The Bad Luck Skate

  THE COOLEST SPORT IN THE WORLD

  “Hey, Frank,” Pete Peterson called, slinging his hockey bag over his shoulder. “Here to watch the big game?”

  Nine-year-old Frank Hardy gave his friend a fist bump. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said.

  “I thought you said Pete was as big as a giant,” blurted Frank’s eight-year-old brother, Joe. He had tagged along to watch Pete’s team, the Bayport Checkers, play in the division hockey championship against the Southport Snipers. Frank and Joe didn’t play hockey, but they both loved supporting their friends.

  “I didn’t say Pete was ‘as big as a giant,’ ” Frank replied. “I said he played like one.”

  The beginning of the Checkers’ season had been rough. They’d lost five of their first six games. The players hadn’t been passing to one another. They couldn’t score goals. No one was having fun. That had all changed in October, when Pete moved to town. With his stellar play and leadership, the team had managed to turn their season around by winning thirteen of their last fifteen.

  Not only was Pete a whiz on the ice, but he was the kind of kid everyone liked. He and Frank had become friends at school. Over the past few months, Frank had been to most of Pete’s games, and he was looking forward to watching his friend win a championship.

  “Pete’s not just the team captain,” Frank told his brother. “He’s the best player in the league.”

  “Shucks, Frank,” Pete said. “I’m only as good as the team around me.”

  Frank and Joe knew a lot about being a good team. Working together, a good team could accomplish anything they put their minds to. And what the brothers put their minds to best was solving mysteries.

  The boys’ dad, Fenton Hardy, ran his own detective agency in Bayport. Frank and Joe liked to think they were carrying on the family business, solving mysteries of their own. They wrote down everything about their cases, including suspects and clues, in their clue book. The brothers carried it everywhere they went. You never knew when a mystery might pop up.

  “Out of the way, goon,” a girl called from behind the boys. The girl was Joe’s age. She had white skates slung over her shoulder, her hair done up in a ponytail, and she was dragging a small suitcase.

  Pete rolled his eyes. “My sister, Pam,” he told the boys. “She has a figure-skating competition on the other rink.”

  “Hi, Pam,” called Joe. “I didn’t know you skated.”

  “The whole family does,” Pam responded. “Not that anyone ever watches my skating competitions. They’re too busy watching Pete sniff his skates before every hockey game.”

  “I do not sniff my skates,” Pete protested.

  “That’s a good thing,” Joe said, waving a hand in front of his nose. “The smell is bad enough with the skates still in your bag.”

  “You might not be all about the stink,” Pam argued, “but you’re still weird before you play.”

  Pete gave his sister a hard look. “I have a game-day routine. It helps get me focused and ready to play.”

  “Exactly,” Frank agreed. “All the best athletes have one. Following a steady game-day routine programs your body to perform when you need it to. That way, you can focus on the important thing—getting a win.”

  “You can call it a routine,” Pam said. “I call it superstition. Every little thing needs to be exactly the same or he has a hissy fit and makes a big deal about how they won’t win.”

  “Not every little thing.” Pete frowned. “There are just a few steps I take that help me play better. The way I tape my stick, for instance. If I use black tape, it hides the puck, making it harder for the goalie to see. And I leave the top hole on my skates unlaced to help me get lower when I skate.”

  “That all sounds practical,” Frank said.

  “He left out the part about sniffing the stinky skate,” Pam said, smiling a devilish grin.

  Pete looked away. “There is one superstition,” he confessed. “But it doesn’t involve smelling anything.”

  Everyone stared at Pete, waiting for him to continue. It was obvious he was a little embarrassed. “We always touch our lucky skate before taking the ice. It started as a way to bring the team together. The one time we didn’t do it, we lost 4–0.”

  “Eww,” Joe said, waving his hand in front of his nose again. “Touch a smelly skate or lose the game? That’s a tough choice.”

  Pete shrugged. “I’ll do anything to help us win.”

  They were about to head into the rink when a deep voice interjected, “I hope that includes cleaning up after yourself, young man.”

  The kids all turned in the direction of the speaker, a large man dressed in faded blue overalls, who was wagging a finger in Pete’s direction.

  “Hey, Wally,” Pete said, waving at the rink’s maintenance man.

  “There’s a lot going on in there today,” Wally continued. “I’ll have enough to do without you boys making any more messes.”

  “We’ll be good,” Pete promised.

  “Morning, Wally.” Pam waved.

  Wally waved back. “Big competition for you today, little lady. Win this, and you could get a spot at nationals. I’m sure there’s going to be a big crowd.”

  Pam frowned. “The division hockey championship is today. That’s where the crowds will be.”

  “Plenty of folks know how amazing you figure skaters are,” Wally reassured her. “I bet your parents can’t wait to watch.”

  “They’ve got to stop by Gram’s house today,” Pam grumbled. “They’re gonna try to make it back, but who knows.”

  “I know I’ll be there,” Wally responded.

  “I’d like to watch you skate too,” added Joe. “Frank will definitely come with me. Just let us know when you go on.”

  “Thanks, guys,” Pam said. “I’ll find out what time my competition starts, but I’m sure it will overlap with Pete’s game. Everyone will be over there. That’s what always happens.”

  “We’ll make it,” Joe promised, but Pam was already walking away.

  THE GOON SQUAD

  While Frank went with Pete to drop his hockey equipment in the locker room, Joe wandered toward the café. He figured there might be some tasty treats there. Even if there weren’t any snacks, he had time to kill. Maybe he’d run into someone else he knew from school.

  The café was set up between the rinks. Two big windows on each side let spectators look onto the ice. There were small tables along one wall near the windows, but they were all empty. Joe headed past the seating area to the main counter at the front.

  As it turned out, there weren’t many snack options to choose from. Joe was busy looking them over when someone crashed into him from behind.

  “So sorry for bumping you,” said a flustered boy a little bigger than Joe. He was stumbling, overloaded with hockey equipment, including a large set of goalie pads. The boy fidgeted from foot to foot and, upon close inspection, appeared to be sweating. All in all, he seemed kind of out of control.

  “No damage done,” Joe said, waving off the apology. He smiled reassuringly.

  The boy stared at Joe for an uncomfortable minute before adjusting his glasses and asking, “Hey, you’re Frank’s brother, aren’t you?”

  “That’s me. Joe Hardy, at your service.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Freddy,” the boy said, dropping his gear and offering his hand.

  Yep, definitely sweaty, Joe thought as he shook Freddy’s hand. He must be nervous. Joe was good at picking up on those little details. It was a necessary skill for any detective.

  But why was Freddy so nervous and sweaty?

  “Is everything okay?” Joe asked.

  Freddy shuffled his feet and glanced around. “Our number one goalie is
home with the flu. Coach just told me I’m in net for the championship. ‘Mercer,’ he said, ‘you’ve got the start for the Checkers today.’ But I’m not ready to start. Not a game this big.”

  “Didn’t you say your name was Freddy?” Joe asked. He really was good at picking up on little details.

  “Yeah. My first name’s Freddy. Coach calls me Mercer because our other goalie’s name is also Freddy. It got confusing there for a while.”

  “I can imagine.” Joe laughed. It was getting confusing now, too.

  “Do you play?” Freddy asked, gesturing to the hockey bag he’d dropped on the floor.

  “Nah,” Joe admitted. “I’m more of a baseball guy. I’m here with Frank to watch the game.”

  “If there even is a game,” Freddy grumbled. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

  The poor goalie thumped down at one of the café tables. Freddy really looked miserable. Joe thought back to his last baseball game. He’d been at bat in the final inning. They were down by one. A hit could help the team win, but an out would lose the whole thing.

  Was that the same pressure that Freddy was under now? Maybe Joe could help.

  Joe didn’t know much about hockey. He figured it basically came down to putting the puck in the net. This made the goalie a pretty important part of the team. And Joe did know something about that. Not only was he an important part of his baseball team, but he was also half of the Hardy brothers detective team. Frank was great at helping build Joe’s confidence. And that was what Freddy needed. Confidence.

  “This is what you practice for,” Joe said. “I’m sure you’ll be great. After all, the coach is confident enough to put you in net, right?”

  “It’s not like he has any other options,” Freddy replied.

  “Hockey is a team game. You’re not out there on your own. Your team will be there for you.”

  “Winning is about who scores more goals,” Freddy said. “What if I let one in?”

  “With a five hole as big as yours, you’ll let in way more than one,” taunted a voice from behind Joe.

  Unfortunately, Joe knew that voice, so he wasn’t surprised when he and Freddy turned to find Bayport Elementary’s biggest bully, fourth-grader Adam Ackerman. Joe felt his heart drop. Of course Adam would show his face just when Freddy was close to cheering up.

  “Can’t wait to watch my boys put pucks past you, Mercer,” Adam jeered. “How many did they score on you last game? Six?”

  Freddy gritted his teeth. “Actually, I wasn’t in net for that game.”

  Adam let out a big laugh. “Yeah. If you had been, the loss would have been much worse.”

  Joe saw Freddy starting to wilt under Adam’s taunts. If there was one thing Joe couldn’t stand, it was a bully. “Why don’t you just leave him alone? At least he’s playing in the game. That’s more than you can say.”

  Freddy chuckled, while Adam glowered but said nothing.

  “You think you know everything, don’t you?” he finally grumbled.

  “I know you weren’t good enough to make the Checkers,” Freddy said. “Or the Snipers.” It seemed like he was feeling more confident.

  Adam’s ears turned bright red. For a moment, he looked like he was about to lash out, but instead he stomped past the boys, knocking chairs out of his way. “You’re gonna lose today, Mercer. Mark my words.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Joe said. “You’re going to be fine.”

  “I don’t know about that, but thanks for cheering me up.”

  “Anything for a new friend.” Joe smiled. “Besides, it’s not often that I get the chance to show up Adam.”

  “You’re right,” Freddy said. “Maybe everything will be fine.”

  But as the boys bent down to gather up Freddy’s gear, Pete rushed into the lobby, frantically waving his arms. “It’s a disaster. Someone destroyed our lucky skate!”

  SKATING INTO THE SPOTLIGHT

  Pete was freaking out. He shouted. He jumped from side to side. He flapped his arms. He pointed back toward the locker room. What he didn’t do was explain what had happened.

  Frank trailed into the lobby. Spotting Joe, he walked over to the café. Frank had an excited look on his face—a look that Joe knew too well. Frank had discovered a mystery.

  “Someone covered the lucky skate in paint,” he said.

  “It’s terrible,” groaned Pete, finally finding his voice. “They totally destroyed the skate, and our luck right along with it.”

  “This is a travesty,” Freddy wailed. Whatever confidence Joe had helped him find had vanished. “First, our starting goalie gets sick. Now, someone destroyed the skate. Our luck is gone. We’re doomed!”

  Joe and Frank exchanged a look. They knew when a situation called for their special brand of expertise.

  “Don’t worry, guys,” Joe said. “The Hardy brothers are on the case.”

  “That’s right,” Frank agreed. “We’ll find out who tampered with your skate.”

  Freddy looked over at Pete. It was obvious who would take the lead here. Seeing his teammate seeking support, Pete calmed down a little and led the Hardys back toward the locker room. After collecting his gear, Freddy followed slowly behind.

  “You’ll really help?” Freddy asked.

  “Of course,” Joe responded.

  “This is what we do,” Frank said. “Now let’s go investigate.”

  They filed into the locker room.

  “Ugh!” Joe groaned, pinching his nose. “Bat is dat smell?”

  “A locker room full of hockey gear.” Pete laughed. “You get used to it pretty quick.”

  “Doubd dat,” Joe mumbled, still holding his nose. “Bears da skade?”

  “Over here,” Pete said, pointing. There on a long shelf was a hockey skate. Someone had poured black paint all over it. The goo dribbled down the skate, over the shelf, and onto the floor.

  Frank stepped closer to examine the mess. “Everyone, stand back. No one touch the clue. Joe, you ready?”

  Joe was always ready. He pulled the clue book and pencil out of his pocket. Then he wrote down the five Ws. That was how their dad told them to start every case.

  The five Ws were:

  Who?

  What?

  Where?

  When?

  Why?

  Once the boys had answers to all five Ws, the mystery would be solved.

  “Let’s do the easy ones first,” Frank said. “We don’t know who did this, but we do know what they did: someone poured paint on the Checkers’ lucky skate.”

  Joe wrote that down. “We also know the when and where,” he said. He wrote down the Checkers locker room in the Bayport Ice Skating Center for where. Then, after checking his watch, he wrote Saturday, between eleven a.m. and eleven twenty a.m. for when. He knew it couldn’t have happened before eleven o’clock, because that was when he and Frank had arrived at the rink. It was currently eleven twenty, so that gave the culprit a maximum window of twenty minutes.

  “Now comes the hard part,” Frank said. “We need to find out who did it and why.”

  Pete raised his hands. “The why is easy. Someone wants us to lose.”

  “That’s one possibility,” Frank agreed. “But we can’t make assumptions. We need facts, and we don’t have enough of them right now.”

  “Maybe there’re some clues outside the locker room,” Joe suggested, still waving away the smell from his face.

  “Good idea,” Frank said. He turned to Pete and Freddy. “Anything else to add before we continue our work?”

  Pete thought for a second. “Just catch whoever did this. The game starts at one o’clock. We need our luck back before then or things will end badly.”

  “Yeah.” Freddy nodded. “I’ll need all the luck I can get.”

  As the two hockey players started laying out their gear, Joe and Frank took their investigation into the hallway. “What’s this?” Joe asked, bending down to look at something on the floor.

  Frank knelt to in
spect it for himself. “Looks like some paint drips. Let’s see where they lead.”

  The two brothers followed the drips down the hall, around a corner, and back out toward the lobby. As they neared the café, the drips disappeared.

  “Looks like the trail’s run cold,” Joe said, shrugging.

  Frank glanced around. There were only a few people milling in the lobby. None of them had black paint on them. He turned his attention back to Joe. “Let’s look around a little more. Maybe we missed something.”

  The brothers were making their way back toward the locker room when a boy called out, “Hey, guys.” It was Chet Morton, the Hardys’ best friend, with his sisters, Iola and Mimi.

  “Hey, Chet,” Frank called back. “I thought you had soccer today.”

  Chet smiled at his friend. Soccer was Chet’s new thing. Over the summer, he’d spent all his time on computer games. Before that, he was into robotics. Chet’s interests changed as quickly as the weather and didn’t usually include sports. He was only trying soccer because his mom wanted him doing something active for a change.

  “Yeah. We have a scrimmage,” Chet said. “But Iola is skating in the big competition today, and Mimi has the Junior Skaters’ Challenge. They support me all the time, so I took a day off to come root them on.”

  “He’s the best big brother ever,” Mimi cheered.

  “At least he doesn’t have to stand in the rain to watch us skate like we did for his game last week,” Iola complained. “He didn’t even get on the field.”

  “You could have used an umbrella,” Chet replied. “Mimi remembered to bring hers.”

  “As much as we’d like to listen to you three make fun of each other, we’re on a case,” Joe interrupted. “You didn’t happen to see anyone come through here with a can of black paint, did you?”

  “Sorry, guys,” Chet said, shaking his head. “We just got here. You’re the first people we’ve run into.”

  “What’s the case?” asked Mimi.

  “Someone poured paint on the Bayport Checkers’ lucky skate,” Frank explained.

  “Eww. That’s not good,” said Iola. “Those hockey players are really superstitious.”