The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 2 Page 14

  Travis did not understand how Simon could admit he was scared when he could not. But Simon clearly needed Travis, and he wasn’t afraid to say so. Travis had to stay.

  The doors to the service elevator were open, the bellhop urging them in with an outstretched arm and a wicked smile.

  Travis stepped forward, hesitated, realized with surprise that Simon was holding onto his T-shirt, then quickly moved along so that Simon would not see his resolve was crumbling.

  Travis was inside. Simon was being shown to his seat, and when he sat down, solid safety bars were lowered across the laps of the riders.

  The only empty seat remaining was beside Simon, in the middle of the last row, dead centre and completely exposed. The safety bar didn’t stretch all the way across. Instead, a huge seatbelt was folded over the cushion.

  “Right there, son,” said the bellhop to Travis. “Best seat in the house.”

  The others on the ride turned and laughed, welcoming a little comic relief from their rising anxiety. All eyes were now on Travis. Everyone was watching. He couldn’t break down here.

  “Th-th-thanks,” said Travis. He started to put on his seatbelt, but his hands were shaking badly. The bellhop grabbed the two ends and fitted them together.

  “There’s nothing to it, son,” he whispered before leaving. The bellhop knew. He probably knew every time someone had gone further than he or she intended and was trapped in the ride.

  The moment the door closed, Travis felt as if his throat had also been slammed tight. He had no air. He was bursting. He twisted hard against the seatbelt, but the straps held him in. He felt if his body couldn’t leave the seat, his heart would leave his body–ripping right through his rib cage.

  He felt Simon’s hand on his forearm. Simon’s palm was soaking wet. He needed Travis.

  Travis very deliberately began to suck in a breath. He took it slowly and carefully, and felt the air go deep. His heart settled, at least for the moment.

  The elevator rose slowly, then stopped, and the doors opened onto an endless corridor. The family of hotel guests who had disappeared back in 1939–the parents, a little girl–suddenly appeared as holograms, checking into their rooms, then vanishing into ghostly memory.

  Travis felt Simon’s fingernails dig into his forearm.

  The doors closed, and up again went the elevator. It stopped and then slipped sideways out of the shaft and began moving across the hotel. They were surrounded by stars and blackness. It felt as if they were floating in outer space.

  He had gone much too far! There was no last-minute exit here!

  Again, Travis’s breath refused to come. Again, he felt Simon holding on. Travis had to be brave. He was…Captain.

  With a bump the elevator stopped rolling and began to rise. These were the sounds they had heard from outside, the sounds of cables working, cables snapping, that always preceded the terrifying screams from the riders.

  “Oh my God! Oh my God!” a woman shouted from the front row. The other riders laughed, but as they did, Travis could hear their own anxiety.

  Up, up, up rose the elevator, the cables creaking, the tension rising. The cables groaned, seemed to pause momentarily, and then, snap, the elevator plunged like a stone!

  “Heaven help us!” screamed the woman in the front row. No one laughed this time.

  Travis knew he too was screaming. He knew his mouth was open. He could feel his hair lifting in the downward rush. He knew, in that instant, he would give anything in the world to get out of that elevator. He would give up his collection of NHL cards, his posters of Mats Sundin and Paul Kariya and Doug Gilmour. He would give up being Captain, his chance at an NHL career. Anything to get out of there!

  The elevator came to a sudden halt.

  He was still alive!

  He turned to Simon. His friend looked like he had just swallowed an alligator. His eyes were bulging, his cheeks puffed. Pure terror was written all over Simon’s face, and yet the ride was only just beginning.

  Again the cables creaked, again the elevator began to rise, only this time with gathering speed.

  As the elevator rose faster and faster, it began to feel as out of control as a free-fall. It seemed as if it would crash through the roof and head off into outer space–just like in the Twilight Zone film they had seen.

  Up and up, faster and faster still. Travis grabbed onto Simon, Simon onto Travis. People were screaming. The woman in the front row was screaming and praying. Then suddenly, in a flash, they were outside! The roof gave way, and the elevator, for the briefest moment, seemed to lunge out over the Studio lot!

  An explosion of light blinded them! Was it just the sudden sun? Was it a camera flash?

  “OHHHHHH MY GODDDDDD!!!” the woman in the front row screeched. This was not for effect. She was terrified.

  “We’re all gonna die!” shouted a man.

  “Allllll Riggghhhhhtttttt!!!” screamed another, excited voice.

  Travis turned quickly in shock. It was Simon who had screamed! He was smiling from ear to ear!

  The elevator was plunging. Down thirteen floors in less than three seconds. Travis had never felt such pressure against him–G-force, they called it. It pushed against his face, his arms, his back. It was more powerful than anything he had ever felt diving, more powerful than anything he had ever felt in an airplane. It was pure terror–a force so wild and uncontrollable he was completely helpless. Travis could not have moved even if he’d wanted to. He could not fight it. He had to go with it.

  He was on this ride to the end.

  “Fantastic!” Simon shouted as they left the elevator, their legs a bit rubbery and their eyes blinking fast, unaccustomed to the light.

  Travis couldn’t stop giggling. He had done it. He had mastered his fear and stayed to the end–not that he had much choice once the bellhop had strapped him in. But far more important than merely lasting, he had enjoyed it. There was something about the thrill of utter helplessness.

  “Great!” he said.

  Three times they had risen and plunged. On the third ride up, there was no longer terror in the riders’ screams; on the third plunge, the screaming had become a celebration. Had it been put to a vote, they would have gone for a fourth, easily.

  “I have to go to the washroom,” said Simon.

  “I’ll wait in here for you,” said Travis, heading into the souvenir shop.

  Travis didn’t think Simon knew about the photographs. He would buy him one for proof–proof, if he ever needed it again, that he hadn’t been afraid.

  The man at the photo booth was just putting up the photograph of their ride. Travis was amazed that his hair could stand so straight up, stunned that he could look so terrified and moments later be laughing about it. Simon, sitting beside him in the picture, looked like one of the dummies advertising the ride on the way into Disney World.

  He quickly paid for the photograph and tucked it in under his shirt.

  Simon was just coming out of the washroom when Travis got back. “Anything good?” he asked.

  “Naw,” Travis said. “Let’s go.”

  Once again Travis had trouble catching his breath. Once again he felt clammy all over with nervous sweat, his heart pounding out of control. But there was nothing closed-in about this space.

  They were in the Ice Palace, a huge hockey rink that could hold more than twenty thousand people. He could barely see to the rafters. Even the Screech Owls’ dressing room was bigger than any he’d ever been in.

  He looked up and saw hundreds, if not thousands, of fans. All the parents were there, and all the relatives of the team they would be playing.

  Their championship game against the State Selects–an all-star team made up of the very best players from all over the state of Florida–was even going to be broadcast. And in two languages–but not French and English, as would happen back in Canada, but in English and Spanish. The radio station that carried the Florida Panthers’ games in Spanish–the first hockey games ever broadcast i
n that language–had decided to come up to Tampa once the Selects had made it to the final, and now half the kids on the Owls’ team were shouting out, “Se metio-ooooo!”–the Spanish equivalent of, “He shoots! He scores!”

  Muck had told the Owls to “save something” for tonight, and if they lacked anything in energy, they more than made up for it in enthusiasm. The size, the lights, the professionalism of the Ice Palace had them fired up. So, too, had the fans. Their own relatives were there, yes, but there was also a group from Disney World, and even Agent Morris and his family.

  “This is a serious team,” Muck had told them before the Owls came out onto the ice. “Hockey has taken off in Florida the past few years, so don’t think you’re up against a bunch of surfers and beach bums. They’re a good, fast, big team, and they’re very well coached. I should know: Deke Larose, their coach, played with me once. He knows his hockey.”

  Travis could tell during the warm-up that Muck had been right. The Selects were very well organized. The goaltender looked great and, obviously, had a great glove hand.

  “Sarah’s line starts,” Muck had said just before the Owls left the big dressing room. “Jenny’s our goalie tonight.”

  “Let’s go, Jenny!” Sarah had yelled.

  “Jen-ny!”

  “Jen-ny!”

  Not long after, Travis understood why Muck had named Jenny to start, and not Jeremy, who usually played the big games. They were all turned toward the Canadian flag for “O Canada,” when the Selects’ goaltender yanked off her helmet. The Selects also had a girl in net. Muck must have figured the challenge would inspire Jenny.

  Sarah took the face-off–and lost it! Travis was shocked. Sarah rarely lost a face-off. But this one she lost clean, the big Selects’ centre backhanding the puck to his left defenceman.

  Dmitri moved quickly to check the defender, catching the youngster off guard with his extraordinary speed. Panicking, the defender tried to fire the puck back to his centre, but the puck bounced straight up ice into Dmitri’s shin pads.

  In an instant Dmitri was around the falling defenceman and racing in alone. Travis hurried in case there was a rebound, but he didn’t expect one. He had seen Dmitri do this too many times. In hard, a shoulder fake, then onto the backhand and a high roofer to the short side.

  Dmitri faked, pulled the puck onto his backhand, and, just as Travis had anticipated, rifled the puck high and hard into the open side of the net.

  Only it never got there! A white glove flashed, and the puck disappeared! Dmitri curled away, looking back in surprise. The referee’s whistle blew. The Selects’ goaltender flipped the puck out and caught it again on the webbing of her glove, then presented it to the referee as casually as if he were at a garden party and she was serving little munchies on a platter.

  “Did you see that catch?” Nish asked, when he and Travis came off at the end of the first shift.

  “Great glove hand!” Travis agreed.

  The Selects were indeed well coached. Unlike so many other all-star teams the Owls had played, this one truly was a team. There was no hot-dogging, no heroics, no end-to-end rushes. The players had a system, and each knew exactly where he or she fit into the system. They always sent one player in to forecheck, hoping to force a pass while the others clogged up the middle.

  “They’re trapping us,” Muck said behind the bench.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Mr. Dillinger.

  Wilson got caught circling his own net and tried a pass to Simon, standing up along the blueline, but the waiting Selects forward pounced on it. Simon might have made a diving check, but chose instead to chase.

  The Selects forward passed to his opposite winger in the corner, who then passed quickly to the centre driving in toward the slot. Simon, hurrying back, tried to play the puck, not the man, and the big centre merely stepped around him and drove a hard shot over Jenny’s shoulder.

  Selects 1, Owls 0.

  “We gotta do something about that trap,” Muck said, as he sent Sarah’s line out again.

  “Nishikawa–come back here.”

  Nish skated back to the bench and conferred with Muck. The referee blew his whistle to get the Owls moving, and Muck slapped Nish’s back and sent him into the play.

  Nish detoured past Travis as they lined up for the face-off.

  “I get the puck,” Nish whispered to him. “You head for centre ice.”

  Sarah won this draw. She pivoted with it, avoided one check, and then dropped it back to Nish, who skated hard for the back of the net, stopping in a spray with the puck and waiting while the Selects sent in their single forechecker.

  Nish faked going to the far side and, immediately, the forechecker moved to force him tight, counting on another cross-ice pass that they could then intercept. But Nish dug in hard and turned the other way.

  Travis was already breaking for centre ice. Nish rounded the net and lifted the puck so high it almost struck the clock, floating high and falling just beyond centre ice, where Travis, barely on side, picked it up and was in free.

  He knew he had to keep it away from the goalie’s glove hand. He came in, his mind spinning with far too many questions. Should he shoot? Deke? Backhand? Forehand? He looked up. No openings. He looked down; the puck was beginning to skid off the blade of his stick. He lost it, regained it, and shot without looking.

  Again the white blur! Again the puck vanished!

  “You should have gone stick side,” Nish said when they got back to the bench.

  “Five hole,” said Dmitri.

  “Just rip it!” said Sarah.

  Everybody had a suggestion; no one had an answer.

  Then the Selects got a power play when Andy took a penalty for tripping, and a hard shot from the point went in off Nish’s toe.

  Selects 2, Owls 0.

  “My fault,” Andy said to Jenny when the Owls went to console her.

  “I should have had it,” Jenny said.

  Travis looked hard at Jenny. At first he thought she was near tears, but then he realized she was just angry. Muck had offered her this challenge, and the Selects’ goaltender was beating her.

  The Owls barely held off the Selects for the remainder of the period. If it hadn’t been for Sarah’s checking and a great shot block by Andy, the Selects would have run away with the game. As it was, the Owls were barely hanging on.

  Muck waited until they had caught their breath before he entered the dressing room. Nish, as usual, had his head down almost between his legs. Sarah and Travis were sagging, their backs against the lockers, their gloves and helmets off. Sweat was dripping freely from Sarah’s face. Travis, too, was sweating heavily for once.

  Muck was smiling. He didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned.

  “Jenny just forgot to turn on her equipment,” he said. “Those guys aren’t going to get another shot past her–guaranteed.”

  Jenny didn’t look up. She hadn’t even removed her mask. She just sat, staring straight ahead, ready to go on a moment’s notice.

  “Nishikawa,” Muck said.

  Nish looked up, expecting a blast.

  “I like what I see out there. Let’s see a bit more of it, though.”

  Nish looked down, the colour rising in his face.

  “Higgins,” Muck said, turning on big Andy, who’d played well, apart from the penalty.

  Andy looked up, waiting.

  “I want to try something: you on a line with Simon and Jesse. I think you’re due, Simon.”

  Simon looked bewildered. He hadn’t played particularly well. He’d lost the puck that led to the Selects’ first goal.

  Muck walked out the door, leaving them to their thoughts.

  “You should have had that guy,” Nish said across the dressing room to Simon. “He was your check.”

  Simon twisted defensively: “Don’t think I don’t know that.”

  “You can’t be afraid of the puck,” Nish said in a quiet voice, but one that everyone heard.

  “I’m not
,” Simon said.

  “Prove it, then,” Nish said.

  “Cut it out,” Sarah interrupted. “You’re not in a position to ask for proof.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Nish demanded.

  Sarah answered by pulling an envelope from the side pocket of her equipment bag. She opened the envelope and took out the Polaroid of Nish wearing his bird dropping.

  “You’re supposed to give me that!” Nish whined, angry at the sight of the reminder.

  “We’re down 2–0, Bird Poo,” said Sarah.

  Nish buried his head again in his knees. Simon starting tapping his stick on the ends of his skates.

  Travis was captain. He knew he had to stay something.

  “Don’t forget we’re a team,” he said. “Don’t forget what got us here.”

  “Let’s go!” Dmitri shouted from the far side of the room.

  “Let’s do it!” shouted Jesse.

  “We’re the Screech Owls!” shouted Sarah.

  “Owls!”

  “Owls!”

  “Owls!”

  Nish was again a driven player in the second period. He blocked shots, cut off rushes, and twice tried the sneak pass over centre, but the first time the Selects were waiting on it and beat Dmitri to the puck.

  The second time it worked. Andy stepped in front of one Selects defenceman, “accidentally” blocking his route, and little Simon squirted out of the pack to take the lead in the rush for the puck Nish had sent flying over centre.

  “Go, Simon!” Sarah screamed from the bench.

  Simon was so nervous he almost lost his footing as he picked up the wobbling puck. He came in over the blueline, wound up for a slapshot, faked it, and moved to the far side of the net before sliding the puck in between the goaltender’s outstretched legs.

  Selects 2, Owls 1.

  “Five hole!” shouted Dmitri. “Told you so!”

  The Owls’ bench went wild. Even Muck and Mr. Dillinger high-fived each other.

  Nish, hurrying up behind Simon, caught him in a bear hold as he stepped off the ice and almost twisted his helmet off.

  Simon’s goal gave the Owls new life. They played far better in the second period, not once letting the Selects trap them on a breakout play. Their opponents were getting frustrated, particularly with Sarah’s close checking, which was keeping the Selects’ big centre under control.