Tiger Threat (3 page)

I explained the story to Amanda.

It happened in 1968 at the famous Masters tournament in golf. A guy by the name of Roberto De Vicenzo—roll a name like that off your tongue and what girl wouldn't be impressed—had just tied the Masters to go into a playoff. Except he signed his scorecard without adding it up correctly. His playing partner had written down a four on a par three instead of the three that De Vicenzo had shot. But in golf, once you've signed your
scorecard, you have to stick with it. If it's lower than you scored, you get disqualified. If it's higher than you scored, you have to stick with the higher score. So De Vicenzo had to keep the wrong score, which was one stroke higher. It put him out of the playoff. He was from Argentina and didn't speak English too well. That's when he said the line to reporters that made him famous.
What a stupid I am.

“See,” Amanda said when I finished my story, “math is important.”

“Very, very important,” I agreed. “So maybe we better meet tomorrow to work on my homework again?”

“And maybe you have some gum?”

I noticed she avoided my question, but I hid my disappointment. I did what any guy would do in that situation. I looked for gum.

I was wearing my jean jacket, so I patted the chest pockets.

There was something in the right front pocket.

I opened it. Felt the crinkling of a Ziploc plastic bag. Remembered what it was.

“Not that,” I said.

“Not what?” she said.

“You really don't want to know,” I said.

“I really do want to know,” she said.

I pulled out the Ziploc bag. “It goes in your mouth, but it's not gum.”

“Gross,” she said. “A tooth.”

It was Vlad's tooth. In all the confusion after he'd tried picking up a skunk, I'd forgotten to give it to him.

I shook the bag. “It's a Russian tooth.”

She pointed and corrected me. “Actually, it's now a broken Russian tooth.”

I looked closely. It
had
broken in two. Part of it was the roots of the tooth. The other part was a crown that had fallen off the tooth.

I looked even more closely. “That's weird.”

“What?”

I opened the bag and shook out the pieces on the table. “Look. There's a tiny capsule too.”

I picked up the pieces of the tooth and squinted. The crown and the bottom half easily fit together. I pulled them apart and
looked into the center of the crown. There was a small indentation in the gold of the crown. In the inside of the crown.

“Do you have tweezers?” I asked. Not many—actually none—of the guys on the hockey team carried tweezers with them. Or eyeliner. Or lipstick. But Amanda was definitely not a guy. Or on the team. So I figured my chances were good.

Amanda nodded. She dug into her purse.

“Look at this,” I said. I used the tweezers to pick up the small capsule. I put the crown upside down on the table and gently placed the capsule in the crown. It fit perfectly in the small dent inside. “Strange.”

“The capsule fits inside the tooth?” she asked.

I nodded. I left the crown upside down and placed the other half of the tooth into it. “And the tooth fits the crown. With the capsule hidden inside.”

“Do you think Vlad knew it was hidden inside?” she asked.

I thought about that before answering. Then I shook my head.

“No,” I said. “He didn't ask me about the tooth. And this capsule is probably too valuable for him to forget if he did know about it.”

“Why would you say that?” she asked.

“Someone went to a lot of work to hide the capsule,” I said. “You don't hide things unless they are valuable.”

“That makes sense,” she said. “Want to try to open the capsule?”

“I do,” I said. I paused, thinking a lot of other things.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It belongs to Vlad,” I finally said. “It wouldn't be right to open it. Right?”

“Right,” she said.

I didn't tell her what I was really thinking. I was wondering if this hidden capsule had anything at all to do with the fire in the arena. Or with Pookie being hung from the ceiling.

Like some kind of warning.

“Ray Hockaday! What brings you here? Looking for a wedding ring?”

I had stopped after leaving the library. Downtown wasn't too far from school.

“Very funny, Mr. Jewel,” I said.

Mr. Jewel wasn't his real name, but that's what everyone called him. He owned a small jewelry store downtown on Third Street. The shops were quaint. The sidewalks were brick. There were gas lamps and, in the summer,
hanging flower baskets. It was like stepping back in time.

Same thing inside Mr. Jewel's jewelry store. He was in his fifties. He was tall with long flowing gray hair. He had a gray handlebar mustache that he waxed so that it stuck out beneath his nose like horns on a steer. He wore a pinstripe suit, with a vest and bow tie. He looked like a saloon-keeper in a western movie. And he was one of the Tigers' biggest fans. I knew him because I'd bought a couple of watches from him for Christmas presents one year.

“Isn't that something, about the coaching change?” Mr. Jewel said. “What do you think so far?”

His eyes showed his excitement. Mr. Jewel loved to talk hockey.

“Coach Thomas knows his stuff,” I said. That was true. Coach Thomas knew exactly what I feared on the ice.

“You like him?” Mr. Jewel asked.

I nodded. Yeah, I liked him. About as much as I liked the thought of putting a needle in my eyeball. But this wasn't something a player
said. It always got back to a coach. Besides, if I told Mr. Jewel I didn't like Coach Thomas, then I'd have to explain
why
I didn't like Coach Thomas. And Ray Hockaday, son of the famous “Bear” Hockaday, was not supposed to be afraid of anything.

“So, seriously,” Mr. Jewel said. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Anything wrong with the watches you bought?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“And no wedding ring?”

“I'm only seventeen,” I said.

“Big, strong hockey player like you,” he said. “I'll bet there must be a hundred girls hoping you'll ask them for a date.”

If only one of them was Amanda. But that was another thought I kept to myself.

“Once I came in here,” I said, “and you were repairing a small watch.”

“Part of my services,” Mr. Jewel said. “But you said you weren't having problems with the watches.”

“I remember your workbench in the back,” I said. “The big magnifying glass. The tiny tools you used.”

“Still there,” he said. He grinned. “Thinking of learning a new trade?”

Spying. I kept that thought to myself too.

“Well,” I said, “I've got this little capsule.”

I pulled the Ziploc bag out of my jean-jacket pocket. The tooth and the crown were in my pants pocket. I didn't want Mr. Jewel to figure out where the capsule came from. That would lead to too many questions.

I put the Ziploc bag on the counter.

Mr. Jewel looked closely at the bag. “You're right. It is small.”

“Think you can find a way to open it?” I asked. “And think you can find a way to put it back together so that it won't look like it was ever opened?”

Mr. Jewel stroked his mustache.

“Ray,” he said, “if anyone can do it, that would be me.”

It was a home game against the Lethbridge Hurricanes. The Tigers were in third place in the standings, easily ahead of the Hurricanes. In terms of playoffs, this wasn't a must-win game. The playoffs were still a couple of months ahead.

In terms of our home crowd, however, it was an absolute must-win. The Lethbridge Hurricanes were our traditional rivals. Tigers' fans loved to see the Hurricanes lose
against us just as much as Hurricanes' fans loved it when we lost in their building.

That, however, wasn't the reason I was nervous.

I was at center ice, listening to the singing of the national anthem, and barely able to hear it above the thumping of my heart. We had a new coach and he was going to suspend me if I didn't prove myself to him. Could I play the kind of hockey he wanted? The kind of hockey that my dad wanted?

It didn't take long to find out.

With the anthem finished, I skated to center ice to start the game. The Hurricane center was there waiting for me. He was two inches taller than me, and I knew him well. Joe Tidwell. Long hair. Long reach. A great scorer. And a great fighter.

“How about we drop the gloves?” he asked. “Right now and get it over with?”

I said nothing.

“Sorry,” he said. “I forgot. You've never been in a hockey fight.”

Again I said nothing. Fear burned in my stomach like indigestion. Why couldn't
hockey just be about skating, shooting and passing?

The referee drifted closer.

“Heads up,” Tidwell said to me just before the referee reached us. “And I mean that sincerely.”

The referee held the puck. Dropped it. As I tried to pull it back with my stick, Tidwell spun around and blocked me, kicking the puck to his left defenseman. I moved to skate past Tidwell, but he shadowed me. He stayed so close that there wasn't any daylight between us. He gave me a jab in the ribs with the butt of his stick.

“See you in the corners,” he said. Then, with a burst of speed, he broke for an open spot.

His left defenseman put a pass perfectly on his stick. He took a couple of hard strides, then dumped the puck into the right corner of our end. He put his head down and broke hard across our blue line.

I followed.

The puck took a weird bounce on the boards. Our right defenseman was forced to juggle it briefly. That was enough time for the
Hurricane winger to move into the corner. Both of them fought for the puck.

I hoped the ref would blow the whistle.

He didn't.

That left only one person to go in and help. Me.

Our winger was supposed to stay up near the blue line and prevent a pass back to the point. Our other defenseman would cover the front of the net. That left the center to help out.

It seemed to me that the action was all sticks and skates and bumping bodies. I moved in, looking for a way to chip the puck out along the boards. It would give me some room to skate and look for an open man to feed a pass to.

I stayed on the outside, the way I always did. A part of my mind was telling me to go in with my body. Another part of my mind said that I could get the puck and make a great play.

The hesitation cost me.

The Hurricane winger kicked the puck ahead, squeezing along the boards until he

was free. I should have been in closer. Then I could have given him a hip or shoulder check to knock him off the puck. Instead I was too far away to stop him and too close to get back to the slot and help out the other defense.

He made a hard pass. I feebly waved my stick as it zipped past me. I was able to half turn to watch the progress of the puck. It snapped between our other defenseman's legs and onto Tidwell's stick.

He banged it high, over the goalie's shoulder. Just like that, we were down 1–0.

Tidwell raised his arms, wheeling in a tight circle. His eyes met mine. He grinned. He made sure he skated past me.

“Nice try, little girl,” he said. “Want to drop the gloves now?”

I knew what he was doing. He was trying to intimidate me. I didn't want to be honest with myself. I didn't want to admit it was working.

The crowd was quiet as our line skated off the ice.

I stepped into the players' box, looking for a place to hide. It didn't do any good.

Coach Thomas paced down the bench behind the players. He put a hand on my shoulder. He squeezed hard, and it felt like an eagle's claw.

“Ray, look at me.”

I didn't want to, but I did.

He leaned in close so that the other players couldn't hear.

“Looks like you're not leading the way,” he said.

“I thought I had a chance of chipping the puck loose,” I said. “We could have moved the puck out and—”

“One thing I hate worse than gutless players,” he said, still speaking low, “and that's gutless players who make excuses.”

He stared into my eyes. “No excuses, Ray. Got that?”

I blinked. “Got it.”

“No ice time either,” he said. “Unless you play it my way. Understand?”

He squeezed my shoulder harder and continued. “If you're not in the corners, you're not in the game. Understand?”

Slowly, very slowly, I nodded.

“Yes,” I said. “I understand.”

He walked away, leaving me to dread my next shift.

For the next two minutes of the game, I hoped for a leg cramp. Vomiting. Another fire to empty the arena. Anything that would delay my turn to go back onto the ice for another shift.

None of that happened.

The Tigers were still down the goal that had been my fault, when the linesman called an offside against the Hurricanes. That meant my line was supposed to go back onto the ice.

I flexed my leg, testing it for the slightest sign of a cramp. Nothing.

I wondered if anyone would notice if I put my finger down my throat to make me throw up. Decided it would be too obvious.

I scanned the rink for smoke. Nope.

All of this meant I didn't have a choice. It was back onto the ice. I skated slowly to our blue line to line up for the face-off against Joe Tidwell. He bumped into me. Not hard enough to get a penalty. But hard enough that I knew it wasn't an accident.

I'd been dealing with this for two seasons. My passing and skating and stickhandling skills were better than most in the league. I knew the word was out that the best way to stop me was to play physical hockey against me. Every game, this kind of stuff happened.

But I still found ways to make plays. I had plenty of assists and goals. I just wasn't a fighter or physical player myself. It hadn't mattered whether I bumped back or dropped my gloves, as long as my line was producing points.