All-Star Pride (11 page)

Dry canvas and oil-based paint. Gasoline would not have swooshed quicker. In a racing burst of flames, the canvas scorched to blackness, then fell apart.

Nadia stood. She ha nded me the blowtorch.

I turned the flame down, then off. Both Henley and Bowes were too stunned to say anything.

Nadia faced Clint Bowes and spoke with a small smile. “Now there is no reason to kill anyone.”

Bowes stared at her open-mouthed. Then he spit. “Not yet,” he said, glaring. “With these gone, all we can do is call each other names.”

He spit again. “But you will be watched. Trust me. You will be watched. We get our share or the pipeline shuts down.”

Bowes turned to his partner. “Come on. There's nothing left here worth killing over.”

I followed them out.

I held the surprise for my folks until the September night our
East Versus West Shootout
appeared on television. It was slotted to air at 6:00
PM
. I had the delivery people arrive with the surprise a few hours earlier.

The truck rumbled up our gravel driveway late in the afternoon. White, undented and clean except for dust from the country roads,
it did not appear to be a vehicle that would ever have business at our farmhouse.

Dad looked up from his coffee at the kitchen table. It was his favorite place in the house because he could see wheat fields and the faraway rolling hills through the window. He'd never said so, but I thought it gave him a feeling of freedom, because there were times his face would soften as he stared into the distance. I guessed he dreamed of when he was working the land himself instead of having to hire others and lose most of the profit to paying their wages and the mortgage on the land. It was during those times he seemed more like the man I remembered before the tractor rolled off the side of a muddy hill and broke his back. He had been fun, warm and affectionate. I still loved him, but I loved those memories of him as he was even more.

“Stupid city fools,” Dad said. He raised his voice. “Son, you run out there and give them directions.”

Dad hated having anyone see him in the wheelchair, even friends. That's why he never
left the house. It was unthinkable he would wheel himself to the back porch and actually talk to strangers.

“I'm pretty sure they made it to the right place,” I told him.

“Sure,” he snorted. “Next we'll need umbrellas on sunny days because cows have learned to fly.”

I smiled. This surprise was going to be worth every penny I'd paid.

As the credits rolled at the end of the
East Versus West Shootout
, Dad shook his head.

“Son,” he said, “I still can't believe this.”

“Which part?” I asked. “That I was able to come home for the weekend to watch this with you? Or that I scored the game-winning goal to take the series?”

He grinned—a rare sight. “No, you turkey. I've always known you're better than you give yourself credit for. I can't believe the television! I thought you were saving all the money you made to start a business some day.”

The television. The new, big-screen television with a new
DVD
player sitting pretty
on top. It was so big it seemed to fill half of the tiny living room.

“Oh, the television,” I said. I shrugged like it was no big deal. But it was. Dad loved to watch hockey. It was about the only thing that made him happy, sitting in his wheelchair and yelling at players who couldn't hear him. Now, at least, he wouldn't have to roll up close and squint at a small black-and-white screen.

“Not only the television, but the dishwasher and microwave too,” Mom said.

She sat beside me on the couch. I could see the gray in her hair and the roughness of her hands from doing too much work.

I shrugged again. “Mom, you deserve a break.”

What I didn't tell her was that my next goal was to get them out of this tiny old house. If I played hard this season, maybe I'd get drafted high enough into the
NHL
to sign a good contract. Then I'd have enough money to bulldoze this house and build them a new one. If I'd learned anything in Russia, it was that a lot of things mattered more than money.

My brother wandered into the living room, a glass of milk in one hand, cookies in the other. He was almost as big as I was but without a squashed nose, a crew cut and the red line of a thirty-stitch scar across his right cheekbone.

“Want to know my favorite part of the show?” he asked.

“Not the part where I threw up in the guy's glove,” I said.

“Nope. Where the camera crew filmed that dude at customs.”

“Chandler Harris?” I asked. “You liked that part?”

My brother chomped on two cookies. “Won't everyone? I was reading in today's paper this was expected to get higher ratings than Olympic hockey.”

I grinned, although Chandler Harris and Matthew Martin Henley probably wouldn't find it amusing. They'd worked hard to make this more entertainment than hockey, and they'd succeeded. But not the way they'd planned.

With the cameras rolling to get some extra footage for the final segment of the television
special, our team had marched through the airport in Russia. Rumors about the artwork must have leaked to the authorities because half a dozen customs agents had swarmed us. When they searched Chandler's equipment, they found three paintings rolled up and hidden in the aluminum shaft of his stick. Apparently the art hadn't all fit in my stick. After Nadia had burned the pieces we'd found, Chandler had decided to keep these last three his little secret.

As Chandler was arrested, he began yelling that it was all Henley's fault and he should be arrested too. Henley forgot all about the cameras and exploded in a nuclear reaction of rage, calling Chandler a double-crosser and about five minutes' worth of other names they had to delete from the television special.

Chandler had yelled back about Henley's payments for dumping games, and that's when the hockey world discovered what I'd known but couldn't prove. As a key player, Chandler had missed all those easy goals to make sure the series was close enough to keep the television special interesting.

The result? Major ratings interest in the
East Versus West Shootout
. How often did a person have the chance to watch a scandal as it developed? The commentators had a great time, speculating on-air which goals Chandler had missed on purpose and which ones he'd really tried for.

And I didn't have to worry about what to do with what I'd learned about Henley and Harris. They'd brought themselves to justice.

As for Nadia, she turned out to be okay. She had liked my plan to deliver the artwork to the camera crew after all. And though she never actually told me, I was sure Nadia was the one who leaked the rumors about the art smuggling to the authorities. I'd always have a secret smile whenever I thought of her. She'd risked her life to torch those paintings.

She'd sent me a letter too, one I kept in my wallet and read at least three times a day. Not only did it include an invitation back to Russia, but it had enough sweet stuff in it to let me believe she could fall for a big, battered hockey player.

“Yeah,” my brother was saying, “the coolest part was when the big guy in the blue suit spit on the customs guy who was handcuffing him and—”

The phone rang.

“I'll get it,” I said, leaving Dad, Mom and my brother to channel-surf the big screen in the living room.

“Burnells',” I said into the telephone.

“I'm looking for Timothy,” the voice replied.

“That's me.”

“Tim, it's Fred Duluth. I'm an agent in Toronto. I represent about twenty-five
NHL
players.”

I stood up straight.

“I just saw the
East Versus West Shootout
,” he said. “You played some great hockey. Better than great. I can see you going a long way in the
NHL
.”

Dad was shouting from the living room. “Who is it, Hog?”

I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “Tell you later,” I shouted back. I spoke into the phone again. “That's very nice of you to say, Mr. Duluth.”

“Call me Fred.” He paused. “Look, I'd like you to sign with me. I think I can get you an impressive contract come the
NHL
draft.”

I was so surprised I couldn't say anything.

He spoke again. His voice sounded worried, like I'd said nothing because I wasn't interested. “Timothy, you haven't signed with anyone yet, have you?”

“Um, no,” I answered.

“Excellent. Why don't you promise me you won't until I have a chance to meet with you and your folks?”

“Well, uh—”

“I'm on the first flight out tomorrow morning,” he said. “I can meet all of you for lunch. Deal?”

This was happening fast. I thought it through as best I could and decided this was a situation where money had a price I could afford. I figured I could even persuade Dad to leave the house for this.

“Lunch sounds good, Mr. Duluth.”

He took directions from me, confirmed the time he would meet us and hung up.

“Dad!” I shouted. “Mom! You won't believe who just called. It was an—”

The ringing telephone interrupted.

“Burnells'.”

“I'm looking for Timothy Burnell,” the voice said.

“That's me.”

“Timothy, my name is John Clarke. I'm an agent in Toronto, and I'm calling because I just saw you on television. You haven't heard from any other agents, have you?”

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photo: Bill Bilsley

Sigmund Brouwer
is a prolific, best-selling author of books in a number of genres. He lives in Red Deer, Alberta, and Nashville, Tennessee.

Sigmund enjoys visiting schools to talk about his books. Interested teachers can find out more by e-mailing: [email protected]