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can step in and take the puck.
    Luke, at center, was skating as if someone had strapped a bag of potatoes to his back. I would go into the boards with one of the Medicine Hat Tigers and fight for the puck. I’d come out, lift my head to look for Luke and see him two steps behind their center. Not two steps ahead where I could pass.
    Time and again, while I delayed and waited to make a play, one or two of the Tigers would jump all over me. It was driving me crazy.
    With five minutes left in the third period, the score was tied at three. The right defense for the Tigers—the guy on my side of the ice—had the puck in the center ice area.
    Luke made a move toward him, and the defenseman peeled away, still with the puck. He didn’t see me coming in from the other side. I was able to ram him with my shoulder. He fell down. I didn’t.
    The puck was at my feet.
    I heard Luke yell. He was skating toward the net. The other Tigers’ defenseman was caught up the ice. There was no one between Luke and the goalie.
    The Tigers’ defenseman was getting to his knees and reaching for the puck with his stick. I stepped over his stick, pulled the puck toward me. I flipped it ahead of Luke, so he could reach it without slowing down.
    The puck slapped the tape of his stick. It was a perfect pass. Luke was all alone on the goalie. The nearest Tigers’ player was the left defenseman, who was at least five steps behind.
    The crowd roared as fans jumped to their feet. Three to three and we had a breakaway!
    Two strides later, Luke reached their blue line.
    I was following, but I wasn’t part of the play. This was Luke’s chance to score and put us ahead. I’d be happy getting a point for the assist.
    But a stride later, the Tigers’ defenseman was suddenly only three steps back of Luke.
    I couldn’t believe it. Luke was supposed to be one of the fastest players in the league. The Montreal Canadiens wanted him, he was so fast. And a big defenseman was catching up to him?
    Two steps later the defenseman was breathing down Luke’s back.
    Two more steps and the defenseman was able to reach his stick around and knock the puck off Luke’s stick.
    The crowd’s roars changed to groans. Luke hadn’t even gotten close enough to fire a shot at the goalie.
    Gordie, over on the right wing, slammed his stick against the ice in disappointment.
    Luke?
    Luke was so angry he spun around and punched the Tigers’ defenseman. The referee put his hand up for a penalty against us. A few seconds later, he blew the whistle to stop the play.
    Not only had Luke missed the breakaway, but he also took a penalty.
    It hurt us. While we were one man short, the Tigers scored to make it 4–3 for them.
    That’s how the game ended.
    In the dressing room, I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. The total silence of all the players was loud enough for Luke to know what we thought.

Chapter Nine
    Stephanie was waiting for me as some of us walked out of the arena together after an early afternoon practice the next day. She was in the parking lot, standing beside an old black Bronco 4x4.
    â€œHo, ho,” Gordie said, elbowing me as usual. “Check out Miss America. I think she’s looking for a certain Cowboy.”
    â€œHo, ho,” I said, “how will you look with a squashed nose?”
    Gordie, two inches taller than me and a lot heavier, kindly decided to let me get away with that remark. Instead he said, “I’d still look a lot better than Luke the Cuke.”
    The guys had started calling him Cuke, rhyming it with Luke. It was short for Cucumber. His head looked like the end of a giant cucumber. Luke, of course, ignored everyone. That was Luke’s style. When he’d been one of the best players in the league, he got away with being a jerk. Now that he was slipping, the guys didn’t think he was cool.
    I waved at Stephanie and stepped away from my