Free Rebel Glory by Sigmund Brouwer

Rebels’ program. You know, the one they sell at games.”
    “And the others?” she asked.
    I shrugged. “Unless you’re going to walk up to them and ask them to say cheese—”
    “Good plan.”
    I tried to tell her I had meant it as a joke, but she kept talking and I didn’t have the chance.
    “You’ll have to take me to tomorrow night’s game,” she said.
    “I can’t,” I said. “Somebody will recognize me. I’m supposed to be in Winnipeg for urgent ‘personal reasons,’ remember?”
    She smiled sweetly. “No problem. I’m in the drama club. I’ll dress you up in a great disguise.”

chapter sixteen
    It felt strange to walk into the Centrium to watch a Rebels game rather than play one. It felt even stranger to wear a wig.
    “This won’t work,” I told Cheryl, “not in a million years.”
    She was in blue jeans and a nice blue jacket, and she carried a heavy black purse.
    “Relax,” she said, “you look perfect.”
    Perfect? Cheryl had glued a false mustache into place. My wig had a ponytail, and Iwas wearing a baseball cap. I wore greasy jeans with holes in the knees and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt beneath an unbuttoned red flannel hunting shirt. I had rolled the sleeves up to show the tattoos on my forearms. They were new tattoos, the kind you put on with water. In my shirt pocket I had a package of cigarettes.
    “Try to walk more floppy,” she said.
    “What?” I looked to see if anyone in the crowds around us had heard her. “Floppy?”
    “You’re walking tight, like an athlete,” she said. “Headbanger rock-and-roll types don’t walk that way. Make your head and arms floppy, and walk with a slouch.”
    “Like this?” I took a few goofy steps.
    Cheryl giggled. “Exactly.”
    We walked up the steps toward our seats. Halfway up we met a biker with a leather jacket and long greasy hair.
    “Dude,” the biker said to me, “got a smoke?”
    “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t smoke. It’s bad for your health.”
    “Cool joke, dude,” the guy said. “Like, major irony. Mock the athletes of this world.”
    I didn’t think I had been trying to make a joke until Cheryl kicked my ankle. I remembered the cigarettes in my pocket.
    “Hey, man,” I said as I grabbed the cigarettes, “help yourself.”
    He took half a dozen cigarettes from the pack and stuck it back in my pocket. Cheryl and I continued up the stairs.
    “See what I mean?” Cheryl said. “Perfect.”
    We sat in section VV, row 22, across from the players’ bench. I soaked in the music and the smell of popcorn and the feeling of nervous excitement in the crowd. Cheryl kept turning her head to look in all directions.
    “This might be fun,” she said. “I feel like a kid at a circus. Maybe I’ll come to some more games later.”
    “Wonderful,” I said, not meaning it.
    “Only if you’re playing.”
    “That’s better.”
    At the other end of the ice, the Saskatoon Blades were skating circles to warm up. The Blades were usually a powerhouse team, but for some reason they had not been playingwell lately. We were expected to beat them easily tonight.
    I watched the Rebels in our end. My chest tightened to see the guys. Mulridge. Shertzer. Mancini. Hog Burnell. And the rest of the team in the white, gray and black Rebel uniforms. I had missed hockey bad enough before, but I began to miss it ten times more now. It was killing me to just watch.
    “Cheryl,” I whispered, “this has got to work. I’ll die if it doesn’t.”
    She frowned at me. “Don’t be stupid. No matter how much fun hockey is, there are plenty of other things that are more important.”
    I opened my mouth to defend myself, then changed my mind. She was giving me that kind of frown.
    “The list,” I said to change the subject. She pulled it out of her purse. The list contained all the people who could get into the dressing room any time they wanted.
    She had asked for everyone, and I had put down everyone, no matter how unlikely. Sam Radisson,