Thunderbird Spirit Page 5

  Dakota and I sat on the bench, waiting for our next shift on the ice.

  “Mike,” he said as he leaned over, “you’re the closest thing to a rocket I’ve seen in this league.”

  I gave him a strange look. Where was this coming from? And where was it going?

  “What I mean,” he said, “is that nobody can take off faster than you can.”

  “What you mean,” I said, “is I’ve got short legs and they start faster than anybody else’s.”

  “I wasn’t calling you short.”

  “And I wasn’t saying you needed tomtoms to pray.”

  He grinned. “I get your point. Maybe I could be a little less touchy.”

  “Something like that.”

  “It’s a deal,” Dakota said. “Now, let’s get back to those short, stubby, fast legs of yours.”

  He explained something he wanted to try.

  I told him he was crazy.

  He told me that craziness was my department.

  I agreed. Then I agreed to his plan.

  The next face-off resulted from a Blazer offside, and the referee dropped the puck just outside our blue line. Dakota, at center, didn’t fight hard to win the face-off. Instead he let the Blazer center knock the puck back to his defenseman.

  As expected the Blazer defenseman fired the puck along the boards into our zone. Gary Niestrom, our goalie, was forced to step out of the net and skate behind it to stop it from continuing around the boards.

  Dakota waved for the puck. Niestrom left it there for Dakota.

  Because the Blazers only sent one skater in, Dakota was able to come out from behind the net unchecked.

  The rest of the Blazers stayed outside the blue line, filling the neutral center ice area, guarding me and the other winger, and making sure we weren’t open for a pass.

  Instead of cruising the ice and trying to find an opening, I stood on our blue line along the boards, waiting for Dakota to bring the puck up the ice. Because I wasn’t moving, I kept the Blazer winger and defenseman up the ice, close to me.

  Just before Dakota reached the blue line, I bolted, trying to become the rocket Dakota said I was. I busted toward the center of the other blue line, aiming for the open space between both of their defensemen.

  At first they didn’t react. They knew I wasn’t looking back for a pass from Dakota. They knew I wasn’t even in the open for a pass—at least, for a pass along the ice.

  I kept busting hard, hoping Dakota was doing what he’d promised. And hoping he would be as accurate as a quarterback. Just when I thought it was too late, I saw both of the Blazer defensemen look up toward the rafters.

  I risked turning my head slightly.

  And there it was. The puck, in the air, sailing down, over my head and over the heads of both defensemen.

  I was already at full speed. They were just starting to figure it out. Dakota had flicked the puck in a high lazy loop over the entire center ice area and over all the skaters who clogged it.

  The puck flopped onto the ice ahead of me. The Blazer defensemen cut into the middle to stop me. They didn’t have a chance. I had a two-step head start, and they weren’t even close to reaching my speed.

  The puck wobbled.

  I scooped it with my stick, still pushing hard on a wide-open breakaway. I moved in, faked a shot, pretending to make a move to the left. The fakes were enough to get the goalie moving, and his legs opened slightly. As I was bringing the puck back toward me, I fired a low wrist shot from the heel of my blade at the opening between his pads. The puck nicked the inside of the goalie’s skate and bounced left, catching the inside of the post and tumbling into the net.

  I raised my hands and stick in joy and wheeled in a big circle back to center ice.

  Their left defenseman had just slammed his stick down in disgust at how we’d beaten them on the goal. I nearly hit him as I turned my victory circle and had to lean hard to cut around him.

  He saw me out of the corner of his eye and gave me a straight-armed shove. Most times, it wouldn’t have done anything to me. I’m low to the ice, and it takes a lot to knock me over. This time, however, I was leaning and off balance. His shove flipped me onto my back.

  I hit the ice shoulders first. Then my head and helmet slammed onto the ice. If not for my mouthguard, my teeth would have smashed together, probably breaking a couple. As it was, I mashed my tongue good. My momentum sent me sliding into the boards.

  For a moment, when I finally stopped, I stared at the rafters of the arena, trying to decide what truck had run me over. I tasted blood.

  I started to get mad, but I didn’t care. Nobody hit me with a cheap shot like that and got away with it.

  I turned onto my knees and got to my feet, getting ready to charge as soon as I could find him.

  There, over by the goalie.

  I took my first step. And stopped. Not because I wanted to, but because someone had hold of my sweater.

  I threw my arms back, trying to knock the person away from me.

  I wanted their defenseman, and I wanted him bad.

  “Let go,” I grunted.

  “Don’t let him control you,” Dakota said, refusing to loosen his grip.

  Dakota put his arm around my shoulder and spun me around so I faced our players’ bench instead of the defenseman I wanted to pound as hard as I could.

  I struggled to turn back.

  “Do not go crazy. Don’t let him control you,” Dakota repeated, leaning his face close to my ear. Fans screamed and yelled, and the noise seemed to shake the entire building.

  Dakota was too strong for me, and I wasn’t crazy enough to start swinging at my own center. Not yet.

  “What are you talking about?” I screamed. “Did you see what the guy did to me?”

  “Can’t you figure it out? If you chase him down, then he just pushed your buttons. Do you want a jerk like him working you like a puppet on a string?”

  “I want a jerk like him begging for mercy.” I tried one last time to get free.

  “You just scored a goal,” Dakota said. “He just got a penalty. If you keep your cool, he’ll be in the penalty box and you’ll have a chance to score again. Isn’t that better revenge than getting a penalty too?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Whatever.”

  I pushed away from Dakota and skated to the bench. Not only was I mad at their defenseman, but now I was also mad at Dakota for minding my business.

  Coach Nesbitt grinned at me when I stepped into the players’ box. “Great goal, Keats.”

  “Yeah,” I said. My mind was on what I would have liked to do to their defenseman.

  “And I’m proud of you for keeping your head out there.” He gave my shoulder a few whacks. “You’re making me look like a genius for trading for you.”

  My temper began to cool, and I allowed Coach’s praise to sink in. It didn’t feel that bad to have someone happy with me instead of disgusted with me.

  Dakota slid in on the bench beside me.

  “Thanks, bud,” I said. “I owe you.”

  “Don’t sweat it. We’re back in the game.”

  And we were. Thirty seconds into the power play against the Blazers, our guys on the ice scored a goal to tie the game.

  I jumped to my feet along with everyone else in the players’ box.

  My celebration didn’t last long though.

  Before any of us could sit down again, two cops in full uniform stepped into the box and motioned for Coach Nesbitt.

  He joined them, and they had a whispered conversation. All three of them looked over at me.

  I tried to figure out what I’d done wrong. I thought of Saskatoon and how it had been cops that delivered the bad news that got me kicked off the team. I bit the inside of my cheek and held my breath, expecting the worst.

  Only it wasn’t me they wanted. It was Dakota, who stood beside me.

  They escorted him out of the players’ box and led him away with more than half the game left to play. And he never returne
d.

  chapter fourteen

  I had just scored the overtime goal in the seventh and deciding game of the Stanley Cup finals. I was accepting cheers from adoring women in the crowd when Mrs. Olinsky, my billet, knocked on my bedroom door and woke me from my dream.

  “Yes?” I croaked.

  “Phone call,” she said.

  I rubbed my eyes. Phone call? The red digital numbers on my clock said 7:30 AM.Who could be calling me at this hour on a Saturday? It couldn’t be a family emergency. I didn’t really have a family, and even if my dad decided he cared enough to call, I doubted he knew my number. Or even that I’d been traded twice since we last spoke.

  I threw on jeans and a T-shirt and climbed the stairs to the family room. Mrs. Olinsky smiled. She was dressed and ready for the day. Her hands curled around a big mug of coffee. Mrs. Olinsky was always up early because she got up with Mr. Olinsky, who was a baker and had to be at work at five each morning.

  Mrs. Olinsky winked at me as she handed me the phone.

  I didn’t understand her wink until I heard a female voice on the other end.

  “Kendra?” I asked.

  Mrs. Olinsky grinned, and I waved her away. She pretended to be mad at me as she walked out of the room.

  “I’m really worried, Mike,” Kendra said. Her voice sounded small and lost.

  “Is it your dog?” I couldn’t figure out why anyone wanted it dead, but maybe they had tried again.

  “No,” Kendra said, “it’s Dakota. He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” I said. “He can’t be gone. The police wanted him to report every move he makes.”

  “That’s what I told him. But he didn’t listen. He’s gone.”

  “What about your parents? What do they think?”

  “My parents flew to Las Vegas for a weekend vacation. They don’t know he’s gone. All they know is what happened last night because the police called them at their hotel. They’re flying back today.”

  “How much do you know about last night?” Coach Nesbitt had told us everything after the game. The players had all agreed to keep it secret. It made sense that Kendra knew, but if she didn’t, I wasn’t going to be the one to scare her.

  “I know about the bomb threat,” she said. “I know there was a phone call to the radio station saying that if Dakota didn’t leave the game by the end of the second period, someone was going to blow up a bomb somewhere in the arena during the third period.”

  The radio station manager had decided it would be dumb to panic a crowd of thousands by announcing the threat on the air. He’d taken it to the cops, who in turn decided the best thing to do—lunatic as a bomb threat might be—was to take Dakota out of the game. The cops had then sent trained dogs through the stadium during the second period intermission, letting them sniff around for trace smells of explosives. The dogs had found nothing. The game had continued. None of us players knew this until the end of the game—which we won by a goal. Coach Nesbitt had told us as much as he knew and asked us to keep it a strict secret.

  “You know about the phone call,” I said. “What else?”

  “Not much.”

  “That means you know something then,” I said. “What?”

  “Look,” she said, “do you know where Dakota might have gone?”

  “Me? Why would I—?”

  “You’re his friend. Maybe he told you.”

  “Friend?”

  “He says great things about you. I was hoping you might know what this is all about.”

  “What what is all about? It sounds like you know more than I do.”

  “Mike,” she said in the same small lost voice, “can we get together and talk about this?”

  “Well...,” I started to tell her that I was supposed to be at practice first thing this morning. For that matter, so was Dakota.

  “It gets worse,” she said, “but I can’t tell you over the phone.”

  We arranged to meet at 8:00 PM at a convenience store near the arena. Because she lived so far away, we couldn’t meet earlier. And I couldn’t meet later. It was a Saturday, and Coach Nesbitt had a practice scheduled for 9:00 PM that night. I was supposed to be at the rink by 8:30 PM.

  That didn’t give us much time to talk. I hoped Dakota would show up at practice, and Kendra would be able to stop worrying right away. She sounded certain he would not and insisted only I could help her. Against my advice, she wasn’t going to call her parents. Against my advice, she wasn’t going to go to the cops.

  Instead she was coming to me. And I knew nothing.

  So, after I hung up the phone, I made the phone call I’d been putting off as long as possible.

  I called the Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, knowing it was a couple of time zones ahead.

  “Captain Hummel, please,” I said. I knew he worked the early shift. I hoped

  the cop answering the phone didn’t recognize my voice.

  “Hold the line.”

  I waited, counting each second. I’d promised Mrs. Olinsky I’d pay for this long-distance call. I didn’t want to spend half of my call on hold. I also didn’t like the suspense of waiting for what John Hummel might say when he found out I was on the line.

  Ten, long slow seconds passed.

  “Hummel,” he said crisply.

  “It’s Mike Keats,” I said. I held my breath.

  I heard the sound of him letting out a big breath.

  “Yes, Michael,” he finally said.

  It could have been worse. He could have hung up. Or lectured me again.

  “I’ve never asked you for a favor before, have I?”

  “You haven’t,” he said. “I don’t think you’ve ever asked anyone for a favor. That’s part of the problem.”

  “I’m asking now.”

  “This ought to be good,” he said with a snort. “After the way you left and all.”

  “You’re right,” I said. This had not been a good idea. “I shouldn’t be asking you for any favors. I’m sorry.”

  “Michael?”

  “Sir, I’d like to say good-bye.”

  I set the phone down gently. My ears burned from embarrassment. Why had I thought he would help me?

  I was barely back downstairs on my way to the bathroom to shower when the phone rang again.

  I heard the low murmur of Mrs. Olinsky’s voice. Moments later, she called down to me.

  “Mike? It’s a call from your old billet family from Saskatoon.”

  I briefly wondered why Captain Hummel had this phone number in Seattle. If it had not been because of caller ID, I realized, it would have been more surprising if he hadn’t. I also realized he’d probably spoken to the Olinskys even before I arrived in Seattle, telling them what to expect about me.

  “I’m not here,” I said to Mrs. Olinsky.

  “He warned me you would try that excuse. He says he’s sorry.”

  I thought of John Hummel and his stern face. I thought of how he’d tried hard to make things right for me in Saskatoon. I thought he probably didn’t apologize to kids like me very often.

  I went back upstairs.

  “Ask your favor, Keats,” were his first words. “And now you just might get it. It was a bad time for a joke. I’m sorry.”

  I wanted to tell him that he was probably the person who had most treated me like a son. But I couldn’t find the words.

  “Captain Hummel,” I said, “I have a friend down here who is in trouble. I’m trying to help him.”

  “Yes?” Hummel kept his voice neutral.

  “Could you track down a license number for me?”

  “Interested in trading information?”

  I was sure John Hummel wanted me to tell him what had really happened the night of the high school dance in Saskatoon. But I couldn’t tell it to him back then—to him as a cop, or as a friend, or as my billet—and I could see no reason why this changed things.

  “No, sir,” I said. “I’m not interested in a trade.”

/>   “You can’t blame me for trying.”

  “No, sir.”

  There was a long pause. I’m sure he was remembering the incident. Just like I was. If it hadn’t happened, I’d still be in Saskatoon. John Hummel and I would still be speaking like friends, not like strangers.

  “What’s the license number?” he asked before the silence became hard to bear.

  “It’s a British Columbia plate,” I told him. “Four-nine-eight-E-A-H.”

  “A British Columbia plate? Down in Seattle, Washington?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Will you at least tell me what this is about?”

  “I promise I will when I can.”

  “That’s what you said about the high school dance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are a stubborn mule,” he said. “That’s probably why I like you, despite everything that happened here.”

  I grinned at the phone. “That’s why I like you too.”

  “Very funny, Keats.” Another pause. “I’ll have it traced within half an hour.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll call you back later.”

  “Just remember, I’ll be here when you finally get ready to talk about things.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Hey, Keats,” he said to break the awkward silence.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Some of us in Saskatoon miss you.”

  chapter fifteen

  “You’re absolutely sure you want to do this?” I asked Kendra.

  The Saturday evening practice had ended. Dakota had not shown up. Kendra and I were back at the convenience store, standing in the parking lot beside her red Miata convertible.

  “Yes, of course I’m sure,” she said. “If we take your car, we might break down halfway there.”

  “Hilarious,” I said. “Absolutely hilarious. Why don’t we stop by my billet’s house? We can pick up the Corvette that I keep in storage there. Let’s see, do I want to drive my red one today? Or my black one?”