Off the Crossbar (3 page)

“He really does have a death wish, doesn’t he?” Jake said, turning to Thomas.

Thomas nodded. “I’m looking forward to the forechecking drills. You might want to start chewing on my elbow pads now, because you’ll be eating them soon enough.”

“I’ll let you get a good look at the back of my sweater before practice, because the only thing you’ll see is me going in on a breakaway,” Charlie replied.

“Let’s just kill the loser right now, so he doesn’t have to wait for it,” Jake said.

The door opened, abruptly ending the confrontation. “That’s fine, Principal Holmes. I’ll get back to you on that,” Hilton said, before closing the door behind him. He scratched his head, lost in thought, and walked back to his desk. He looked up, as if surprised to see the students still there, and then chuckled. “Sorry about that. Some interesting administrative details to attend to. There’s a lot more to teaching than you might think. Now let’s get to this syllabus already.”

Charlie looked down at the paper, but he couldn’t focus. His mind was swirling, and his feelings alternated between anger, shock, and fear. He couldn’t have gotten off to a worse start. Only ten minutes into high school and already the four toughest guys in grade nine were his sworn enemies. He would have to back up his boasting and try out for the team. And he would have to make it — or end up looking ridiculous to the rest of the class.

“You’re going to be responsible for two book reports in the first term. The choice of books is listed on the syllabus, and there’s a mid-term test in November. We also will be doing a grammar section, and creative writing. You’ll be writing a story over the course of the year, and that will be a significant part of your mark. But it will also be the most fun — at least that’s what students tell me. More about that later.”

Charlie barely heard what Hilton said. He couldn’t get his mind off what had happened. What if some of the other players joined in and ganged up on him? Charlie rested his elbow on the table and leaned his head onto his hand. He was in a serious mess, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

The whistle echoed through the empty arena. The players, who’d been circling around the ice passing the puck or firing shots at the goalies, stopped and looked over to centre. William Hilton stood with his right hand over his head, waving at everyone to gather around. He wore black track pants and a blue sweatshirt, with the words
Terrence Falls
emblazoned on the front.

“Let’s move it, boys,” he called out, and gave the whistle another blow.

The players skated lazily to centre. Some took a few final shots at the net or passed the puck as they went. All the while Hilton stood patiently, waiting for everyone to arrive. Once the last few stragglers had joined the group, he gave his whistle another blow, this time an extremely loud and piercing blast that lasted ten seconds.

“When I blow this whistle,” he stated calmly, “you stop what you’re doing — and I mean right away — and look for me. If I wave for you to come, you’d better get to me as fast as your skates can carry you. All right?”

He looked into each of the players’ eyes. Not a word was spoken as they waited for him to continue.

Hilton bounced his hockey stick on the ice. “Other than that, I like what I’ve seen so far,” he said. “I think there’s a great deal of talent here, from the goaltending on out. I see skill, size and speed, which is not a bad foundation to build on. I only ask one thing. When you’re on the ice, I want effort. That’s why I’m such a stickler about this whistle. I expect mistakes. In fact, I like mistakes because it means you’re trying to do something. The hard work in practice pays off in wins. So give me a good effort, and I’ll be gentle with the whistle.”

An older man opened the door at the far end and skated towards them. Hilton waved at him with his stick and smiled warmly. The man glided easily on one foot and stopped next to him, and the two men shook hands.

“Boys, you are being graced by the presence of the best coach in the world, the one and only Robert Tremblay. I had the privilege of playing on his team when I was about your age. He tried to tell me that he’d retired from coaching. I didn’t listen, and told him to meet us here. So everyone say hello to Coach Tremblay.”

A chorus of “Hello, Coach Tremblay” rang out.

Tremblay was short and slightly overweight. Only a few grey hairs remained on his head. His face was weather beaten. Deep creases marked his forehead and around his eyes. But he was no old man. His powerful build, thick neck and graceful movements made that clear.

“Thanks, William,” he said, “and thanks, guys, for the welcome, but don’t listen to him. I’m not the best coach
in the world. I’m actually only third.”

The players roared at that, and Hilton joined in heartily.

“I might have retired officially,” he added, “but I confess I can never keep away from the game for too long, so enough about me, and let’s get started.”

“I like that sentiment,” Hilton agreed. “Before we actually begin, I need to explain what we’re trying to do here. The tournament’s in less than two weeks, and we can only have seventeen players on the roster, which includes two goalies. There are forty players trying out, plus four goalies, so unfortunately some cuts must be made.” His voice took on a serious tone. “I’d rather not cut anyone, but that’s the way it is. Since we don’t have much time, we can only have two tryouts, which makes the decision of who makes the team even more difficult. All I can promise is to take a good look at everyone, and I want you to know that all seventeen spots are wide open. No one’s made the team yet.”

Hilton slapped the ice hard with his stick. “So let’s have everyone down at the far end for some skating drills.” He punctuated his command with a whistle blast, and all the players sprinted down the ice.

“I suppose you’ve noticed by now that half of you are wearing red jerseys and the other half blue,” Hilton said, as he approached the net. “Let’s have red on the line, please. We’ll start with an old classic. If you ever make the NHL, you’ll still be doing this one. Up to centre, back to the blue, to the other blue, back to the red, and then to the far end. All right, let’s go.”

All the players had done that drill hundreds of times. The red players took off eagerly, including Charlie, trying to show off their speed for the coaches. Over the next ten minutes, Hilton had them skating up and down the ice, backwards and forwards, dropping to their knees, balancing on one foot, even doing 360s. Before too long the boys were huffing and puffing, leaning over and resting their sticks on their knees.

Charlie was as tired as the rest, but he felt good all the same. He had been first to finish in practically every drill.

“Divide yourselves into five groups of eight and pick a faceoff circle,” Tremblay ordered. “Skate around the circle clockwise, four at a time, with your head turned to the outside shoulder and looking up at the ceiling. Let’s see how sharp those blades really are.”

“Goalies, follow me,” Hilton added, pointing to the far end.

Most of the boys broke into groups quickly. A few of the new kids stood around awkwardly, Charlie included, looking for a group to join. A tall, husky boy, with a red helmet and matching pants, skated over to Charlie and tapped him on the shin pads.

“Hey, why don’t you join us?” he offered. “We’ve only got seven.”

Charlie nodded gratefully and followed him to a nearby circle.

“Good. Now let’s get those crossovers going,” Tremblay’s voice rang out. “Four at a time, and we’ll shift every minute. We’re going clockwise. Okay? That means your right leg is on the inside.”

Four players in Charlie’s group took off, including the boy who’d invited him to join. Charlie was happy to let them go first. He was still breathing hard from the drills and was grateful for the rest. So far everything had gone well. Thankfully, Jake and his gang were all on the blue team, so he didn’t even have to drill with them. They had basically ignored him today anyway. Perhaps he’d overreacted in the homeroom class. Maybe things were not as grim as he’d thought. Those guys wanted to win the tournament, and if he made the team, then he was sure everything would be forgotten. They’d probably be joking about it by next week.

The whistle interrupted his thoughts, and Tremblay bellowed for the players to switch. They did the drill a few more times, then the whistle sounded, and Hilton was at centre waving everyone in. The players wasted no time getting there. Sweat poured down their faces, and most laboured to catch their breath. It was a feeling familiar to Charlie, a slight burning sensation in the lungs, a little bit tired, but still ready to play.

“Since we only have two tryouts and this one’s half over already, I think we should scrimmage. It’ll give you guys a chance to strut your stuff. Again, I trust you see the genius of the red and blue jerseys. I’ll coach the blue squad. Robert, you take the red. Don’t worry too much about positions or who you’re playing with. We’ll sort that out later.”

Hilton skated to one bench, with the blue players trailing after him. Tremblay remained at centre with the red team. “We have twenty skaters,” he said, “which means
four shifts of five. Simple enough.” He pointed at five players to his right. “You’ll be line one.” He pointed at the next five. “You’re line two.” He divided the remaining players into two lines and headed to the empty bench, turning to call out, “Line one on the ice, everyone else off.”

Charlie took his place on the bench with the others. He was on line three. Next to him sat the fellow who’d invited him for the crossover drill. Tremblay placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

“So who do we have here?” he asked.

“Scott Slatsky,” replied the boy.

“And you?”

“Charlie Joyce.”

“Well, Scott and Charlie, can I prevail upon you to form a defence pair for line three?”

“Not a problem.” Scott beamed. “I am a defenceman.”

“Terrific. I see you’re both left-handed shots, but I think you can handle it.” Tremblay gave Scott’s shoulder pad a slap and moved down the bench to organize line four.

Charlie had always played centre, even as a five-year-old just starting out. Hilton had told them not to worry about positions, so he didn’t say anything. Still, it was irritating that they didn’t even ask him where he was used to playing.

“You can play left defence,” Charlie said. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

Scott nodded. He took off his glove and extended his hand. “We may as well meet formally,” he said. “So you’re
the famous Charlie Joyce.”

Charlie shook his hand. “I don’t know about the famous part, but the rest is right.”

Scott gave Charlie’s right knee a punch and whispered, “I heard about your little discussion with Jake and the boys. Some of the guys were talking about it in the dressing room.” His voice trailed off and he didn’t say anything further, then blurted out, “I gotta say I admire your guts. They’re tough dudes, and you didn’t back down an inch.” He lowered his voice even further. “I don’t think much of that crew, to be honest. I could do without any of them.”

The whistle blew to signal the start of the scrimmage. Jake, Liam and Matt formed the forward line for the blue team. Jake lined up at centre. He choked up on his stick, deftly pulling the puck back to Thomas, who was the right defenceman. Thomas promptly passed across the line to Pudge, who one-timed it to a speeding Jake as he cut across the red line. Jake darted in between two red forwards and moved in on the defence, flanked by Liam on his left and Matt on his right.

Jake decided to go it alone. He faked a pass to Matt at the blue line, swung outside and then cut in on the goalie, cradling the puck on his backhand with one hand, using the other to ward off the defenceman. The goalie flopped to the ice and stacked his pads, expecting Jake to try to stuff it in on the short side. At the last second, Jake put both hands on his stick and flicked the puck into the top corner.

The blue players threw their sticks up in the air, and
those on the bench pounded the boards. Jake held out his glove as he skated by his teammates. It was a beautiful goal, and Jake had made it look very easy. The defenceman Jake had beaten smashed his stick on the ice. He hung his head and drifted slowly to the blue line.

“Okay, boys,” Tremblay shouted to his team. “Not the best start, but don’t worry about it.”

The blue team quickly regained possession after the faceoff. It didn’t take too long for the play to end up in the red team’s zone. After a mad scramble in front of the net, Liam slid the puck under the sprawling goalie.

The blue team changed lines, the players coming off laughing and trading high-fives — and why not, with two goals in the first minute? Tremblay switched it up as well. “Put it behind you, boys,” he told the first line as they filed off. “They’re a pretty powerful unit, so don’t take it to heart.”

The second lines were more evenly matched, and the play swung from end to end, although neither team scored. When the whistle blew for an offside, Tremblay called for a line change. As the third line left the bench, Tremblay held Charlie and Scott back for a moment. “I want you guys to play it safe and just move the puck quickly. Don’t take too many chances. We don’t want to give up another goal. Okay?”

Charlie felt strange watching the faceoff back on defence, since he was used to taking the draw. He didn’t get much of a chance to get used to it either, because the opposing centre slapped the puck directly to him. Charlie skated backwards a few feet and then fired a pass over to
Scott, who took it easily and feathered a pass to his left winger. Charlie was pleased to see that his new acquaintance was a good player. He was a fairly big kid, deceptively fast, and Charlie had already noticed that he had a blistering slapshot.

The left winger dumped the puck into blue’s end. It whistled around the boards behind the net and settled in the far corner. The red team’s right winger, a tall boy, very powerful-looking, who skated easily with long, purposeful strides, stormed after the puck, pressing against the wall to block the outlet pass. The defenceman with the puck decided to go back the other way, but the right winger caught him, lifting his stick and coming away with the puck.

The right winger skated behind the net, his head up, alert. Charlie sneaked into the slot, and the winger gave him a perfect pass. Charlie fired a hard shot at the top corner, but the goalie slid across and the puck hit his shoulder, then bounced off to the corner. Red’s left winger jumped on it and slid it back to Scott. The defenceman let off a hard shot. The goalie was up to the challenge and kicked it out. Charlie got a final shot on net from the point, before the goalie was able to flop on the puck. The whistle blew and the lines changed.

Tremblay was positively beaming when Charlie’s line came off. He rewarded the players with a solid rap on the helmet.

“Good puck movement, boys. I liked seeing you use the point. Everyone played their position, and was unselfish with the puck. He’s a good goalie, or we’d have
scored for sure.”

Tremblay turned his attention to the game, shouting out words of encouragement to the fourth line.

Scott offered Charlie some water. “That was good fun,” he said.

Charlie took a sip. “I should have scored. That goalie’s better than good. Have you seen him before?”

Scott nodded. “That’s Alexi Tolstoy. His family came over from Russia three years ago. He’ll be the team’s number-one goalie, no contest. Probably the best goalie in Terrence Falls. He even practised with the senior team last year.”

“And the right winger?” Charlie asked. “He sure knows how to play.”

Scott shook his head. “I don’t know much about him. He didn’t go to my school. I think his name’s Zachary.”

Tremblay changed the lines after virtually every whistle, so that everyone had a chance to play. Charlie’s line continued to dominate its counterparts, and on the next shift the right winger, Zachary, scored. Charlie followed Tremblay’s instructions, playing conservatively, headmanning the puck as soon as he got it. He was uncomfortable on defence, not entirely sure what he was supposed to do, and figured the best strategy was not to make any mistakes.