Making the Cut (5 page)

He didn’t waste any time getting started. “Welcome to Team 1,” Miller began once Charlie had sat down.

“Please turn to page six in your binder where it says Forechecking Schematics. We’ll be working on three different forechecking strategies over camp …”

Miller waited for them to find the page. “When you want to slow the game down, or are up against an opponent that is superior offensively, I like to go with the 1–4, which sends one forechecker in deep and four guys spread out in the neutral zone to clog things up. When we need a goal we’ll add a forechecker, but the key is the guys in deep must force the puck to one side …”

Charlie’s head was soon swimming with all the different formations. Next it was backchecking, and then faceoffs. It was hard to follow, but exciting at the
same time. This certainly was hockey at a higher level, and he could only imagine how much he was going to learn over the next two weeks.

Charlie looked up and saw a Frisbee spinning right for his head. Instinctively, he shot out his hand and snagged the flying disk. Up by the arena doors Scott was laughing away, along with two guys Charlie didn’t know.

He took a crossover step forward and let loose. Frisbee was one of his favourite games, and he and Pudge spent hours playing at school. The Frisbee whistled through the air. A tall, thin kid with a black sweatshirt and a shock of red hair reached out and caught it. He waved his hand, pretending it really hurt.

“Yo, Joyce,” Scott said when he got closer. “These guys don’t believe I’m the best player in camp. You gotta tell them.”

“It’s true,” Charlie said. He paused and added, “Are we talking about hockey?”

That cracked them up. Scott laughed harder than any of them.

“This here is Pete,” Scott said. He cupped his mouth and whispered to Charlie, “I call him Pete.” He
pointed to the other kid. “And this superstar is Jared.” Scott held a hand out. “Meet a personal friend of mine, Charlie Joyce,” In a loud whisper he added, “Charlie kinda idolizes me. It’s a little embarrassing, but what can I do. He cries if I don’t let him hang around.”

“Thanks for the intro,” Charlie said.

“Are you ready for the big squad?” Jared asked him.

The question caught him off guard. He wasn’t actually sure if he was. “I guess I am. Miller seems pretty serious. We went over a ton of stuff in the meeting. What about you guys?”

“The basics: forecheck, backcheck, paycheque,” Pete said. “No fooling around here. These guys know their stuff. I learned more hockey in that hour than I think I have in my life.”

Scott slapped his forehead. “Now you tell me. I was too busy flossing my teeth, and I missed the best hockey talk of all time.”

Charlie knew Scott was deadly serious about hockey and that he was only joking. “You won’t know what you’re doing on the ice, but at least your teeth will be sparkling,” he said to keep the joke going.

“Dental hygiene is an important and underappreciated part of the game,” Scott said.

The door swung open and Jen came out.

“Shall we get changed for practice, gentlemen? Twenty minutes to get ready.” She nodded at Charlie. “Mr. Joyce, I believe you’re in this rink. You fellows are in the rink next door.

“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” Charlie said.

“Come by the room,” Scott said. “We can discuss how to get your teeth their whitest — and I should probably review the causes of bad breath.” Scott raised his shoulders and looked around like a turtle. “This is kinda awkward. We’ll see ya, Joyce.”

Charlie waved them off.

“Mr. Joyce, if you please. As much as I like holding doors open …”

Charlie gulped and quickly went into the rink. The second he did, the nerves kicked in. This was it — his first Team 1 practice.

Charlie began dressing extra fast. He wanted to get onto the ice and skate his nerves away. His skates were on before anyone else’s. He tossed his shoulder pads on next, and began rooting around in his bag for his elbow pads. Where were they? His bag was so packed with old sweaters and socks he couldn’t find them. His mom had told him to clean his bag out, but he’d never bothered. He put his helmet on the bench.

“Let’s go, boys,” Trevor said, the door closing behind him.

A few players got up.

Charlie continued to hunt for his elbow pads.

Trevor opened the door again. “I wasn’t kidding. Move it out.”

“Come on, Team 1,” one player said as he filed out.

“We’re jammin’. Party time, dudes.”

Charlie’s heart sank. The pads weren’t there — impossible. He’d had
them yesterday. Had he left them at the other rink? For a second he considered running over, until he thought how idiotic he’d look, not to mention missing part of practice.

Just then the door flung open and Trevor walked in.

“Are you playing today?” Trevor asked him.

“I just gotta tighten my skates.”

“Okay,” he said uneasily. “Coach Miller is strict about time so … I’d hurry.”

Charlie said, “Sorry,” and pretended to retighten his skates.

Trevor left and Charlie was all alone in the dressing room.

He couldn’t play without elbow pads. What could he do? He looked frantically in his bag one last time. All he had was his Rebels shirt and socks. He pulled out the socks, and that gave him an idea — a bit nuts but it was all he could come up with. A minute later, Charlie ran down the corridor and stepped onto the ice — with two hockey socks taped around his elbows for pads.

He didn’t have any time to warm up. The whistle blew and Coach Miller pointed his stick to one end.

“On the line, boys. Time to pick up the intensity,” Miller said. “The easy practices are over.”

Charlie wondered if the man ever smiled.

For the next half-hour Charlie skated harder than he ever had in his life. He used to think his high school teacher and Rebels coach, William Hilton, was tough. Miller was psycho. They hopped and spun and jumped and dove; they tore around the faceoff circles with heads turned up at the scoreboard; they dropped to their knees and
did races, the loser having to do twenty push-ups. When Miller finally blew his whistle to signal the end of the skating drills Charlie could hardly catch his breath.

“Here’s the drill,” Miller announced, and he poked the whiteboard with a marker.

“I’m sure you’ve done this a hundred times. Continuous alternating one-on-one. Forward in the corner goes around the pylon. When he crosses the blue line, the defenceman comes across and they go one-on-one. Forward then takes a pass from the corner, feeds it ahead to centre and gets a return pass, and then goes one-on-one against the other defenceman.”

He bashed his stick on the ice. “Defencemen split into two groups. Forwards, I want you all in the right corner.”

Charlie joined the forwards. J.C. Savard was a few spots behind, so he drifted back.

“I thought I was in shape,” Charlie offered. “My lungs almost exploded.”

“I heard from some guys that this is nothing compared to what’s coming,” Savard replied. “Anyway, congrats for making T1, Charlie.”

Charlie reddened. “You too. Guess Terrence Falls and Chelsea did okay.” Chelsea was Savard’s high school.

“Burnett made it on D, and there’s Cameron. He’s doing the drill now.”

Savard pointed to a swift skating player bearing down on the far goal. Charlie recognized him from Savard’s club team, the Snow Birds. He deked to his left, swung the puck across his body to his forehand, and then slipped past the defenceman.

“Sweet move,” Charlie said, as Cameron roofed a backhand over the goalie’s glove.

They were at the front.

“You go ahead,” he said.

“Nah. You won the championship this year. Go for it,” Savard replied.

The whistle blew. Charlie gave Savard’s pads a tap and took off. The defenceman backed up as soon as he rounded the cone, which left little choice but to shoot. Using the defender as a screen, Charlie got off a howitzer right into the top left corner. That felt awesome, and Charlie was stoked for the next one-on-one as he received a crisp pass from Miller.

Charlie tried going in with one hand on the stick, holding the puck wide with his right hand. Usually, the defenceman went for the puck, and he’d slip it between his legs and step inside. This time the D ignored the puck completely and rode Charlie off to the side.

“Nice play,” Charlie said. He wasn’t sure but he thought his name was Nathan.

The compliment seemed to have surprised him. “Yeah, thanks,” he grunted in return.

As Charlie waited to go again, Trevor skated over to him.

“Hey, Charlie. Careful with that deke. You lose the puck in the neutral zone and your team will get punished on the counter attack. If the D doesn’t bite, bounce it outside and at least make sure the puck gets into their end — and take it hard, no soft moves.”

He slapped his shin pads and in two seconds was practically at top speed. Charlie marvelled at how effortlessly he skated. Trevor was right, though. These guys knew better than to look at the puck. When his turn came up, he was determined to follow Trevor’s advice. He used a spin move at the top of the circle and beat one defender to the outside, only the goalie came out strong and took away the angle and stopped Charlie’s snap shot to the short side.

Slogger was defending for the second one-on-one. Charlie took the pass and drifted into centre, faked left with his head, slowed slightly to throw Slogger off, and then broke it outside along the boards. Slogger carved on his edges frantically to head him off.

As he crossed the blue line, Charlie had to slow down to gather the puck, and that let Slogger spin to his left, and his hip just caught Charlie on the inside of his thigh. Charlie bounced off and his right elbow banged against the glass. He kept his feet moving, however, and with the
puck sitting about a foot from the boards, Charlie was able to gain the corner and cut towards the goalie, who’d drifted out to the top of the crease. Unfortunately, his elbow was throbbing and, distracted by the pain, he lost control of the puck trying to shovel it stick side with his backhand.

“Next time I won’t take it so easy on ya,” Slogger joked, as he turned and skated back to centre.

A sick feeling in his gut, Charlie coasted to a stop behind the forward’s line. Of course he had to lose his elbow pad and then smash into the boards in the first drill. He gingerly tried to extend his arm — and a shock wave spread up and down his arm.

The rest of the practice was a nightmare. The pain made it hard to shoot. He’d never been so relieved to hear a coach blow his whistle to signal the end of practice.

In the dressing room the typical horseplay ensued, tape balls whizzing though the air, and the guys dissing each other or bragging about some move or other.

“Zane, how’d it feel getting totally dangled on that one-on-one,” a kid named Richard teased.

Zane tilted his chin up. “Shut up, ya goof,” he shot back.

Charlie ignored them, struggling to even untie his skates. His right arm was useless. What if it stayed this bad, he wondered. He’d have to go home and lose out on everything. Wouldn’t Jake get a kick out of that? He’d probably move up and take his spot.

“How’s the arm, bud?” Trevor looked down at him
with obvious concern.

“It’s kinda hurting. Banged it … during practice.”

“I thought you got dinged up a bit. You seemed to have trouble carrying the puck. Why don’t you drop by the trainer’s room? It’s down the hall to the right. I’ll get you some ice.” He hesitated and said quietly, “Do you need some help getting undressed?”

He did — but no way he’d let the others see that! “I’m good. I’ll see you in a sec.”

Slowed by the elbow, he was the last player out. He walked to the trainer’s room and knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

Trevor held a plastic bag full of ice. “Sit on this table and let me look it over.” He started probing the elbow with his fingers.

“Looks like a fairly nice bruise,” Trevor mused. “Weird place to get hurt, though. Your elbow pad must have shifted, ’cause it’s usually well protected there. Are your pads too small?”