Reality Check in Detroit (11 page)

Then Cody Kelly stepped into the scene beside the boards.

“Just stop fighting,” he said. Even though they were farther away from this camera than in Wi-Fi’s footage, Sarah thought she could still see anger on Cody’s face. “I’ll do it, but Sarah’s a nice girl. You can still do the underdog story without bringing her into it that much. You didn’t tell me I was going to have to trick people – you said I was only going to play a hockey player on a winning team. I’ll talk to her on the ice, but then that’s it, mate.”

Nish almost fell out of his chair. “What the –”

Sarah looked mortified. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. They’d been set up. They’d been made to look like spoiled brats to tell some stupid movie-style underdog story.

This wasn’t reality
TV
; it was reality distortion.

Travis was afraid to look at Alex. The Motors’ new outfits hadn’t been lost; they’d never been bought. And the Motors had been selected for each competition based on their members’ individual
flaws
, not on their skills. They were
expected
to lose those first competitions. The producers were only going to start playing to their strengths once they had the Owls on the ice for the final game. It was all just a story, written for television.

For a moment, no one could speak. All of them were in shock. Everyone but Nish had figured it out.

Nish was in shock for a different reason. He shook his head so hard, he did fall out of his chair this time: “Hollywood is Australian?”

“W
e’re back at the Joe today for the final
Goals & Dreams
face-off. It’s the Tamarack Screech Owls versus the Detroit Motors…,” mumbled a lanky sports reporter who was pacing back and forth in front of a camera, clutching his microphone, and practicing his lines.

“Okay, let’s try it again, Raymond,” his cameraman told him, trying to frame out the other reporters who were also filming live hits with their backs toward the rink. “I’ve got the Owls and the Motors moving in the background now. We’ll reframe when they’re done their warm-up.”

The bright
TV
lights were on again in the Joe as the Owls and Motors spilled out onto a freshly cleaned sheet of ice that shone like white glass. It was exactly the kind of pristine surface that Travis loved to take first crack at – only Travis wasn’t there. Neither were Sarah, Alex, and Wi-Fi.

Something was off.

Brian and Inez weren’t even watching as both teams began skating in circles in their respective zones, scooping up pucks and releasing them. The producers were standing, red-faced, beside Mr. D at the Owls’ bench, arguing with Muck.

The Owls’ coach raised his arms a few times as if to say, “What can I do?” But Inez kept debating. Muck shook his head. He put his hands in his pockets as if he was going to walk away, then threw his arms up again in exasperation –
or was he laughing?

As Inez and Brian’s faces grew redder and redder, Muck finally just turned away from them. He put his hands back in his pockets and cautiously maneuvered his big brown winter boots onto the ice.

Cody, Fahd, and Lars were the first to stop skating and stare.
What was Muck doing?

Muck walked all the way to center ice – right to where Daniel, the sound guy, was setting up a microphone stand on a little red carpet for the show.

When their coach cleared his throat, swallowed nervously, and then pulled the microphone close to his mouth, every Owl on the ice froze. The mere idea of Muck wanting to give a real speech in public was beyond their imagining.

“Welcome to the Joe for today’s game –” Muck started. The microphone screeched a blast of high-pitched feedback. He grimaced awkwardly toward his boots and then continued: “I’d like to ask the producers of this reality show, Inez Campano and Brian Evans, to join me here at center ice. A few of our players have something to say to you.”

Both producers looked confused.
What was Muck up to?
They clearly didn’t trust him – he’d been so standoffish and suspicious of them.
But now he wanted to thank them? Make a presentation?
With all of the cameras trained on them – with all of the fans watching – the producers didn’t have much choice but to do as Muck asked.

Brian stepped through the gap in the boards in his running shoes. He shuffled slowly toward Muck, tilting his baseball cap forward to block out the bright lights, while Inez, inching along in high heels, clung to his side.

Muck looked mildly amused as they took their places next to him at the microphone. He waited for the crowd to go quiet. And then, with a quick nod to Roger, the main cameraman, who was standing beside Daniel at the control board, Muck abruptly stepped back from the mike and walked off the ice.

Above the producers’ heads, the bright white
TV
lights shut off just as the four television screens on the electronic scoreboard flickered on.

Travis, Alex, Wi-Fi, and Sarah got there just in time.

They’d been up in the media room in the top section of the Joe, helping Data work his digital magic. Once they’d cued up Data’s “special” edit of the show’s promo – with the help of Roger and Daniel – they’d raced downstairs, scrambled into their equipment, and burst out of the dressing room so they could be on the ice to watch the show unfold with their teammates.

“
It’s a story of greed almost too real for reality TV
,” ran the voice-over – Mr. D’s best baritone imitation of the “Voice of God” the producers had used in their own edits.

Sarah started giggling immediately.

Shots from the last few days of competition played on all four screens: Jeremy and Jenny wiping out in the goalie race, Cody doing his fancy turns through the pylons, Alex stickhandling deftly through the course, Nish falling on his spin-o-rama attempt, Nish bowling over a half-dozen skaters in the British Bulldog game…

“
Two teams, from different cities and different countries, were brought together by their love of the game
,” Mr. D’s voice continued over the images. “
But the creators of this competition didn’t share that love. For them, it was all about
 …”

Cut to Nish chanting “
Monnn-ey! Monnn-ey!
” at Green Dot Stables restaurant – the shot of him yelling with half a chewed Korean slider in his mouth. Then, with full sound – Daniel had made sure of it – Wi-Fi’s shot of Brian and Inez bickering by the side of the rink over how to “develop” their underdog story.

Underneath the scoreboard, Brian just stared at the screens as the images went by. Inez’s eyes were darting everywhere as she teetered on her heels, fuming. No one in the audience moved. Like Brian, their eyes were trained on the screens above.

And there was more.

Next on the screen: a clip of Brian and Inez whisper-yelling at each other near the bathrooms at Green Dot Stables. Roger had recorded it secretly, but on purpose, while the players were busy lining up to do their video journals. “In case it ever came in handy,” he’d said, smiling, as he’d handed it over to Data in the editing booth.

“If we hadn’t gotten that kid Nish’s audition tape and come up with this ridiculous show,” Brian hissed in the video clip, “we wouldn’t be in this insane amount of debt. Fancy buffets, new equipment, these production costs are killing us!”

“We kept that tape to get
out
of debt, remember?” Inez snapped back. “Brian, it was a
long-term plan.
Give it some time. We have built a great show. Nish is the perfect braggy, bratty show-off for a series about over-privileged rich kids. Our merchandise team has been
loving
the poor Detroit underdog idea. Now the sympathetic little Motors are going to win, and then we’ll be rolling in money.”

When the players had seen Roger at the breakfast buffet that morning, Sarah, her face still a little flushed, had been the one to confront him.

“How could you seem so nice?” she’d stammered while scooping a large spoonful of scrambled eggs onto her plate. “You were really just … using us … manipulating us.” She was both embarrassed and angry. She was trembling.

Travis had seen Roger in the line ahead of them, but he hadn’t expected Sarah to say anything. Not right away. Not until they had a plan. He’d half expected Roger to yell back at them, but instead the cameraman had leaned forward, smiled at them, and offered more of the story.

Inez and Brian, Roger said, had by accident received Nish’s audition tape, which was meant for a different production office. They’d then built a show around it, and around manipulating young players into a drama they’d created, even though they were calling it a reality show. Roger and Daniel had been against the manipulation, but they’d both needed the work. Although now, Roger confided, they were both having second thoughts.

Travis felt the entire rink was holding its breath underneath the scoreboard screens as Brian and Inez’s plan now became clear to everyone: pump up the spoiled-brat Owls at the beginning of the competition, then grind them into the ground at the end.

Some fans in the stands started to boo.

“
Luckily, these young players don’t care about your drama
 … 
they care about their game
,” Mr. D’s voice-over continued.

The scoreboard cut to a final clip: Muck, giving the Owls a pep talk in the team’s trailer at the Henry Ford estate – the footage Data had captured.

“If you fight fair, if you play hard, and honestly, you’ll already have won something,” Muck was saying.

Down on the ice, below the scoreboard, someone yelled, “
Yeah!
”

It was Nish, pumping his fist in the air to prove he’d been in on the plot the entire time. In reality, they’d edited the entire promo after Nish had gone back to sleep.

Cody was the first player to start rapping his stick on the ice. Then Lars, then Andy, then Alex, and soon every Motor and every Owl was banging away.

T
ravis wasn’t sure what to do.

To kiss or not to kiss?

He was, unbelievably, about to pull a Detroit Motors jersey over his head. He had never in his life, in all his years in minor hockey, worn anything but a Screech Owls jersey. He had been secretly kissing the inside of his Owls jersey for as long as he could remember – his own very private good luck charm.

The other Owls all kidded him about how he had to hit the crossbar during the warm-up, but no one knew about the kissing ritual. It stood to reason, therefore, that no one would know if he
didn’t
do it this time. Because this time he’d be kissing the inside of a jersey that, until a few moments ago, had belonged to the enemy.

Everything had happened so quickly it made Travis’s head spin. Brian and Inez had been booed off the ice by the angry fans. Most of their production crew had left with them, but not Roger, the friendly cameraman who had helped expose Brian and Inez for the manipulative frauds they were. Daniel, the sound guy, was still there, too, now sitting in the stands behind the Owls’ bench, wearing an old, worn Detroit Motors jersey in support.

It was Muck who made the suggestion that all the kids pile their sticks in the middle of the ice. The Motors all looked at Muck like he’d lost his mind, but not Travis, and not the rest of the Owls. They knew. They knew because they’d seen Muck do it before. Throw all the sticks in the middle, and Muck would randomly divide them up into two piles. Players knew which team they were on by finding their stick in one of the two piles.

Travis had ended up on the Motors side. With the fans on their feet applauding, Muck signaled to the Zamboni driver, who was standing by the glass, that he wanted a fresh flood.

It was Mr. D who came up with the next idea. When the Owls returned to their dressing room to wait for the Zamboni to finish, they found that Mr. D had set out all the Owls’ original hockey equipment right in front of each player’s stall.

“We were hoping you’d burn this one,” Sam said, kicking the big bag with number 44 on the side – Nish’s bag, the place where, as Sam once put it, “dead rats go to rot.”

Nish shot her his usual raspberry and zipped open his beloved equipment bag, leaned over, and inhaled as if he were in a rose garden.

And it was Sarah who came up with the best idea of all.

“Let’s share the new stuff,” she had suggested.

Travis wished he’d thought of it. The expensive new Bauer equipment the producers had given them was the stuff of any peewee player’s dreams, but the Owls’ own equipment was all in good shape. Their regular socks and jerseys were in excellent condition. They all had nice skates, too, if not the shiny new Bauers all of them were wearing now.

“Let’s do it,” Travis agreed.

The Owls stripped off half of their new equipment and started to replace it with some of their old stuff. Mr. D and Muck carted the new sticks and pants and pads and skates down the hall to the Motors’ dressing room. They also took half of the Owls’ jerseys to lend to the Detroit players who had been drafted to the Screech Owls for this one final game.

Travis loved getting back into his old stuff. It
smelled
like him, not like new equipment from the sporting goods store. It
felt
right as he put on his old shin pads – right, left, right, left – and socks and pants.

The Screech Owls jersey spilled out of his equipment bag when he yanked out his shoulder pads. It fell on the floor and he quickly grabbed it up. He thought about how his grandfather always flew the flag at the cottage, and how his grandfather told Travis that a flag should never touch the ground. A Screech Owls jersey was obviously not a country’s flag, but it was Travis’s flag, and there was no way he would leave it on the ground like that.

But still, he couldn’t put it on. His stick had ended up on the Detroit Motors side. He had been given a Motors jersey and it lay beside him. It was, coincidentally, labeled with his number, number 7, but with different colours.

It didn’t matter, Travis thought to himself. He was playing for this team now. He was playing for all the kids who just wanted to play hockey and have fun and make new friends – not to be twisted and manipulated by a couple of devious television producers who were only interested in ratings. When Mr. D had come back looking for two more Owls jerseys to lend to the Motors players, Travis had surprised himself by volunteering his own.