day,” Nish snapped back.
“Only if you change your name to Stanley,” Sarah giggled.
Nish gave both girls the full raspberry.
“Let’s get ready,” Muck told them. “We’re on the ice in fifteen.”
“Hollywood has … arrived!”
Nish slammed open the door of the Screech Owls’ dressing room and stepped out onto the rubber carpeting of the Joe, preening as though he were stepping onto the red carpet at the Oscars. The only thing missing was the wild clicking and whirring of the paparazzi’s cameras as they shot photographs of the twelve-year-old celebrity’s arrival, and a beautiful blonde in an evening gown gushing all over him as she interviewed him.
Nish ambled along the corridor and down the chute toward the ice surface, mindful to stick to the rubber mat for fear of wrecking Mr. D’s careful skate sharpening on the concrete. He held his new black Bauer helmet out like a trophy with one hand and ran his other hand along the side of his head, smoothing out his Elvis-style pompadour.
Nish was dressed for superstardom.
The Screech Owls had played the Motors once before in a tournament. The Motors had been quick and well coached and a good test for the Owls, but that tournament had been the previous season, and teams could sometimes change considerably in a year. The Owls had no idea what to expect this time
“What are you going to do with your bow tie while you play?” asked Travis, stepping out of the chute with Nish and approaching the gate. “Wear it on your butt like a lucky rabbit tail?”
“Ha-ha,” Nish responded with a gentle elbow to Travis’s gut. He lifted his throat protector to reveal that he was still wearing the bow tie around his neck. And when he pushed a button on the side of the sparkly black tie, it lit up like a winning slot machine.
“This superstition stuff is serious,” Nish said to Travis as they prepared to step out onto the shiny ice of the Joe. “I even flushed the blade of my stick – my
new
stick – for a little extra luck.”
The flashing lights on his bow tie stopped and he tucked it back under his throat protector.
“I’m going to nail my spin-o-rama during this skills comp,” he said. “I have to. The television audience will love it!”
Travis was sick of hearing about Nish’s spin-o-rama move. Ever since the Owls had seen some NHL er use it during a shootout on TV , he’d been trying it in practice, sometimes falling flat on his butt, sometimes losing the puck as he suddenly reversed direction and tried to loop the puck around on his backhand. Once, he’d completed it perfectly but was in so tight to the net that Jenny Staples had just stood there giggling as Nish realized he had no place to shoot. Jenny simply fell to her knees, her big goal pads smothering the puck.
Still, Nish was determined to master it.
Travis shook his head as he did a little skip out onto the ice, turning quickly and skating backward away from Nish and his starry-eyed schemes.
“Don’t keep them waiting, Hollywood!”
5
S till skating backward so he could see how Nish tackled his awkward combination of sunglasses and helmet, Travis listened for the delicious sound of pucks slapping on fresh ice. He knew without even turning that Mr. D would be tossing pucks over the boards for the warm-up. Travis turned fast and hard and skated to the growing bunch of pucks, kicked one up onto his stick blade, swooped in, and rang a wrist shot off the crossbar.
First shot and he heard a
clang
of the metal – it was going to be a good day for Travis Lindsay. He felt great. He loved his new equipment. His new skates were so light it felt like they weren’t even there – almost as if a steel blade had grown from the bottom of his bare foot. Nish had told Travis his new skates were so comfortable he wasn’t even wearing socks, something he claimed the legendary Bobby Orr had done when he played a million years ago.
Nish finally abandoned his sunglasses on the Owls’ bench in
“Only if you change your name to Stanley,” Sarah giggled.
Nish gave both girls the full raspberry.
“Let’s get ready,” Muck told them. “We’re on the ice in fifteen.”
“Hollywood has … arrived!”
Nish slammed open the door of the Screech Owls’ dressing room and stepped out onto the rubber carpeting of the Joe, preening as though he were stepping onto the red carpet at the Oscars. The only thing missing was the wild clicking and whirring of the paparazzi’s cameras as they shot photographs of the twelve-year-old celebrity’s arrival, and a beautiful blonde in an evening gown gushing all over him as she interviewed him.
Nish ambled along the corridor and down the chute toward the ice surface, mindful to stick to the rubber mat for fear of wrecking Mr. D’s careful skate sharpening on the concrete. He held his new black Bauer helmet out like a trophy with one hand and ran his other hand along the side of his head, smoothing out his Elvis-style pompadour.
Nish was dressed for superstardom.
The Screech Owls had played the Motors once before in a tournament. The Motors had been quick and well coached and a good test for the Owls, but that tournament had been the previous season, and teams could sometimes change considerably in a year. The Owls had no idea what to expect this time
“What are you going to do with your bow tie while you play?” asked Travis, stepping out of the chute with Nish and approaching the gate. “Wear it on your butt like a lucky rabbit tail?”
“Ha-ha,” Nish responded with a gentle elbow to Travis’s gut. He lifted his throat protector to reveal that he was still wearing the bow tie around his neck. And when he pushed a button on the side of the sparkly black tie, it lit up like a winning slot machine.
“This superstition stuff is serious,” Nish said to Travis as they prepared to step out onto the shiny ice of the Joe. “I even flushed the blade of my stick – my
new
stick – for a little extra luck.”
The flashing lights on his bow tie stopped and he tucked it back under his throat protector.
“I’m going to nail my spin-o-rama during this skills comp,” he said. “I have to. The television audience will love it!”
Travis was sick of hearing about Nish’s spin-o-rama move. Ever since the Owls had seen some NHL er use it during a shootout on TV , he’d been trying it in practice, sometimes falling flat on his butt, sometimes losing the puck as he suddenly reversed direction and tried to loop the puck around on his backhand. Once, he’d completed it perfectly but was in so tight to the net that Jenny Staples had just stood there giggling as Nish realized he had no place to shoot. Jenny simply fell to her knees, her big goal pads smothering the puck.
Still, Nish was determined to master it.
Travis shook his head as he did a little skip out onto the ice, turning quickly and skating backward away from Nish and his starry-eyed schemes.
“Don’t keep them waiting, Hollywood!”
5
S till skating backward so he could see how Nish tackled his awkward combination of sunglasses and helmet, Travis listened for the delicious sound of pucks slapping on fresh ice. He knew without even turning that Mr. D would be tossing pucks over the boards for the warm-up. Travis turned fast and hard and skated to the growing bunch of pucks, kicked one up onto his stick blade, swooped in, and rang a wrist shot off the crossbar.
First shot and he heard a
clang
of the metal – it was going to be a good day for Travis Lindsay. He felt great. He loved his new equipment. His new skates were so light it felt like they weren’t even there – almost as if a steel blade had grown from the bottom of his bare foot. Nish had told Travis his new skates were so comfortable he wasn’t even wearing socks, something he claimed the legendary Bobby Orr had done when he played a million years ago.
Nish finally abandoned his sunglasses on the Owls’ bench in
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