Rebel Power Play (13 page)

“You’re forgiven,” Charlie said impatiently. “Forget today. We need you both at practice tomorrow.”

“There’s a practice tomorrow?” Nick said.

“Do you guys pop up out of the ground?” Pudge asked.

“Now, about the practice — ” Charlie said.

“What about it?” Matt said. “Sorry about this morning, guys. How’d it go?”

“Can’t tell you,” Scott said. “Top secret.”

“Everyone just shut up for a second — and listen,” Charlie said. “Tomorrow we have a practice.” They all groaned. “But I didn’t call it.” He looked around. “Does anyone want to know who did?”

Scott put up his hand. Charlie ignored him. He knew a set up when he saw one.

“Pick me,” Scott said. “I know the answer.”

Charlie gave in. “Get it over with.”

“Aliens have taken over the planet and our new coach, Mr. Zergoth, wants us to work on our defensive zone coverage.”

“Not quite,” he said. “You’re right about one thing, though. Our coach called the practice.” That got their attention, with Pudge grinning from ear to ear.

“I’ll take this one, boys,” Zachary said. “Who’s the coach?”

Charlie let his smile do the talking.

Zachary remained unconvinced. “I can’t believe it. He doesn’t coach minor hockey.”

“He does now, dude.”

Scott let out a war cry and began dancing around them, arms flailing, bouncing up and down. “Practice, practice, I love practice,” he chanted.

They all joined in, Charlie included, dancing, high-fiving, and shouting at the top of their lungs. Passers-by gave them a wide berth. Six guys jumping around like maniacs would scare most people. Charlie couldn’t have cared less. The season, so bleak only three hours earlier in that dressing room, was suddenly full of promise. As far as he was concerned a new season had just begun — a second chance.

“Bring on the Snow Birds!” Charlie said. “Bring them all on!”

Charlie slurped deeply from the water bottle and spit some out on the ice. The ice cold water refreshed his entire body. He’d worked hard in the first period. The score was 1–1 against the Wildcats, which was a good start. He’d given Jake and his teammates all they could handle, scoring the goal off a sweet pass from Zachary for an easy one-timer from the slot.

Things had been sweet since Hilton took over as coach. Unburdened from coaching duties, Charlie had gone on a tremendous tear, scoring at a two-goal-a-game clip. It helped that Hilton had reunited him with Pudge and Zachary. All three had been scoring regularly. With only seven games left, a playoff spot secured and a good chance to finish third in the regular season, not to mention having recently tied a game with the mighty Snow Birds, Charlie had every reason to be stoked about the Rebels.

Hilton interrupted his thoughts.

“A good start,” he said. “We took the body, skated well, and played smart in our own end. Frankly, I’m surprised how passive they’ve been. I can see their coach is having a word with his players. I can only imagine
they’ll be coming out guns blazing this period, so be on your toes.” He looked at his clipboard. “Charlie’s line is out.”

Charlie went to centre. Schultz was really laying into his players. He could hear him yelling.

“That was the biggest piece of garbage period I’ve ever seen,” he said. “I’m embarrassed. I didn’t see a hit — not a single hit. You’re letting them humiliate you — and me! Where’s the toughness? Where’s the commitment? Guys will be sitting on the bench very shortly if that doesn’t change — and I mean immediately.”

He lowered his voice and Charlie couldn’t hear. A few Wildcats turned to look at him, which kind of weirded him out, like they were talking about him. Jake continued to stare after most had turned away. He had no time for Jake’s tough-guy act. He skated over to Pudge.

“Too bad
he’s
not our coach,” he said.

“I played for him for two years and trust me, this is nothing. He’s being nice. Wait till he gets worked up about something. It’s a whole other level of insane.”

“Can’t believe anyone would play with him,” Zachary said. “We’ve got to win this game. I can’t even think about losing to this crew.”

“Only possibility is victory,” Pudge said.

The referee skated to the circle. Jake came out for the draw. Jake was all business as he lined up. Charlie took a moment to check out his stance — shoulders square, well balanced, feet slightly wider than shoulder width. Hard to know what Jake was thinking. He decided to go forehand and send it over to Zachary. He and Jake leaned forward in anticipation, their helmets touching slightly. The puck dropped. Quick as a flash, Charlie slapped the
puck to Zachary, following through with a shoulder. Zachary had timed it perfectly and picked up the puck on the fly, barrelling down the wing. Charlie sidestepped Jake and took off after him. After two strides he felt a sharp pain in his ribs — courtesy of a Jake butt-end.

“Out of my way, loser,” Jake said.

He couldn’t let Jake get away with that. He cut in front of him, and thrust his elbow into Jake’s chin.

“Enjoy,” he said, skating off.

Luckily the ref hadn’t seen it. Roscoe came over to cover him. Charlie pretended to slow down, and then turned on the jets and blew by. Roscoe slapped his stick in frustration.

Zachary had taken it to the outside. The left defenceman cut him off, so he hit the brakes at the hash marks looking to pass. Charlie powered into the zone pointing to the corner. Zachary waited until he was in the slot and slid the puck down low.

Charlie glanced to his left. The other defenceman was covering the front of the net. Jake and Roscoe were somewhere behind him — probably not by much. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pudge hanging wide near the boards. That was Pudge — always thinking ahead. Charlie backhanded the puck behind the net along the boards to Pudge, and prepared himself for a hit. He knew Roscoe would be coming hard. Sure enough, the right winger launched himself. Charlie jumped to his right at the last second. Roscoe barely grazed his shoulder, and slammed into the boards.

“Was that supposed to hurt?” he said to Roscoe, and headed to the front of the net.

Something struck him hard on the side of his head,
the force of the blow sending him skidding to the boards. He felt strange, as if he was floating on a cloud.

“Maybe that’ll hurt.”

Charlie had trouble focusing. He knew that voice. Who was it?

Jake’s leering face came into view. “You’re out of your league, Joyce. We play for keeps.” He shoved a glove into his face.

A ref pulled Jake aside, allowing Charlie to regain his feet. Pudge and Zachary raced in.

“That was the cheapest shot I’ve ever seen,” Pudge thundered. Charlie had never seen Pudge so mad.

“Go eat a doughnut,” Jake snarled, and he pushed forward to get at Pudge.

Liam and Roscoe crowded close, and Scott and Nick joined the scrum.

“Can’t take a hit,” Liam taunted.

“Maybe Joyce needs a diaper change,” Thomas added.

“Maybe you guys need to repeat grade three again,” Scott replied.

Charlie was having trouble concentrating. He moved away to give himself a chance to clear his head.

Tweet! Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!

Both referees were blowing their whistles non-stop. Charlie barely heard them, the crowd was making so much noise.

One spectator lifted himself over the top of the glass. “Call a penalty once in a while, ref,” he bellowed. “You made this happen with your stupid calls.”

A group of Wildcats supporters began chanting, “Rebels suck! Rebels suck! Rebels suck!”

The referees began forcing the players to their respective benches, their whistles blasting away. Charlie was more than willing to follow. He needed to sit. His legs were tired, and he really needed a drink of water.

“Time to finish the job, prissy boy.”

He felt a glove punch him in the mask. He knew it was Jake — he just couldn’t see his face very clearly.

“You’re goin’ down, loser. It’s punishment time,” Jake snarled.

Charlie blinked rapidly to clear his head, but everything was still blurry. What was wrong with him?

Jake cuffed him on the side of his helmet. Charlie scrunched his eyes tightly and then opened them. For a moment he saw Jake clearly. He had his tough guy face on — eyes narrowed, a cocky grin, nodding slightly. He’d seen that face way too often. Charlie motioned Jake towards him with his glove. Maybe this was for the best. Settle it once and for all.

Jack threw a wild right cross without warning. Charlie ducked and drifted to his right. The sudden move made him feel sick to his stomach. He ignored it and fired a left jab. It connected, but not hard enough to slow Jake down. He answered with a series of left jabs to his face. Charlie backed up, trying to get some distance. Jack kept at him.

Charlie was scared. He’d fought before. This time something had sapped his energy. His legs were dead and he could barely hold his arms up. He tried to block Jake’s blows, but it was as if he had ten fists. Jake connected with several good shots to his head. Charlie bent low and held his right arm in front of his face, and peered underneath. Jake took off his right glove. Why
would he do that? Charlie wondered. I’m wearing a cage.

Jake feinted with a left jab, and then brought a vicious right hook to his ribs. Charlie couldn’t move. The blow took his breath away. He struggled to stay on his feet. Without thinking he lowered his guard. A ref grabbed at Jake’s sweater, but before he could pull him away, Jake threw a final right hook into his jaw. All the strength in Charlie’s legs disappeared. He fell.

Jake raised both arms over his head as the ref dragged him away.

Charlie heard the crowd roar. The Wildcats banged their sticks on the boards. He really felt sick to his stomach. His ribs killed, and his head throbbed. The humiliation hurt far more, however. Jake had bashed him around like a little kid, in front of everyone. How pathetic. Great captain! He’d never live this down — never.

“Hey, Charlie. You okay?”

He couldn’t make out the face. “What?”

“Let me help you up. You sure you’re okay?”

It was Pudge. This was totally embarrassing. Julia was in the crowd and he was being helped like a baby.

Martin peered into his face. “Get up slow. You took some tough shots. Take it easy.”

“Let’s get him to the bench,” Pudge said.

Pudge and Martin tried to slip their arms under his. Charlie pulled away.

“I’m cool. I’m not five years old. I can skate.”

He headed to the bench, only to have Pudge spin him around.

“Let go,” Charlie yelled.

“That’s not our bench,” Pudge whispered.

Unfortunately, the Wildcats noticed his mistake.

“You wanna come play for us now?” Jake called out. He was sitting on top of the boards. “You could be our team punching bag.”

He was the all-time loser. How could he go to the wrong bench?

“That’s your best idea yet,” Liam said, trading a high-five with Jake. “Maybe he could double as our team soccer ball too.

“I think the little boy is scared,” Roscoe said. “Don’t be mean.”

He tried to respond. For some reason the words wouldn’t come.

Scott came to his rescue. “Hey Roscoe. I forgot to congratulate you on being voted the biggest doofus in school. Well done.”

“Don’t forget Jake got the bed-wetting award,” Nick added.

The Wildcats’ coach stepped down from the bench. He leaned over the boards and pointed at them.

“Take your pretty pink sweaters and get into house league. Triple-A ain’t for the likes of you. I don’t know what the league was thinking when they let you set up this joke of a team. I’m tempted to come onto the ice and teach you all a lesson you won’t soon forget.”

Charlie felt someone brush past his shoulder. Hilton walked towards Schultz. The entire rink went dead quiet; even the referees watched the drama unfold. Hilton continued his approach until he was almost nose to nose with the Wildcats’ coach.

“I appreciate that this game got out of control,” Hilton said. “Maybe you think my players started it.
Obviously, I don’t agree.”

“Joyce was cheap-shotting me all game,” Jake interjected.

Hilton ignored him. “Regardless of why this began, there is no excuse for you to try to intimidate my players. You’re the adult here. That was the first and last time you’ll ever threaten my boys. Understood?” Hilton kept his gaze fixed on Schultz.

Schultz shrugged and stepped down. “I’ve been coaching for twenty years. I don’t have to tolerate this garbage, and I certainly don’t have to listen to you.” And with that he turned his back on the Rebels coach.

“Can you make it back to our bench yourself?” Hilton asked Charlie in a low voice.

He wasn’t too sure at this point. “I don’t know,” he murmured.

Pudge slipped his arm under his and guided him over.

Jake leaned over the boards. “Joyce, don’t go. I wanna hit you one more time — it was that much fun.”

Charlie’s head was still pounding as he sat on the bench, and he felt completely exhausted, as if he’d played ten games back to back.

“What period is it?” he asked Pudge.

Pudge looked at him strangely. “Hey, Jeffrey,” he called out. “I think Charlie’s really hurt.”

His teammates crowded around.

“I’m good. I’m good,” Charlie said. “I just need some water.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Pudge asked.

He looked at Pudge’s hand. He was going to say one, and then thought it was two.

“Two,” he guessed.

“You think he got a concussion?” Zachary asked.

“I thought he was kinda dopey out there,” Nick said.

“You saw Jake’s cross-check,” Pudge said. “He bashed him right below the ear. That explains why Charlie could barely fight.”

“Only Jake would fight a guy with a concussion,” Scott said. He took a swig of water and spit it onto the ice.

“Move aside, gentlemen,” Hilton said.

Jeffrey pushed past the players, brought out a small flashlight from his medical kit, and flashed the light into Charlie’s eyes. “Can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?” he said.

“Why is everyone asking me that?” Charlie replied.

“Does that mean you know?”

“Three, I think.”

Jeffrey sighed. “We better get him to the hospital. He definitely has a concussion. Only question is what degree. He got hit hard by that kid’s stick.” Jeffrey turned Charlie’s head slightly and peered closely at his ear.

“Your grandfather will have to take you,” Hilton said.

“Is he here?” Charlie asked. He couldn’t remember anything — the period, the score, or who they played. Sleep was the only think he could think about. He closed his eyes.

“No you don’t,” Jeffrey said. “First rule of concussions is you can’t fall asleep.”

Charlie felt some water run down his neck and splash on his cheeks. It was cold, but he didn’t have the energy to protest.

“Jeffrey, help him into the dressing room and get his
equipment off,” Hilton ordered. “Give me a call when you know how he is,” he said to Charlie’s grandfather.

A floating feeling took over as Charlie felt himself lifted from the bench. He wondered where he was.

“When does the game start?” he blurted.