“Hart of the Team”
“Nosedive! Nosedive! Over here!”
Nosedive whirled on his skates after the first interview and resituated his Stanley Cup winner’s hat backwards. Gliding to a stop in front of Bill Clement and the cameraman, Nosedive accepted the hand offered. “Hey, Billy! Five minutes, okay?” He motioned toward his soaking wet hair. “There’s a water bottle with Wing’s name on it, and I want to get him during an interview.”
“Sure, we’ll make it quick. Just a little interview for the fans at home.”
The cameraman counted down from five, then pointed to Bill.
“Welcome to
Nosedive waved into the camera. “Hey, people!”
“Now, Nosedive, tell us. Throughout the playoffs, there had been debate about who should win the Conn Smythe Trophy, you or your brother.”
“Wow,” Nosedive laughed. “That was The Talk? And here I thought The Talk was about who was actually going to win the Stanley Cup.”
Bill ignored him. “How do you feel about your brother being awarded the Conn Smythe and not you?” Bill pushed the microphone underneath Nosedive’s beak.
The teen stared at him with his patented “You’re-an-idiot”
look, then smiled fondly. “Dude, Wild totally deserved it. He’s the backbone of
the team, you know? We’d be lost without him holding up the backend, and…” He
leaned backwards and deliberately shouted over the clamor of reporters and the
cheers of fans, “IT’S NOT LIKE I STUFFED THE EMAILS!” He shrugged and lowered
his voice. “So, you know, what can you do?”
“WHAT WAS THAT?” Wildwing shouted back, turning from an interview with ESPN. “I thought I heard lies!”
“You’re so vain! You think we were talking about you and that—” His eyebrows furled in mock contemplation. “What’s that thingamajig called again? I forget. The Conned-My-Little-Brother-from-His Rightful-Smythe Trophy?”
“I think you’re confusing the Conn Smythe with Your-Older-Brother-Kicked-Your-Ass-in-Voting Trophy. Oh, no. Wait. They’re the same. My bad.”
“My bad? What’s that?” Nosedive’sjovial face contorted from the straining of trying NOT to laughing. “ ‘My bad?’ What are you, thirteen or something?”
Wildwing had a hard problem hiding his affectionate smile. “It was better than,
‘You got served,’ which, you know, you were.”
“Well, thanks for waiting on me, Jeebs,” Nosedive retorted and smacked his shoulders in a move that screamed, “You want a piece of me?” “I think we all know the problem here. The Hart Trophy still has to be given out, and you’re just afraid that maybe, possibly, in a blue moon, your baby brother could be better at something than you.”
“Well, when he is, let me know, okay? Until then, I’ll just hold onto this baby.” Wildwing held up the Conn Smythe with a wide grin parting his beak.
Nosedive looked back at Bill with a chuckling smile. “Dude, I so don’t have a retort for that.”
“So, do you think going to win the Hart Trophy?” Bill asked.
Glancing over his shoulder, he found himself meeting Wildwing’s eyes, and the same word uttered from his beak came from his brother’s. “Him.”
And the corniness ends!