance.”

“Whatever,” Colin said, shaking his head, “So, now the next few games are a bust.”

“No they aren’t,” I told them. “My dad’s still going to coach.”

“No offense, Nugget,” Chris said. “But that’s not exactly good news.”

“More like the opposite,” Jeff said.

“We’re doomed,” Colin said.

“Huh?” McCafferty grunted as he woke up for a second or two, then conked out again.

“No, we’re not,” I told them. “Dad has a plan and —”

“Dad has a plan?” Colin mocked. “I’m sure jumping up and down will stop the Penguins, Nugget.”

“And Comox,” Jeff added.

“And Shoreline,” Kenny chimed in.

I turned to glare at him. He was supposed to be on my side. Dad’s side.

Wait a second
.

We were splitting into sides?

“You sound like a bunch of scared little girls,” Eddie said, from the corner.

The guys turned toward him.

“But we aren’t ready,” Colin said.

“Aren’t ready?” Bosko laughed. “We’ve all been playing hockey for our whole lives. Nothing’s changed.”

“But now that Coach is —” Chris started, but Bosko cut him off.

“Nothing’s changed,” Bosko said, this time a lot louder. Then he left the locker room. The chatter died down and I put on my gear. When I pulled on my lucky socks, I thought about how important it was to win.

The team had to see that Dad was the guy for the job, even if he didn’t do things exactly like Coach O’Neal.

When I slipped into my shoulder pads, I knew it was time to play harder than ever before.

I pulled on my jersey and took a deep breath.

Then I grabbed my helmet and joined my team, ready to lead them to victory.

*   *   *

Nanaimo looked pretty threatening in their blue and black uniforms, but I could never figure out why they were the Penguins. I mean, why would anybody name a sport’s team after something that
waddled
?

And would a penguin stand a chance against a cougar in the real world? No way. As far as I was concerned, in the lame name game, the Nanaimo Penguins were right up there with the Washington Capitals.

And that was saying something.

When the puck was dropped, we took possession right away and spent the first four minutes of the game close to the Penguins’ net. I was taking one shot after another, but their goalie was surprisingly good. Even Colin was having trouble getting shots past him, until he finally managed to flick the puck between the goalie’s legs.

“Yes!” I shouted, slapping him on the back.

Just a few seconds later, the Penguins’ centre lined up a shot and blasted the puck toward Chris, who was stuck in goal. My whole body got tense as I watched the puck sail toward him, and all I could hope for was that his eyes were open.

Chris caught the puck in his right glove, and the home crowd cheered.

Whew!

“Nice save, Fullerton,” Colin called out to him.

Chris nodded and got right back to business.

Patrick passed me the puck and I headed for the Penguins’ goal, deking out both of their defensemen like it was nothing.

We were already on our way to a win. I could feel it all the way to my toes.

I’d spent the whole summer practising my slapshot and it was time to show it off. I raised my stick and swung hard, connecting right in the sweet spot.

The puck must have been going a hundred kilometres an hour, because it buzzed past the Penguins’ goalie so fast, he didn’t even twitch, let alone try to save it.

“Right on, Nugget!” Patrick shouted, patting my helmet.

“Sweet shot!” Colin added.

“I’m still up by one, Nugget,” Bosko called from the bench.

“I know.”

“
Up by one
,” he said again, with a grin.

He didn’t have to be a jerk about it.

The competition was my idea, mostly because I thought I’d win. I wanted to be like Gretzky, the only guy to score more than two hundred goals in a season. And he did it four times!

But if two hundred was out of reach, I could aim for fifty.

Or forty.

Yeah, I’d probably be happy with forty.

But if Bosko won, I’d be sorry I ever suggested counting and competing.

Not that it mattered right that second, because the stomping of Nanaimo had begun.

*   *   *

During the second period, when Bosko was playing and I was on the bench, the game got a little tougher. The Penguins seemed to be getting more confident and taking more shots than they had at the beginning.

Chris Fullerton was handling them pretty well, but he did let a puck slip by.

Two to one wasn’t enough of a lead against these guys, and I knew I had to get back out there.

“Put me back in, Dad,” I said.

“Not yet, Nugget. Bosko’s got it under control.”

“But I can —”

“Not yet,” Dad said, more firmly.

How was I supposed to score from the bench?

I sat down and watched as Kenny let one of the Penguins breeze past him and take a shot.

It went right in.

“What?” I shouted, jumping up. “Come on, Kenny!”

My pal shrugged at me, like he was sorry.

But sorry wasn’t going to win the game.

And we
had
to win it. The guys had to believe in Dad’s coaching.

“Dad, can’t I just —”

“Not now, Nugget,” he said, before I could finish.

Obviously, he didn’t know I was about to light it up, so I waited as patiently as I could.

It turned out that wasn’t very patiently.

Dad pulled Kenny off the ice and he joined me on the bench. He’d been a professional benchwarmer up until his awesome play earlier in the season and he was all excited about getting more game minutes than he used to.

“I just wish he’d put me back in,” I muttered to Kenny,

“Me too,” Kenny said.

“Because we both know I’m ready to rock out there, right?”

“Uh …”

“What?”

“I meant I wish he’d put
me
back in.”

“Oh,” I said, frowning.

“Because I can tear it up, too, Nugget.”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Sure you can.”

But not like I could.

Not even close.

Bosko scored two goals in the second period, while I gritted my teeth.

“He’s ahead by three, eh?” Kenny asked.

Did he have to say it out loud?

I might have stunk at Math, but I could count goals, for crying out loud.

“Nugget, Kenny? You’re in,” Dad finally said, when I’d almost given up.

We both jumped off the bench while Dad pulled Patrick and Bosko out. It felt awesome to be back out on the ice and ready to play.

I was fired up!

In a matter of seconds, I had the puck and I swear my stickhandling could have been part of an instructional video. I moved that puck past my opponents, through their legs and around the back of the net faster than my teammates could say, “Wait up!”

I swerved around one side of the net and tried to find a shot, then slipped back behind when I couldn’t. One of the Penguins tried to steal the puck, but I fought him off with a couple of elbow jabs and a quick slam against the boards.

I could hear the crowd getting rowdy, and I loved the sound of it. There was nothing better than knowing you had fans.

And man, did I have fans!

I whipped around the front of the net again and took another shot.

Score!

The goalie smacked his hand against his helmet and groaned.

I glanced at Bosko and smiled. It was catch up time.

“Nugget! Nugget! Nugget!” the crowd chanted, and I raised one arm in the air to let them know I could hear it.

The next thing I knew, Kenny stole the puck from one of the bigger Penguins and started hauling down the ice. I kept pace with him, ready for a pass.

When I got into position, just to the side of the net, one of the Penguin defensemen started giving me a hard time, poking me in the back with the heel of his stick.

“Back off,” I told him.

“Make me, Peewee.”

Enough with the size, already. “That’s the best you can do?”

He poked me harder. “Whatever, you little jerk.”

As soon as the words left the guy’s mouth, Kenny whipped the puck to me. I spun around fast, slipping it right past the blade of the defenseman’s stick.

Nice!

All I could see were Penguin uniforms, totally surrounding me, but I didn’t care. I looked down at the puck and kept my eyes glued to it, trying to keep possession while hundreds of sticks (well, maybe two or three) tried to steal it away.

“I’m open,” I heard Kenny shout, but there was no way I could pass.

I grunted and shoved my way through the bodies and suddenly, I had a clear shot.

Yes!

I flicked the puck into the air, level with the goalie’s ribs, and he fell over trying to block it.

Goal!

“Nice job, Nugget!” Dad shouted, over the rest of the fans.

Only one behind Bosko!

Yes!

“Man, you’re kicking butt,” Kenny said, whacking me on the back.

“I know,” I told him. “We’re gonna win this.”

“No doubt,” he said, smiling.

The next thing I knew, Colin scored, and the crowd went nuts again.

I wondered if we were on the way to our highest-scoring game ever.

How cool would that be?

The Penguins seemed pretty discouraged, groaning when they lost the puck or missed a shot (and they missed a lot of them).

I almost felt bad for them, especially when I scored
again
.

Me and Bosko were all tied up, and I was loving it.

The Penguins’ coach called a time-out and the Cougars all skated over to our box.

“Nice playing, Nugget,” Bedhead said.

“You too,” I told him. “Same goes for everybody.”

We were in the middle of patting ourselves on the back and getting ready for the last four minutes of play when the Penguins’ coach came over to talk to Dad.

“You wanna take it down a notch?” he asked.

“I’m sorry?” Dad said, looking confused.

“This is kids’
hockey
, not humiliation.”

“I don’t understand,” Dad said, shaking his head.

I didn’t either, and when I looked at the rest of the faces on my team, they looked as confused as I was.

“The high scoring,” the coach said. “It’s unsportsmanlike.”

“Unsports— … the boys are just playing the game,” Dad said.

“My team didn’t travel all the way here to be embarrassed.”

“I didn’t mean for them to —” Dad started to say.

“Your attitude stinks,” he said, jabbing a finger right in Dad’s face before he walked away.

When the ref blew the whistle, Dad didn’t move.

“We’re just playing the game,” he said, quietly.

Chapter Nine

We ended up beating the Penguins by seven goals, which Dad seemed kind of sad about.

I wasn’t sad at all.

A seven-goal win?

That was totally awesome!

That’s what the game was all about, as far as I was concerned. Of course, I didn’t play just so I could send another team home crying, but losing was part of hockey too. I was willing to bet that getting smoked by us meant Nanaimo would practise harder and play better next time.