Winter Hawk Star (2 page)

“Tyler,” he began, “you study the game. You understand the plays. You work hard.”

All of it was true. I hoped though, he wouldn't add the other stuff about my game. Like I couldn't skate quite as fast as the guys on the first, second and third lines. That too many of my shots floated toward the goalie like plump marshmallows. Or that when I had the puck I got flustered and never seemed to make a great pass. To me, it seemed as if time sped up on the ice, and I never knew quite what to do as the play unfolded around me.

He frowned. “It's like you have all the tools, but you just don't want to use them.”

“Sir?”

“I'll tell you the straight goods,” he said.

I felt my stomach go into a knot. This was beginning to sound like a bad-news situation.

“Yes?”

“You know the situation in this league with most eighteen-year-olds.”

I did. Sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds— unless they were superstars like Riley—spent their first years in the league developing their skills. At eighteen, they were expected to be team leaders and good solid players.

“Since day one, Tyler, it's been obvious to this organization that you have potential. In your first year, we thought things didn't go well because you were a rookie. Last year, we told ourselves that any game you would start to prove yourself. That game never arrived. We've been waiting and waiting for you to do something, but it seems you're happy to just fill a uniform.”

Where was this going?

“Well, I—”

“We can't afford to keep an eighteen-year-old who doesn't perform.” He shook his head sadly. “Tyler, we've even put out feelers to see if anyone will take you in a trade. No one has been interested. They've all said the same thing: Tyler Watson doesn't contribute.”

“Well, I—”

“We're not going to cut you, Tyler. Not just yet.”

Was this good news or bad?

“You've got another month. Maybe six weeks. If you don't start playing like you want to play, we're going to have to let you go.”

“I'll do my best,” I said. I began to stand.

“Not so fast,” Coach Estleman said.

“There's a string attached. I'm going to ask a favor. It's about Riley Judd.”

Coach shook his head. “Here's a kid with as much talent, maybe more talent, than Wayne Gretzky. But he's heard that ever since he was six years old. Unlike Gretzky, Judd believes he should be treated like a star.”

Now I really wondered where this was going.

“Riley Judd is the best player this league has seen in twenty years. I'll never coach someone this good again. Almost by himself, Judd can take our team to the championship finals. Even with his bad attitude.”

Coach managed to grin. “Hey, how many coaches would kill to have this kind of problem?”

I squinted. The question mark must have been all over my face.

“Yes,” he said, “a problem. Hockey's a team game. It involves discipline. That stunt he pulled last night is unforgivable. What if it had been a play-off game? What if he hadn't scored? He might be the best player in the world, but I can't let him get away with what he did. It will hurt the team. And, in the long run, it will hurt him. When he hits the NHL, he's got to have more than just talent.”

Coach Estleman paused and tapped his desk with a pencil. “Tyler, you're a lot smarter than you think you are. So tell me—what's my problem?”

“Judd's a million-dollar player. You're not a million-dollar coach.”

“Obviously you read the sports section of the newspaper today.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you heard the fans scream for my blood last night when I refused to let him play for the rest of the game. Unhappy fans mean an unhappy team owner.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What this creates is a power struggle: Riley
against me,” Coach said. “Unfortunately, if it comes down to it, I think the owner would get rid of me before getting rid of Judd.”

I nodded. Riley Judd was that good.

“Even if I could trade him away,” Coach said, “I wouldn't want to. The kid is a joy to watch.”

I really, really wondered where this was going and why I was in the coach's office hearing this.

“Fortunately the owner does agree with me on one thing. If Riley Judd doesn't make an attitude adjustment, it will hurt the team. And it will hurt Riley Judd. He's got to learn that the world doesn't revolve around him just because he's a star hockey player.”

“Coach?”

“This year, the public relations people have gotten us involved with a group called Youth Works. It's an inner-city organization that helps kids from disadvantaged backgrounds.” Coach Estleman shrugged. “The owner knows someone on the board of directors of Youth Works. One night they had dinner together and came up with the
idea of sending a couple of players from the team to help the kids.”

Coach Estleman pointed at me. “You're one of the players. Riley will be the other. Maybe that way Riley will learn something about real life. You're both going into the inner city to do some volunteer work on behalf of the Winter Hawks.”

“Me, sir?” This didn't sound like I was volunteering.

“Look, Tyler. You're a sensible kid. That's why I'm explaining all this to you. Which, by the way, you're not going to repeat to Riley Judd. Right?”

“Right, sir.”

“Your job is to make sure he actually spends time with the kids. We'll even give you gas money for driving him there and back. Your job is to make sure he doesn't get in trouble. Your job is to be a good influence on Riley Judd.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You'll spend four hours a week at the organization. Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, you and Riley will represent the
Winter Hawks and spend time with the kids, doing whatever the people there see fit.”

“But, I—”

“Do you want six weeks to prove yourself? It's either go to Youth Works or get cut from the team. That's the same choice I offered Riley. With Riley, though he doesn't know it, I was bluffing. With you, I'm not.”

He stared at me, waiting for my answer.

“What time did you want us there, Coach?” I asked. “And what's the address?”

“I don't have to do this,” Riley Judd told me.

I was looking for street signs as I drove, so I ignored him. Besides, he'd been saying that since he got in my Jeep Cherokee a half hour earlier. He was saying it just to get me to argue with him. The truth was, as far as he knew, he did have to do this. Part of the contract that we sign as WHL players states that we will make ourselves available for public functions as Winter Hawks players.

“Third Avenue,” I said. “We're getting closer. Coach told us to look for the gate.”

“Gate? That sounds dumb. All of this sounds dumb.”

“The Chinatown gate. Cross the Willamette River on Burnside Bridge. Around Fourth Avenue look for,” I pointed, “the Chinatown gate. See?”

Riley quit grumbling long enough to look.

The huge gate had three different levels, all brightly painted in complicated patterns. On each side were huge bronze lions.

“Cool,” Riley said, although by the tone of his voice he meant otherwise. “First, you're a taxi driver. Now a tour guide?”

I nearly told him I felt like a babysitter, but I managed to keep my mouth shut.

It was four o'clock, so afternoon traffic was heavy. We sat through the stoplight twice before reaching Fifth Avenue, where I turned right. We drove another few minutes. It didn't take long before the buildings we were passing began to look run down. There were vacant lots. Instead of clothing shops
and cafés and people on the sidewalks enjoying the September sunshine, there were old houses, old apartments and two-story factory buildings.

We passed a man in a big brown overcoat. He was pushing a shopping cart filled with empty bottles.

“Nice neighborhood,” Riley said, again not meaning what he said.

“The kids we're visiting have to grow up in this area.”

“They should have been smart enough to be born into different families.”

What a jerk. I slammed on the brakes. It snapped Riley ahead into his seat belt.

“Hey! Why'd you do that?”

“We're here,” I said. “Youth Works.”

Just as Coach Estleman had promised, the building had been easy to find. All I had to do was keep my eyes open for the steeple and large cross. Youth Works had bought a large, brick, church building, built years and years earlier when wealthy people had lived in the area. The church building was set back from the street. I
was willing to bet it was at least a hundred years old.

In fading letters on a dirty white background, the sign stuck crookedly into the ground read:
HOME TO YOUTH WORKS
.

The lawn between the sidewalk and the church was worn down, almost lumpy. I could guess why. A swing set and slide took up most of the middle of it. About twenty kids took the rest of it. They were running and screaming and doing all the things kids do when you let them loose outside.

“We might as well get started,” I said.

“We're supposed to ask for someone named Sam.”

“Probably some dry, dusty, old janitor type,” Riley said. “I think I'll wait in the car.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I always do,” Riley said. “In fact I think I'll just wait in the car for the entire two hours. Tell me what it was like when you get back.”

“Suit yourself.”

I left him there and crossed the hard ground of the lawn. The kids ignored me. They had more important things on their minds. Like yelling and screaming and chasing each other.

I managed to make it across without stepping on any of them. I knocked on a set of doors at the side of the church building. Within thirty seconds the door swung open.

I found it hard to speak. I almost found it hard to breathe. A girl who looks like a fashion model will do that to a guy.

She wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt. She had long dark hair that hung in loose curls. She had deep brown eyes. She had a slow wide smile. She had me in the palm of her hand.

“Hello?” she said. It might have been her second or third hello. I was still trying to find air to speak.

“Um,” I said.

She laughed. “That's a good start. Are you from the Portland Winter Hawks?”

“Um,” I said.

“I can guess by your jacket.”

I looked down. Of course. My team jacket. The one with
Portland Winter Hawks
all over it.

“Um,” I said.

“We've been expecting you,” she said. Her smile became a slight frown. “But I thought there would be two of you.”

“Um,” I said.

“Oh, there he is.” She looked past me to my car. I looked as well. Riley was jogging across the grass toward us with a big grin on his face. He neatly sidestepped a couple of kids as if he were a football player on his way to a touchdown.

“Um,” I said.

Riley slapped me on the back as he joined us.

“Hey, bud,” he said. “Next time wait for me to get my shoes tied, will you?”

He turned his grin toward the girl in the doorway. Riley is nearly my height. He has dark hair and blue eyes and a dimple in the center of his chin. He fills his Portland Winter Hawks jacket like he's lifted weights since he
was ten years old, which, of course, he has. He has an Elvis strut that shows he's afraid of no one. With my short red hair and too many freckles on a face with no dimples and no wonderful smile, I was just a mutt wagging his tail beside a show dog.

“The name's Riley Judd,” he said to the girl. He stuck his hand out for her to shake, which she did. With a nice big smile for him.

“I've been looking forward to helping out with the kids. In a neighborhood like this, they need as many breaks as they can get.” Riley shook his head sadly. “The big guy here hasn't been so keen, but we'll work on him, right?”

She laughed. Riley was still holding her hand. “Right,” she said. “We'll work on him.”

The screams of laughter on the lawn rose and fell as Riley and the girl continued to hold hands and look at each other.

Riley finally let go of her hand. “Well,” he said, “the first thing we need to do is talk to someone named Sam. Any chance you can help us?”

“I'm Sam,” she said. “I'm in charge of the phys-ed programs here.”

“You're Sam?” Riley asked. “You don't look like a Sam.”

“Um,” I said.

“Actually, I'm Samantha. Samantha Blair.”

“Sam for short,” Riley said. “I like that. It's kind of classy.”

She rewarded him with another smile.

“You don't look much older than us,” Riley said.

“I'm eighteen. I skipped a grade in elementary school. Graduated high school early. I'm taking a year off to work with the kids before I go to college.”

“Um,” I said. Why could Riley find things to say, and why did my tongue feel like a block of wood?

“It's great that you guys could help,” she said. “Mostly, we just want you to spend time with the kids. A lot of them come from troubled homes. Youth Works is a place where they don't have to worry about getting beat up by parents or gang members. When school
finishes for the day, they come here instead of going home. We try to make sure they get exercise, good food and a friendly ear to listen to their problems. We—”

She stopped herself and shot a startled glance over our shoulders.

“That's my brother, Ben! What are they doing with him?”

We followed her gaze. Two men were standing in the middle of a bunch of kids. They had grabbed a seven- or eight-year-old kid by his arms and were dragging him toward the open side door of a blue van parked in front of my Jeep.

From the ski masks over their faces, it was easy to guess they weren't Ben's friends.