Panic in Pittsburgh (10 page)

Sarah went in as if it were a real game, skating fast and deking. She made a good move, but the Panthers’ goaltender covered up his five-hole, and Sarah’s low slider failed to find the back of the net.

The Panthers shot, and missed.

Dmitri clanged his backhand off the crossbar.

The Panthers shot a third time, and Jeremy, spinning like a crocodile in his crease, just caught the puck with his arm as it was about to cross the line.

Lars shot, and the Panthers’ goalie made a fine blocker save.

The Panthers took a fourth shot and failed to beat Jeremy, who held his ground.

It was Sam’s turn. She was red-faced, and if Travis hadn’t known better, he’d have said she was crying. This was an unusual position for Sam to be in. She was more a defensive player than offensive, but she was still good on the attack. Normally, this would have been Travis’s shot, and she likely knew it. The pressure was enormous.

Sam skated slowly with the puck – too slowly, Travis thought – and came in on a wide sweep that curled from one face-off dot to the other while passing in front of the Portland net.

Travis cringed. It was a mistake, he thought. All the Portland goaltender had to do was stay with Sam, keep low, and she would have nothing to shoot at.

But then Sam did the strangest thing. She let the puck leave the blade of her stick and she skated right by it. The puck just sat there while the goalie followed Sam, anticipating a backhand attempt. Sam then swirled around and lunged at the puck she had left behind her, falling to the ice as her stick swept the puck into the net.

The Portland coach went nuts, screaming at the referees and jumping right up onto the boards. He was furious. He said the goal didn’t count, because the forward motion had been stopped. The rule was clear – you had to keep the puck going toward the net.

The officials said they would check on the replay, and the play went up on the scoreboard. They slowed the play down so much it seemed to creep by.

When the crowd saw that, indeed, the puck had still been going forward, even if at a snail’s pace, they cheered their approval.

The referee blew his whistle and pointed to center ice.

Good goal. Shootout tied.

It was Billings’s turn to shoot. He seemed remarkably relaxed, Travis thought. Billings stood
at his own blue line, staring down the ice, and waited for the referee’s signal to go.

Billings picked up the puck at center and came in straight at Jeremy. He faked shot, faked backhand, went back to forehand as Jeremy went down, and the puck skipped off Jeremy’s chest protector and into the air, spinning and wobbling.

It seemed even slower than Sam’s goal, Travis thought – and this wasn’t even slow motion.

He watched, helpless, as the puck landed on Jeremy’s shoulder, trickled down onto the ice, and slipped over the line just as Jeremy’s stick arrived to stop it.

The crowd roared its appreciation and roared again as the replay appeared on the clock.

It was all up to Nish.

If Nish scored, the shootout would continue. If he failed, the Owls were out.

Travis looked at his friend. Nish’s back was hunched over, his stick across his knees, head straight down as he waited for the crowd to settle down and the puck to be returned to center.

“
Do it, Fat Boy!
” Sam shouted from the bench.

“
You the man!
” Jesse Highboy shouted.

Nish paid them no heed. He was all business.

The referee signaled it was time. Nish straightened up and headed for the puck, picking it up easily despite the fallen snow, and he began moving in on the Portland net.

Nish seemed to be deciding what to do. He stickhandled a few times, then picked up speed, coming in hard. Instead of faking, he ripped a shot from out beyond the slot, catching everyone off guard, including the Portland goaltender.

Nish’s shot flew past the Panthers’ goalie’s shoulder – and clanged hard off the crossbar.

Up over the net the puck flew. Up over the glass. Up over the field – almost to the stands.

The entire field groaned, and groaned again when they saw it on the replay.

And then the crowd began cheering. Slowly at first, then building to a tremendous roar, every one of the thousands of fans on their feet and cheering.

The Portland Panthers had won the Peewee Winter Classic.

The Zamboni doors opened, and the keeper of the cup, dressed in a fine suit and wearing white gloves, came onto the ice carrying the Stanley Cup.

The crowd cheered louder for this than they had for any of the goals. The Stanley Cup was the hero of this game, not any of the youngsters who had played it.

First, though, the teams shook hands. Muck and Mr. Dillinger led the way, Muck very generously congratulating the Portland coach on his team’s win. Travis hurried to join in the line, for the first time ever shaking hands with opponents when he was in a tracksuit and boots rather than hockey equipment and skates.

The last player in the Portland line was Billings, the player who had scored the shootout goal that won the championship.

Billings looked at Travis and smiled a huge smile.

“Next time,” Billings said.

“Next time,” Travis said, trying to smile, too.

But he felt like crying.

Nish was despondent.

“I’m worried about him,” Sarah said to Travis. “He won’t speak to anyone. He won’t listen. He acts as if he’d like to throw himself in the river out there.”

Travis shuddered at the thought. But nothing anyone could say – not even Sam, who always had a way of getting to him – could bring Nish out of his funk. Twice he’d had the championship on his
stick, and twice he’d skipped his shot off the crossbar and into the football field.

The Owls were back at the hotel. Burning with envy, they had watched the Portland Panthers taking turns hoisting the world’s most famous sports trophy over their heads and skating about the Heinz Field arena while the huge crowd stayed on its feet and cheered. Each player was shown close up on the scoreboard as he or she received the Stanley Cup. Many were openly crying.

Some of the Owls were crying, too, but not for joy. Travis had seen Sarah wipe away tears; Jeremy, too, who thought he should have had the Billings goal; and Simon, who felt he had let the line down. They were all wiping their eyes. But no one was to blame. It just happened. The Panthers deserved their victory this day, just as the Owls had deserved their earlier victory over them.

Nish took it harder than anyone. He, too, had been crying. Travis saw no tears when he finally spoke to his friend, but Nish’s eyes were so red it looked like they’d been dragged through a rosebush.

“Not your fault,” Travis said.

“Bug off,” Nish answered.

“No one’s fault,” Travis said.

“Drop dead.”

Mr. Dillinger had ordered pizza, and they were gathered in the ballroom of the hotel. There was a huge bowl filled with ice and drinks of every kind – Gatorade, pop, juice – and some of the Owls were lining up to eat.

Travis left Nish to his thoughts and found Sarah across the room, staring out over the water. “I’m worried about Nish,” he told her.

“Everybody’s blaming themselves,” said Sarah. “We’re all hurting. But I’ve never seen Nish like this. We’d better keep an eye on him. He’s not himself.”

Travis nodded. He’d keep a careful eye on his friend. He looked back to where he’d left Nish, but Nish was no longer there. There was a washroom just around the corner; he’d likely gone there to cry some more, out of sight of anyone who might tease him. Travis felt terrible for his friend. It hadn’t been Nish’s fault. It was nobody’s fault.

As Travis looked around the room, he noticed
something at the doorway. Muck was there, holding the door open.

And in walked the Stanley Cup.

Well, actually, it was carried in by the keeper of the cup. He still had his suit and white gloves on. He was smiling. The Owls, roaring their approval, raced over.

“You kids deserve this,” the keeper said. “The Pittsburgh police told me all about what happened this morning. If not for you, we wouldn’t have been able to have that ceremony at Heinz Field with the Panthers. A couple of the players on the Panthers asked me if I wouldn’t mind bringing this over to the hotel so you could have your pictures taken with it – how’s that for sportsmanship?”

Travis didn’t have to ask who. He knew. Billings and Yantha.

Travis felt the blood rise in his face, but this time there was no dizziness. Just happiness. Pure happiness.

“So, in appreciation of the Screech Owls saving the Stanley Cup at the Winter Classic,” the keeper said, “the Hockey Hall of Fame would like
to allow each of you to have your picture taken holding the cup.”

“Up?” asked Fahd.

The keeper stared at him, not following.

“Like, over our heads?” Fahd repeated.

“Of course,” the keeper said, smiling.

“But I thought only winners were allowed to do that,” Fahd persisted.

“You
are
winners,” the keeper said. “Every single one of you. But especially the four Owls who set the trap for those thieves. Where are you four?”

Sheepishly, Travis, Sarah, and Sam stepped forward with their hands up. Travis knew he was blushing. His face burned.

“Where’s the fourth? The big kid?” the keeper asked, looking around.

Travis also looked around. Nish was still nowhere to be seen. How badly was he taking this loss, anyway?

Suddenly, the doors to the ballroom burst open, and in flew a strange apparition that seemed to stun the keeper of the cup.

It was a heavy little peewee hockey player, wearing nothing but a goalie mask, a bed sheet with a huge black line down the middle … and his underwear.

“
The Iceman!
” the apparition screamed, then bolted across the room, once around the Stanley Cup, and flew out through the far doors.

Sarah turned to Travis, her face dancing with delight.

“He’s back!”

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