Free Reality Check in Detroit by Roy Macgregor Page A

had his own moves. Down on his back and writhing to the music, he somehow executed an acrobatic “kip up” that shot him to his feet in one snakelike move, whereupon he began moving his legs in a way that made them look like they had turned to rubber, all the while keeping perfect time with the music.
    The Motors – and many of the Owls – began cheering. The fans in the stands around the outdoor rink – fans who had seemed to come out of nowhere – went wild.
    In the first skills competitions, Travis had been surprised at which Motors players the producers picked for some of the matchups. Now it seemed their choices were dead-on. The dance-off seemed to have been created for Smitty – he was that good.
    An organizer went over and tapped Nish on the shoulder. It was like a storm had broken on Nish’s face. Beet red, he cuffed away the organizer’s hand and shouted, “
No fair! I was clearly the best
!”
    Travis cringed and looked at Sarah, whose mouth twisted into a deep frown. They both noted how several cameras had moved in to capture the moment. Nish would come across as a poor loser.
    A spoiled brat.

12
    T he final event was to be British Bulldog on Ice. Both teams were told to fill the nets with their sticks and come out to center ice, where the game would be explained.
    Producer Brian came out again, slipping and almost falling as he made his way over. “This is a simple game,” he said. “We select a ‘bulldog,’ and everyone else goes back to the goal line. When Terry here” – he pointed at a young man in a coach’s outfit – “blows the whistle, all the skaters but the bulldog head for the opposite end. The bulldog’s job is to tag you. The moment you are tagged, you become another bulldog for when the players skate back in the other direction. The game ends when there’s only one untagged player still skating – and that’s our winner.”
    Brian scanned the line of players, looking for a perfect bulldog to start. He stopped, no surprise, at Nish, pointed, and smiled. “You’re our bulldog, Money!”
    “More like
hot dog
!” one of the Motors players shouted.
    Travis saw that a cameraman had been standing right beside the Motors player when he chirped at Nish. Brian the producer rubbed his hands together happily. The chirping instructions were working.
    “Okay, players,” Brian shouted, “off to the far boards and wait for Terry’s whistle.”
    Travis and Sarah skated back together. “Sure didn’t look like a random pick of the bulldog, did it?” Sarah said.
    “They’re trying to make Nish the star,” Travis said.
    “Or maybe the villain. Don’t forget, TV is all about drama, and dramas need bad guys so the good guys will look good.”
    Travis hadn’t thought of that. He had figured the producers were pumping Nish’s tires because they liked him. It had never occurred to him that it might be because they liked what Nish represented: the perfect villain for Hollywood to defeat. Maybe that’s what the crazy “script” had been all about.
    The players all lined up, several of them chirping their opponents good-naturedly. Travis was looking forward to this game. He was one of the best Owls at eluding checks. He’d just pretend he had a puck and the bulldog was trying to check him.
    The whistle blew. With screams and laughter, the Owls and Motors took off down the ice. But Nish had a trick up his sleeve. He took one look at all the advancing skaters and charged right at them, falling onto his back, stretching out, and spinning like the hands of a clock as he tried to take out as many as possible.
    “
No fair
!” several of the Motors shouted. “
That’s cheating
!”
    But Nish just laughed and stuck his tongue out at his critics as he lifted himself off the ice to count the number of new bulldogs he had just created. He now had six dogs to help him out.
    Data hurriedly tweeted his update: “Nish, the human windmill, takes out six players.”
    Sarah and Travis had