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trade?”
    Spying. I kept that thought to myself too.
    â€œWell,” I said, “I’ve got this little capsule.”
    I pulled the Ziploc bag out of my jean-jacket pocket. The tooth and the crown were in my pants pocket. I didn’t want Mr. Jewel to figure out where the capsule came from. That would lead to too many questions.
    I put the Ziploc bag on the counter.
    Mr. Jewel looked closely at the bag. “You’re right. It is small.”
    â€œThink you can find a way to open it?” I asked. “And think you can find a way to put it back together so that it won’t look like it was ever opened?”
    Mr. Jewel stroked his mustache.
    â€œRay,” he said, “if anyone can do it, that would be me.”

chapter seven
    It was a home game against the Lethbridge Hurricanes. The Tigers were in third place in the standings, easily ahead of the Hurricanes. In terms of playoffs, this wasn’t a must-win game. The playoffs were still a couple of months ahead.
    In terms of our home crowd, however, it was an absolute must-win. The Lethbridge Hurricanes were our traditional rivals. Tigers’ fans loved to see the Hurricanes loseagainst us just as much as Hurricanes’ fans loved it when we lost in their building.
    That, however, wasn’t the reason I was nervous.
    I was at center ice, listening to the singing of the national anthem, and barely able to hear it above the thumping of my heart. We had a new coach and he was going to suspend me if I didn’t prove myself to him. Could I play the kind of hockey he wanted? The kind of hockey that my dad wanted?
    It didn’t take long to find out.
    With the anthem finished, I skated to center ice to start the game. The Hurricane center was there waiting for me. He was two inches taller than me, and I knew him well. Joe Tidwell. Long hair. Long reach. A great scorer. And a great fighter.
    â€œHow about we drop the gloves?” he asked. “Right now and get it over with?”
    I said nothing.
    â€œSorry,” he said. “I forgot. You’ve never been in a hockey fight.”
    Again I said nothing. Fear burned in my stomach like indigestion. Why couldn’thockey just be about skating, shooting and passing?
    The referee drifted closer.
    â€œHeads up,” Tidwell said to me just before the referee reached us. “And I mean that sincerely.”
    The referee held the puck. Dropped it. As I tried to pull it back with my stick, Tidwell spun around and blocked me, kicking the puck to his left defenseman. I moved to skate past Tidwell, but he shadowed me. He stayed so close that there wasn’t any daylight between us. He gave me a jab in the ribs with the butt of his stick.
    â€œSee you in the corners,” he said. Then, with a burst of speed, he broke for an open spot.
    His left defenseman put a pass perfectly on his stick. He took a couple of hard strides, then dumped the puck into the right corner of our end. He put his head down and broke hard across our blue line.
    I followed.
    The puck took a weird bounce on the boards. Our right defenseman was forced to juggle it briefly. That was enough time for theHurricane winger to move into the corner. Both of them fought for the puck.
    I hoped the ref would blow the whistle.
    He didn’t.
    That left only one person to go in and help. Me.
    Our winger was supposed to stay up near the blue line and prevent a pass back to the point. Our other defenseman would cover the front of the net. That left the center to help out.
    It seemed to me that the action was all sticks and skates and bumping bodies. I moved in, looking for a way to chip the puck out along the boards. It would give me some room to skate and look for an open man to feed a pass to.
    I stayed on the outside, the way I always did. A part of my mind was telling me to go in with my body. Another part of my mind said that I could get the puck and make a great play.
    The hesitation cost me.
    The Hurricane winger