Page 49 of Head Over Skates

But that's all in the past now.

As I make my way through the maze of concrete hallways, I feel like a ghost drifting through memories. Sometimes I wonder what Pierre’s doing these days. Probably not driving a Zamboni.

Owen somehow managed to get me a backstage pass lanyard so I can snoop around.

"Just act like you belong there and no one will question you," Owen had said with a wink.

Before the game starts, Owen and I have to part ways.

“Your mission,” he whispers. “If you choose to accept, is to infiltrate the enemy’s lair and find that trophy.”

"You know this isn't a spy movie, right?"

He wags his brow and nods. “Don’t get caught.”

Whatever. Wierdo.

There are too many people around for me to snoop, so I decide to wander for a while.

During first period, I befriend the Colisée's Zamboni driver, an elderly man named Alphie. We bond over Zamboni stuff.

If you know, you know.

I casually ask if he's noticed anything strange around the arena lately. He mentions the coaches seem tense and practiced extra late last night. Turns out he’s not a fan of Claude Rousseau, the Nordiques’ head coach. Apparently, Rousseau has a bad temper and screams his head off at the players to the point of his whole face turning red with rage.

“When they lose,” Alphie says. “He throws things. Like skates.”

“He throws skates?” I say, partly entertained, partly aghast.

“Among other things.” He leans in, like it’s some kind of secret. “Last week, he tore up the ice.”

“Ouch!”

He waves it away. “Ach. Nothing we can’t fix. But nobody likes him.”

Hmm. I was going to look for clues in the Nordiques' locker room, especially that guy Georges Lemieux’s locker, who all but admitted he stole the trophy. Or that he wanted to.

I spend the rest of the period watching Owen play. He's all power and precision. So confident on the ice. My heart thrums in my chest, sending tendrils of awareness down to my center… and I hate myself for it.

But the game isn’t going well for the Titans. They’re down by two goals already, and it’s only the beginning of the second period. The Nordiques came out strong and fast, catching the Titans off guard. Owen’s been checked hard a few times. I cringe during a particularly brutal hit that slams him into the boards. He shakes it off, but I can tell his frustration is rising.

I meet Owen outside the dressing room during intermission. He's fuming, slamming his hand against the wall.

"I should've had that last one. Lemieux totally blindsided me."

“It’s okay,” I say, trying to console him. “You’re not that far behind. You’ll catch up.”

He winces, rubbing his shoulder. “Yeah. We’ll see.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I’ll live. Did you find out anything yet?”

“No. I was watching the game.”

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, I've got time."

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