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*   *   *

It turned out that Mum got the phone tree started the night before, calling Mrs. Bechter to tell her no one needed gear for practice. She called Mrs. Cavanaugh, who called Mrs. Chen, and on it went down the alphabetical list until everyone knew we wouldn’t be on the ice the next morning.

And that meant instead of dropping the guys off and leaving, a couple of the mums hung around to see what was going on.

Instead of heading straight for the locker room, I listened in from the hallway.

“The boys will be running,” Dad explained.

“Running where?” Mrs. Simpson asked.

“Out there,” Dad said, pointing outside. “The fair streets of Cutter Bay.”

“But they’re meant to be skating,” Mrs. Fullerton said.
“This is hockey practice, not track and field.”

“It’s all part of training,” Dad said, smiling. “These boys are great on the ice. Their puck handling is exceptional, they shoot well, and their speed is great. Doing some work off the ice will only make them stronger on it.”

“Okay,” Mrs. Simpson said, sounding doubtful. “But my husband wanted me to point out that we’re paying for ice time.”

“And that isn’t cheap,” Mrs. Fullerton added.

“You’re absolutely right,” Dad agreed, nodding. “I traded our time with another team for today. We’ll get an extra hour of ice at the next practice. It’ll be an early morning on Wednesday, but we’ll get our time in.”

Two hours on the ice? Cool! I couldn’t help grinning. Maybe Dad had a good plan after all.

“I see,” Mrs. Simpson said, glancing at Mrs. Fullerton, who nodded. “Well, that sounds perfectly reasonable. My husband will be glad to hear it.” She smiled. “He was pretty worked up about it last night.”

“Mine too,” Mrs. Fullerton said. “I’ll pass it on.”

*   *   *

“A run?” Kenny gasped, when I broke the news in the locker room. “But —”

“This is
hockey
,” Jeff interrupted. “Not gym class.”

It was exactly what I’d been trying to tell Dad at the house. “But it’s going to help us.”

“Has your dad gone totally nuts?” Colin asked.

I didn’t know what to say. Half the time, I was wondering the same thing and I wished we could just go back to the way Coach O’Neal ran practice. And the other half of the time I didn’t want to go against my own dad in front of the guys. And of course a two-hour practice would
be awesome.

“He’s not nuts,” I told them. “He knows what he’s doing.”

“It doesn’t seem like it,” Jeff said, through a hunk of beef jerky.

“Did you guys already forget that we won our last game?” I asked, trying to use Dad’s logic.

“We would have won anyway,” Jeff said.

“But maybe not by as many points,” I reminded him.

“It
was
a record high,” Patrick said.

Thank you!

“A win is a win,” Jeff said. “We didn’t beat those guys because we jumped up and down at the last practice.”

Since Dad was showing no sign of going back to the way things were, I knew I had to get the guys to support him. “Look, my dad has bigger plans for us.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Colin asked.

“He’s thinking long term, like winning the championship,” I said. “You guys only care about the next game.”

“Yeah, but if we don’t think about the next game, we definitely won’t need to think about the championship.” Jeff snorted and his beef jerky fell on the floor. He picked it up and muttered “two-second rule” as he shoved it back into his mouth.

“He’s got a bunch of ideas,” I told the guys, hoping to convince them to give Dad a chance. “He’s going to be moving us around and —”

“Moving us around what?” Colin asked, suspiciously.

“You know, changing positions and —”

“Changing positions?” Kenny practically screamed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you tell any of us?” Colin asked.

Nuts!

“I’m not changing positions,” Jeff said.

“Me neither,” Colin agreed. “That’s stupid.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Chris said, practically drooling at the idea of getting out of goal.

“Did you tell him it was a bad idea, Nugget?” Kenny asked.

“Yeah … I mean, I tried to, but … look, you’re not listening to me,” I said, getting frustrated. “The whole point is Dad wants us to have a great
season
, not just a great game.”

“Then he should let us practice and play. The same way we have for our whole stinkin’ lives,” Jeff said.

“Yeah,” Kenny sighed. “Changing positions? That’s crazy.”

I wanted to elbow him hard. He was supposed to back me up. “Come on, you guys,” I said. “I know it’s weird to be doing stuff differently, but —”

“It’s two minutes to six,” Bedhead said, finally waking up. “Practice is starting.”

“No,” Jeff said. “
Running
is starting.”

“Huh?” Bedhead grunted.

I guess his branch of the phone tree had broken off. He was the only guy in uniform.

Colin double-knotted his shoelaces. “You know, it’s pretty awesome that we all got up at five this morning to play hockey, and now we’re going to be wasting our practice time pounding the pavement instead.” He looked at the other guys before his eyes settled on me. “And somehow that’s going to win us the championship?”

“Well, yeah,” I said, shrugging. “I mean, it’s training, right?”

“I could run at home,” Colin snapped.

“Do you?” Bosko asked, from his spot in the corner.

“Do I what?”

“Run at home,” Bosko said, giving him the stare-down.

It worked as well on Colin as it did on me, and all he could say was. “Well … no.”

“So, what’s your point?”

Colin’s face turned red. “What’s my … what’s … what’s
your
point, Bosko?”

“My point,” Bosko said, in that deep voice, “is that when Coach says run —”

“We run?” Chris asked.

“Bingo,” Bosko said.

Since everybody respected Bosko (a lot more than they respected me!), that ended the conversation and I didn’t even hear any grumbling when they left in groups of two and three to meet Dad by the rink.

When it was down to just me and Bosko in the locker room, I felt like I had to say something. “Thanks for standing up for my dad. I mean, his practice ideas and all that.”

Bosko shrugged. “I trust him. The guy almost went pro, so obviously he knows what he’s doing.”

“Yeah,” I nodded.

“You should be backing him up, Nugget.”

What?

“I have been,” I told him. Wasn’t he listening the whole time I tried to convince the guys?

“Not just in your head,” he said, giving me that look. “Why should any of them trust what he says if his own kid doesn’t?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I was trying to tell them —”

“Not trying very hard,” he said.

I sighed.

He was probably right.

Why did he always have to be right?

Geez, the guy was the same age as me, but he had to be a stinkin’ genius about everything.

I wanted to be the guy who knew something for a change, so I said, “Well, I think it’s cool that Dad’s gonna mix the guys up a bit. You know, shuffle things around to try out some new combinations.” Of course, he hadn’t told me what those combinations were, but Bosko didn’t know that.

“It’s a good idea,” Bosko said, nodding. “Fullerton would probably be better on defense, and I could see Colin covering goal.”

“Really?” I was so used to everyone playing the same positions since we were five, it was hard to imagine any changes.

“I’m sure your dad has a plan,” he said. “He knows what he’s doing.”

“I know,” I told him, kind of ticked off. I was supposed to be the one telling
him
that Dad knew what he was doing.

Of course, I wasn’t so sure about that, ten minutes into our run, when all I wanted to do was puke toast.

And twenty minutes later, when I actually did.

“Sorry, kiddo,” Dad said, jogging in place next to me. “We’ll just do cereal or something next time.”

Great.

And things only got worse when we got back to the rink, all exhausted and sweaty.

We limped inside and headed straight for the ice to check out the other team’s practice. All I saw was pink, pink and more pink. Even the puck was pink.

“No way,” Kenny gasped. “Your dad gave our ice time to the Glitter?”

He was the only guy who could speak. The rest of the team just stared with their mouths hanging open.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Colin finally muttered as a bunch of seven-year-old girls gobbled up our ice time.

*   *   *

I hate to say that the miserable “practice” ended up being the highlight of my day, but it was pretty close.

Sure, things went okay during gym class, when we played floor hockey, and the girls stopped yakking for long enough for Angela Fisker to make the best goal of the game. What a shot! She was so good, the Cougars could have used her.

And yes, it was nice when Mrs. Foster said my questions during English class showed “a surprisingly good understanding of the material.”

But, as usual, Mr. Holloway’s Math class brought the whole day screeching to a halt, like Wendy slamming on the minivan brakes.

I was in the middle of an awesome daydream about the Cougars winning the championship and Dad being voted Coach of the Year. I could practically see him lifting the trophy toward a cheering crowd and I guess I didn’t hear Mr. Holloway over the imaginary fans.

But I heard the snickering around me.

“Mr. McDonald, please join us,” Mr. Holloway said.

“I’m here,” I said.

“In body, perhaps, but your mind seems to be travelling the globe. Please join me at the board,” he said, waiting for me at the front of the classroom.

He’d probably said that six or seven thousand times
since the school year started, and it was only November.

I was pretty sure I spent more time next to the board than the chalk did.

It wasn’t fair.

Hadn’t I already completed his Math hat trick last month?

Wasn’t I already doing exactly what he needed me to do to pass the class?

He knew Bosko was tutoring me, he knew I worked almost as hard at Math as I did at hockey, and I guess he knew I wasn’t an expert yet, because he called me to the board during almost every single class.

I tried not to psych myself out as I stood up.

Bosko gave me five on my way past his desk. “You can do it,” he whispered.

I didn’t even know what “it” was yet, but I nodded like I believed him.

I had to believe him.

I could do this!

When I got up to the board, Mr. Holloway handed me a piece of chalk, then started throwing out numbers, names, and a whole bunch of extra junk.

When he was done, my brain was still trying to catch up.

“Mr. McDonald?”

“Yes?”

“You appear somewhat stunned.”

“No, I was … I just … wasn’t that a word problem?”

A few of the kids giggled.

“Indeed it was, Mr. McDonald.”

“But what about statistics?”

“Statistically speaking, I imagine you’ve listened to less than fifty percent of what I just told the class.”

“Oh,” I sighed.

“Today we are refreshing ourselves on what we have covered so far this year. We are doing this to ensure that we are prepared for the quiz this Friday.”

“Quiz?” I asked.

“A small test,” Mr. Holloway explained, like I didn’t know what the word meant.

“I know it’s —”

“Worth twenty percent of your grade.”

I could barely swallow the lump in my throat. “Oh.”

“Perhaps we should let someone else tackle the problem at hand and you can join me for a brief chat after class?”

Nuts.

It sounded like a question, but I was pretty sure it was a command. “Sure.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Double nuts.

“Sorry, I meant to say yes.”

I walked back to my seat and when I passed Bosko, he whispered, “What’s wrong with you? We’ve done a thousand word problems.”

“I don’t know,” I whispered back. “It caught me off guard.”

I sat through the rest of class, worrying about what Mr. Holloway was going to say.

You’d think the guy would cut me some slack after I’d improved so much. He’d actually given me a high five after my last test, so how could I be back in the doghouse?

When the bell finally rang, I walked to his desk and took a deep breath. I had to be ready for anything.

“Mr. McDonald,” he said, looking at me over his glasses. “I must admit I’m rather baffled and disappointed. I
thought that your efforts outside of the classroom were proving beneficial.”

“They are.”

He frowned. “But you couldn’t follow a simple word problem today. Simpler than the tests you took last month, as a matter of fact.”

“I guess I’m just out of practice,” I told him, totally freaked out that he was going to make me do another set of tests. And if I failed, I didn’t get to play hockey.

I waited, my palms getting all sweaty.

He was taking forever to drop the bomb on me.

“Perhaps this was a bad day for you,” he finally said, quietly.

I looked up at him, surprised. “Maybe.”

“Let’s see how the quiz goes on Friday, shall we?”

I nodded, feeling totally relieved. “Okay … I mean, yes, please.”

“If you disappoint me, we’ll have to think about whether extracurricular activities are getting in the way of your academics again.”

I didn’t even have to ask what the big word was.

I knew he meant hockey.

Chapter Eleven

Just because Mr. Holloway was being weirdly nice about my problem at the chalkboard didn’t mean Bosko would do the same. It was too bad my brain happened to freeze up on a tutoring day.

“Your place or the library?” he asked, when I met him in the hallway.

“My house. Wendy has volleyball practice.”

We hadn’t taken two steps before he was on me.

“Dude, what happened to you in there?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I thought you were finished with being a flounder.”

“I’m not a
flounder
,” I muttered, as we walked toward the house.

“I don’t know, Nugget. Thrashing around at the board with your mouth gaping open, like —”