Because of a cowgirl named Stephanie Becker, I ended up wondering which would kill me first -- a charging bull or a man with a rifle. But that was on a cold moonlit night in the mountains, long after we first met.

All of it really began ten months earlier at the end of the hockey season, when I saw her at an awards dinner for the Kamloops Blazers hockey team. I'll tell you right now, it wasn't the way I wanted to meet a beautiful girl.

It was one of those dinners with about five hundred people in one of those big hotel rooms used for wedding dances. The lights were low except for the spotlight on the stage. The man behind the microphone started, "This year's Most Valuable Player award goes to . . ."

The announcer wore a tuxedo that didn't hide his big belly. He spoke in the kind of low voice that people use when you know they love to hear themselves talk. He dragged out the suspense.

"Yes, folks, it's our final award of the evening. The one we've been waiting for. It goes to . . ."

He tried to add more suspense. Not that I felt any. Everyone knew the best player on our team was Luke Zannetti. He'd scored 212 points and led us to the Memorial Cup championship. Nobody liked him, but he didn't care. He didn't need to care. He had already been drafted by the Montreal Canadians, a team in the National Hockey League. That was one step up from our Tier One junior hockey team in the Western Hockey League. Of course, being drafted didn't guarantee he'd make the team. But the way Luke had been scoring, everyone was sure he'd be playing for the Canadians some day.

"Hey, Louie," someone shouted from the crowd. "Hurry up. Next season's almost here."

A bunch of people laughed.

Louie, whose face had the wrinkles of a bulldog, glared into the crowd. But the spotlight made it hard for him to see beyond the stage. As for me, I was watching a beautiful girl with long blond hair. She sat a few tables away, between me and the stage. I wondered who she was. Even though I didn't know her name, I knew that if she'd just look over and smile, I would ask her to marry me.

On the stage, Louie cleared his throat, hitched his pants, and finished. "The MVP award goes to the left winger, number 17 . . ."

Applause started as people heard the number. I frowned. That wasn't Luke's number. It was . . .

". . . yes, folks. Let's hear it for seventeen-year-old Josh Ellroy!"

I knew that name. I couldn't believe it. But I knew it. It was my name.

"Hey goofball." Gordie Penn, sitting beside me, elbowed my ribs. He elbows a lot of people but usually on the ice during hockey games. "Stand up. You're a star."

"Huh?" I'd won the MVP over Luke Zannetti?

He elbowed me again. "Come on, Cowboy. Stand up. People are staring."

I stood. People were not only staring at me, but they were also clapping. Somehow, with all those eyes staring at me, I had to get to the stage without tripping.

"Cowboy!" Gordie said. "Your coat!"

My sports coat was still on my chair. I'd taken it off because it was too hot. I didn't stop to put it on, though. I was too scared to think straight.

"'Atta boy, Cowboy," Dougie Metcalf called above the noise from another table. "You worked for it!"

Dougie was the center on my line. He'd helped me score 190 points. I tried to say something back to him, but my voice wouldn't even squeak. Nervousness and a dry throat do that to a person.

I stepped toward the stage. It seemed like I was moving in another person's body. A body with rubber legs. Up on the stage, I'd be standing in front of five hundred people. I'd have to speak in front of five hundred people.

The spotlight was on my face and chest as I walked ahead. It was so bright that I could barely see a path. To pack everyone into the room, the round tables were squeezed close together with eight chairs around each. With the meals finished and people sitting back in their chairs, I had to turn sideways to get between the two tables ahead of me.

The clapping got louder. Sweat ran down my ribs from my armpits. This was a lot scarier than going into sudden-death overtime in a crowded arena.

I took another rubbery step. I'd have to squeeze between two more pairs of tables. At one sat the beautiful girl and her long blond hair. Only in my dreams would I be able to say something cool to her as I walked by. I was so scared I'd barely be able to spit out my name.

More clapping. Some whistling. It hit me. Not only would I have to say something when I got the award, but there would also be a photographer from the newspaper. Did I look all right?

As I stumbled ahead, I smoothed my hair with my hands. I ran my tongue over my teeth checking for bits of food. I tightened my tie. There would be five hundred people watching me.

Five hundred.

I turned sideways and slipped between the next two tables.

"Hey, Ellroy," a man at one table said. "I voted for you."

In my fear, I hadn't noticed Pete Burrow, a sportswriter. In my fear, I didn't even think to say thanks. I kept walking.

One last thing to check. My zipper. I hooked my thumbs in my belt and pretended to hitch up my pants. I hoped no one would notice that I reached with a finger for the top of my zipper to make sure it was there.

I nearly fainted. All I felt was air. My zipper was open, and I was about to face five hundred people. I didn't even have a sports coat to cover me up.

But I couldn't do a thing. The spotlight was all over me. I wasn't going to stop in plain view of everyone and zip up.

I had an idea. The blond girl's table was next. As I turned sideways to get past her table, I could turn my back to the spotlight. That way no one would see me quickly yank my zipper into place.

I could rush the length of the ice in under a second, but this trip to the stage was taking forever. Finally, I reached the last set of tables -- and the beautiful girl with long blond hair.

Her perfume reached my nose. So much for being a cool hero. Instead, I was an idiot with an open fly.

I turned sideways, facing the back of her chair. The spotlight was finally off my face. I tried to time it right. I zipped quickly as I kept moving sideways. I stumbled a bit as I turned to the spotlight again, almost tripping.

I took another step. I heard a yelp behind me, but I couldn't stop to see what had happened. Not with everyone staring at me. Maybe I'd stepped on someone's foot and in my nervousness didn't feel it. I hoped it wasn't the girl's foot.

Finally I reached the steps to the stage. The guy in the tuxedo grinned at me. A weird grin. Did he think I would trip as I walked up the steps? Somehow I made it up the steps. I moved across the stage and shook hands with Mr. Tuxedo. Then I faced the crowd. Just me, a microphone, and the MVP trophy in my right hand.

All I saw were the outlines and shadows of lots of people.

"This is a, um, big surprise," I said. I stopped. I didn't know what else to say.

"I'll say it's a surprise," someone yelled. Probably the same guy who had yelled at the announcer earlier. "Look down!"

Laughter started from somewhere, like a little wave from the back. It grew louder.

I told myself I had zipped my fly. I took a quick peek down anyway. And nearly died.

All I could see was blond hair. The blond hair of a wig. Caught in my zipper in front of five hundred people.

Blond hair.

I looked over at the girl's table. She wasn't there. In the shadows at the back, I saw someone run out of the room holding a program over her head.

She had been wearing a wig? The wig that was now stuck in my zipper?

I tried to smile at the five hundred people. I couldn't imagine how this could get worse.

I yanked at the wig. It didn't budge. I yanked harder. I heard a rip that echoed across the room through the microphone.

It had just gotten worse. Not only was the wig still stuck, but now I had also ripped the seam of my pants.

Finally, someone had the sense to shut the spotlight off. I walked off the stage with laughter roaring all around me.

And that was only the beginning of my problems with Stephanie.

For the next ten months, every time I looked at my MVP award I wanted to call her to say I was sorry. But I didn't know her name. We had never met. We didn't go to the same high school. And she probably hated me. I figured it would be crazy to call.

Besides, what would I say? Sorry I pulled your wig off in front of five hundred people? Sorry I let it hang from my zipper? And by the way, why were you wearing a stupid wig in the first place?

So, day after day, whenever I thought of the awards dinner, I tried to think of hockey instead.

That should have been easy.

At the end of the last season, I'd been a draft pick for the Buffalo Sabres, a National Hockey League team. By drafting me, they had secured the rights to me as a player. But it didn't mean I'd automatically make the team.

To improve my chances to play pro hockey, I wanted to be heavier and stronger. So each summer day after working on my dad's cattle ranch, I pumped weights and dreamed about playing for the Sabres.

Training camp for the Kamloops Blazers started late in August. I moved back into town from the ranch to play hockey. After that came the regular season. We practiced or played hockey almost every day through the fall and winter. Toward the end of the season, the team was in a tight race for first place. I was also in a tight race for leading scorer in the league. Luke Zannetti, who was playing bad and had hardly scored in two months, wasn't even in the race. What else was there to think about?

Some girl with blond hair who probably hated me, that's what.

I mean, I tried to fool myself. I told myself that I didn't care. But it bugged me that I never had a chance to say I was sorry. I found myself looking for her in most places I went in Kamloops. If I saw someone with blond hair on the street or in a shopping mall, I'd hope it was her.

But in ten months, I never did find her.

She found me.