Undergrounders (6 page)

Rigger stepped forward. “You didn’t tell the cops about the Underground, did you?”

Rigger could get scary mean when he wanted to. Fitzy got all laughing and slapped his thigh as if that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“No chance. I never said nothing. I played it real smooth. ‘I live on the streets, Your Honour,’ I said, which is what you call them judges — Your Honour. More like Your Idiot if you ask me.”

“And Lewis?” Rigger asked in a low voice. “Did you
hear him say anything?”

Fitzy shrugged. “Don’t know. He got kinda weird on me. I didn’t hear him say anything, but how can I be sure?”

Rigger growled and his left eye got squinty. I couldn’t take Fitzy’s lying.

“Lewis wouldn’t do that,” I said. I was too crazy mad to stop myself. “No way he told the cops about us. That’s a joke. Why would he? He came back here, didn’t he?”

“The little bitty mouse is all angry-wangry,” Fitzy mocked in a baby voice. “Are you all sad ’cause your hero turns out to be a crybaby?”

I wanted to smash his ugly stupid face to pieces. But he was sixteen years old and way bigger. He’d pound me before I could even hit him once. I copied Lewis and turned my back and left. I slammed my foot into each rung as I climbed up to the street level.

Lewis was sitting on the stool beside the door smoking a cigarette. He could blow the sickest smoke rings, and even make one ring go through another. He wouldn’t teach me because he said smoking’s bad for you. But he smoked. Sometimes I didn’t understand him.

I peered out the door to make sure the coast was clear. “I’ll see ya later,” I said, as nice as I could.

“Take care of yourself, Mouse,” he said. He didn’t sound that angry now.

I swallowed hard. “Did that guy hurt you … I mean in jail … the drunk guy who hit you?”

He smiled a bit. “Fitzy can exaggerate stuff, especially with a crowd around him. I can handle myself.”

“No one would mess with you, Lewis,” I said. Which was true. I bet even Rigger was afraid of him.

“So where are you off to this lovely morning?”

That sounded like the old Lewis. “I’m gonna go to the rink. I’ve been there every day for more than two weeks. I even played with some Reggies yesterday.”

I knew I should not have told him that.

“Don’t get mixed up with regular kids. You can’t trust them. They’re not like us.”

“I know. It was only for five minutes.”

He looked at me for a second, and then laughed. “Five minutes won’t kill you.”

I laughed too. We were buds again. I’d missed him so much. I think I’d actually pretended he wasn’t really gone.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“Maybe a little.”

He got up. “Follow me. I have a can of tuna and some bread. Besides, I need to talk to you about some business I need taken care of.”

I followed him back down into the Underground.

I stopped counting the number of times I flip-flopped between going to the Market and playing hockey with Rasheed and his friends. First I convinced myself that I was too tired; then I was going to hunt for beer and liquor bottles to return for the deposit money; next I decided Rasheed didn’t really want me to play because he didn’t know me. I must have come up with a million reasons not to play — and here I was in front of the rink, more nervous than I’d ever been in my life. I was so scared of these guys. And why? Reggies weren’t tough like Undergrounders. They’d barely last a day on the streets before running home to Mommy.

Rasheed must have spotted me through the window because he opened the door and waved. That left me no choice and I headed in.

“Awesome!” Rasheed beamed. “We only have seven guys. Now we can play four-on-four.”

I smiled back, although I think my face came out looking kind of goofy.

He tugged on my shoulder. “Throw your stick to the outside when we’re picking sides and I’ll make sure we’re on the same team,” he whispered.

“Okay,” I mumbled, not sure what he meant.

“Hey, guys. We’ve got even teams now,” Rasheed
declared.

His friends barely looked over. They didn’t seem too stoked to see me. Collin kept looking at me, though, which made me even more nervous and self-conscious; and then he asked the one question I dreaded.

“So what team do you play for?”

Everyone heard that and was waiting for me to answer. “I was telling Rasheed … I just fool around here, at the rink …”

Collin fired a few more questions, and I felt my face flush from all the attention. “Are you peewee or minor peewee? Do you play AAA? Where do you live?”

Rasheed, Derrick and the others laughed.

“Why don’t you ask him another ten questions at once,” Rasheed said.

Collin joined in the laughter and pointed at me. “I need some info on the kid that smoked me so bad that I looked like I belonged in house league,” he said.

I had a million things to do, and here I was trying to play hockey with a bunch of Reggies who would freak if they found out who I really was.

“You missed one question,” Rasheed said. “What’s your name?”

“Jonathon.”

“And … you don’t play for any team … that’s what you told Rasheed?” Derrick said.

These questions were bad news. I thought of running, until an idea came into my brain from out of nowhere. “We moved from Brentwood. I used to play for the Hawks. I couldn’t find a team, so … I decided
to practise here when I visit my uncle and wait until next year.”

“You couldn’t find a team because you missed the tryouts in April?” Collin asked.

I nodded, and thank God that satisfied him.

Rasheed stood up. “Hurry up, slugs. I need to dangle a few of you. It’s good for my morale given we’ve lost every game so far this season.”

“We’ve got no business playing AA,” Collin said, and laughed in a way that I guessed meant he didn’t really care.

“We could win — if all the guys wanted to,” Derrick growled.

“We can’t score — that’s the problem. All we need is someone to put the puck in the net,” Rasheed said. That was the first time I heard Rasheed say something serious.

“I keep telling you to move me up to forward and I’ll fill the net,” Collin said, thumping his chest.

His friends all started dissing Collin real good about that, but it was different from what I was used to because it was kind of nice at the same time, like in a way that made it obvious everyone liked him. I hadn’t heard boys speak to each other like that in a long time; we didn’t in the Underground. I guess I’d sort of forgotten how Reggies talk.

We all piled onto the ice and began skating around and shooting at the nets. Pretty soon Collin shouted, “Sticks at centre!” I stopped next to him, as the other guys kept goofing around.

“Don’t be fooled,” Collin said. “They usually really listen to me.”

I was still so nervous I couldn’t think of what to say.

“That was kind of a joke,” Collin said.

My brain finally unlocked itself. “I was gonna wait for something a little better,” I said.

He laughed. “I’m not warmed up yet,” he said, tossing his stick on the ice, “and how can I when it’s like twenty below?”

A few of the guys came up and tossed their sticks on top of Collin’s. Rasheed caught my eye and pointed to his stick and I dropped mine on top of his.

“I’ll divvy them up,” Rasheed said, and he began dividing the sticks into two piles. He threw his together with mine. That’s when I understood. This is how they picked teams. It was supposed to be random. I retrieved my stick and followed Rasheed to the far end.

“This here is Jacob,” Rasheed said, pointing to a tall kid with a Pittsburgh Penguins tuque. “We play on the same line with Derrick.”

Jacob tilted his head toward me. The other kid held out his glove and I tapped it with mine. “I’m Matthew. Rasheed tells me you can really bring it.”

I felt myself blush. I hated that. So lame!

“Do you play with Rasheed too?” It’s all I could think of saying.

“Play with these guys?” Matthew said, as if that was ridiculous.

Rasheed laughed. “We didn’t want him, so he had to play with the Red Wings — who just happen to be
the best team in the league.”

“Nothing can stop the C-Train,” Collin roared, as he powered down the right side.

“After him, boys,” Rasheed declared.

Matthew stepped up to play forward and so did Jacob. I drifted back to play D. Rasheed rode Collin into the boards and the puck squirted free. It squibbed into the corner and I was able to scoop it up and drift behind the net. Matthew was camped out at the wall by the hash marks, and I snapped a pass over. Matthew took a few steps, looked quickly to his left and then backhanded it back to me.

Derrick swung over to forecheck. Instinctively, I did a head fake, slipped the puck between his skates, and pushed hard to the outside. That Matthew could play; he anticipated my move and was already cutting across their blue line. I passed to him again and he motored over the line down the left side and then dropped it for Rasheed. The slot was wide open, and I scooted in unnoticed by the defenceman who was focused on Jacob. Rasheed feathered a sweet pass right onto my stick.

The defencemen left Jacob and tried to poke-check me. I shifted the puck to my backhand and took it wide right. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Matthew, who must have continued on to the net. I slid it over and he banged it off the post.

“He scores!” Rasheed yelled, and he lifted his stick over his head.

I would have shot the puck into the net. Lucky Matthew shot first. I had forgotten that you had to hit
the post to score.

Matthew came up from behind and thumped me on the back. “The kid can bring it,” he said, in a big dramatic voice.

“Nice goal,” I said — and I guess it was.

“You gotta at least try to slow us down,” Rasheed said to the other team.

“Teams are way too stacked,” Collin complained.

“Let’s play to five and we’ll switch it up,” Rasheed said.

It didn’t take us more than five minutes to do that. Playing with Matthew and Rasheed was magic. They were always where I wanted them to be, and I would get the pass, right on my stick, at the exact right moment. Jacob kind of got in the way, but we basically ignored him. On the last goal, Rasheed, me, and Matthew must have passed it ten times around the net before I snuck behind a player at the far post and drilled it off the post before he could turn around.

The guy obviously didn’t like that much and he swung his stick at the puck and banged me right on the shin just after I scored. The pain took my breath away. No way I was crying, though. Undergrounders don’t cry when they get hurt. I turned away and wiped my eyes, pretending I had some dirt in them, and ignored the pain.

No one saw me — or at least nobody said anything.

“Sick moves, Jonathon,” Rasheed said.

We punched gloves.

“The J-Man is on fire,” Matthew said a few times.

I had to laugh. These guys were kind of funny. That was five goals. I pushed off and glided toward centre on one foot, hoping I got to stay on Rasheed and Matthew’s team.

I heard a deep, gravelly voice from the side of the rink say real loud, “Hey, Rasheed, I’ve seen enough.” He added, “Why don’t you introduce me to your new friend?”

Rasheed pulled at my arm until I followed him to a man standing behind the fence. Undergrounders knew better than to trust adults, so I was totally on my guard.

“What’s your name, son?” he asked.

“Jonathon.”

“Well, Jonathon. That was some good stuff out there. You’re a good skater. I love the creativity and puck control — you can’t teach that. Rasheed told me you might come out this morning, and based on what he said I thought it would be worth taking the chance that you would play.”

I got real nervous. Lewis had warned me about government people who threw street kids into juvie or foster care. Was that what was happening? The man didn’t seem mean, and he smiled real big and looked friendly.

“I imagine you’re wondering who I am. I’m Rasheed’s hockey coach. My mom calls me Luigi — everyone else calls me Lou. Anyway, one of our forwards got hurt recently. Broke his leg snowboarding of all things, and we’re a man down.” He pressed his lips together real tight and grabbed hold of the fencing. “I understand you’re not signed with anyone?”

I looked at Rasheed for help.

“He’s not, Lou,” Rasheed said.

“Tremendous.” He scrunched his mouth to one side. “You’re not the biggest kid I’ve seen. How tall are you?”

“Don’t really know,” I muttered. Like I need to be reminded I’m small.

“With your speed that shouldn’t be a problem …” He rubbed his chin with his hand. “Do you mind taking a few shots on net?”

“Hey Collin, pass some pucks over, will ya?” Rasheed yelled.

“Sure thing,” Collin answered.

A bunch of pucks came firing over. I felt dumb lining up at the blue line while everyone else stopped playing to watch. I didn’t want to let Rasheed down, so I really laid into them and blasted a couple just under the crossbar. Another dinged off the post. I thought I did okay. The guys tapped their sticks on the ice, anyway.

“Come on over,” Lou called to me.

“Do you go by Jonathon, or Jon, or Jonny?” Lou asked.

“Don’t really care.”

“I’ll go with Jonny — a good hockey name. When I was younger I loved a player named Johnny Bucyk on the Bruins. Don’t suppose you … Well, probably not, since you weren’t even born when he retired.” He cleared his throat. “Jonny, I’d like to invite you to our next practice. Have a skate with us and if you like it then maybe you can help us out for the rest of the season.”

“And we could use the help,” Collin quipped.

Lou laughed. “You boys are better than your record. I keep telling you that. We’ll start winning.” He looked at me. “Whaddaya say, Jonny?”

I would have given anything to say yes. It was impossible, of course. Undergrounders don’t play hockey. It was dumb to even think about it. Besides, I didn’t have equipment, and after what Lewis went through, I was done stealing. I figured the equipment angle was the nicest way to say no.