The offices in Toronto Maple Leaf Tower were quiet. They were always quiet on Tuesday lately. Tuesday was Lous’day. No one did anything to bother Lou Lamoriello on Lous’day.

The man himself was seated behind a massive south facing desk that takes up the whole North quarter of his magnificent office. On the wall behind him a digital clock reads 422,873:36:12, keeping time to the second. Below this was a small plaque with a red button in the middle. Engraved below are the words ‘Press to reset when Stanley Cup is won.’ Someone had carved BB WILL PUSH THE BUTTON repeatedley into the wall surrounding the plaque.

On the other side of that desk are Brendan Shanahan; Mark Hunter; and Kyle Dubas. Kyle is writing and erasing numbers on a white board situated so all the men can see it. There is a large map of North America on the West wall behind him. On this map each of the other NHL franchise locations are marked by their respective logos. Mark is gripping a pencil and staring at this map with intensity. Brendan is on the phone.

“Ok, yeah that sounds great. I gotta go. Yeah. No. Okay, bye.” Before the phone has been returned to Brendans sport jacket pocket Lou is barking.

“How goes the social media Marsha Brady, can we get to fuckin work now?”

“Sorry Lou, Jeff O’Neil was telling me about a soft taco food truck he found”

Lou does not acknowledge the apology, instead he starts talking to a spot on the wall above Kyle Dubas’ head. “Who we doin today Skippy?”

Kyle does his best to feel confident as he consults his phone and answers. “Bozak”

“Alright, who we gonna trade with?”

A dart flys from Brendans hand in answer, striking the map on the West wall no more than an inch away from one of the logos. The pencil in Marks hand snaps and Kyle sighs audibly. It is Lou, of course, who breaks the silence.

“Edmonton. Fuck. Fuck you Brendan. I know you throw darts like a polish sailor you Irish fuckin rat.”

There is an abrupt knock on the door on the South wall of the office. Before anyone can answer Mike Babcock steps into the room.

“Hey boys. Lou. Did you say it today?”

“Yes Mike.” Brendan answers

“Would you all like to say it together one time with me?”

Another pencil snaps in Marks fist, Kyle smiles, hidden by the white board. Behind the coaches eyes there is a hardness which cuts through the innocence in his tone. He is not to be denied. The five men all hold their hands together and bow their heads. After a moment of silence they speak in unison as if the words were a spell. And maybe words do hold the power to create.

“Dear God and Lord Stanley, Thank you for bringing us together here in Toronto, and please help Steven Stamkos find his way home.”

“Gotta go boys. Lou. Lots to do.” The door is closing behind the coach as the others look up.

“Holy fuck. Can I fire him yet?”

Brendan just stares in response.

“Alright, alright fuckin Bozak to fuckin Edmonton. Fine, no problem.” Lou pulls a well worn stack of business cards from a desk drawer. As he flips through the cards he begins cursing under his breath, louder and louder until at last he finds the card he wants. “Chia fuckin Rally. Alright lets do this.” While Lou dials the others activate small earpieces that are digitally linked to the phone allowing each to hear what Lou hears. After six rings the familiar voice of Peter Chiarelli answers.

“Hello”

“Petey, its Lou, fuck off and lets do some work”

“Its 6:30 in the morning Lou”

“Its 6:30 in your mother mother fucker. We gotta move on from Bozak. You need someone to take a D-Zone draw. What’ll ya give me?”

Silence greets this question. Lou lets it linger breathing heavily into the phone. At last Mr. Chiarelli answers. “I could maybe move Nikitin, but he’s got one year left only.”

Kyle consults his phone and then springs to the white board writing INJURED? with his green erasable marker.

“Nikitin, what is he? A winger? I don’t need a winger.”

“He’s D Lou.”

Kyle underlines the word on the white board.

“I do like a D-man.”

“Maybe I should talk to Brendan.”

“FUCK YOU! Talk to Brendan? You can talk to Brendan fuckin Shanahan at my fuckin funeral you piece of Harvard dog shit. You wanna deal Nikitin? Fine, Bozak for Nikitin. Done.”

Lou is panting as Kyle furiously underlines INJURED? On the white board. Another pencil has snapped in Marks fist. The only one in the room who seems calm is Brendan.

“Hold on Lou, Bozak has three years left on his deal. Niki only has one. You gotta sweetin the pot.”

“Alright ya prick. Bozak has three years? Like I fuckin know. What if I keep 600k on my books?”

“I don’t know Lou.”

“800k you fuckin piece of fuckin shit. Fuck.”

“Bozak minus 800k for Nikitin? Okay.”

“Great. I’ll have some papers fax machined over to you. You’re a hell of a guy Petey.”

“I hate when you call me that Lou.”

Kyle has slumped into his chair and is weakly waving at the white board. Mark pulls a pencil from his jacket and immediately snaps it. Lou winks dramatically at the wall a few feet above Kyles head.

“Oh wait, Petey, he is medically cleared to play right.”

There is a long pause followed by a sigh. “No Lou, not technically, not as of today.”

Lou begins screaming into the phone, a passionate and entirely coherent rant about Mr. Chiarelli and the qualities he shares with leeches. Kyle finds a name on his phone, re-checks his numbers, appreciates his flawless math, writes the name on the board, and still has time to be impressed by the depth and thoroughness of the tirade his boss is throwing down. Without a moments warning Lou changes track.

“What about this Schu fella. He’s a D ain’t he?”

“Schu?” Peter can’t help but sound a bit thrown off by the wily tactics.

“Yeah, whats his name? Justi Schu? I don’t know. Fuck, he’s on your fuckin team.”

“Oh, Schultz. You mean Justin Schultz. Bozak minus 800k for Schultz?”

“600k you lyin piece of shit. And a seventh rouder in ’18 for trying to cheat me ya meatball butt toy.” There is silence on the other end of the line. Lou gives a thumbs up before he continues. “Insulate McDoodoo Petey, you know it’s best for the kid”

After a long pause there is a long sigh.“Sorry Lou. I can’t do it.”

“Whats a matter bitch? Old papa Pharma-Mart won’t let you trade a Norris contender? You fuckin bitch.” Lou hangs up the phone with contempt then looks above Dubas’ head. “Hope you were fuckin taking notes Skippy, cause that’s called making magic happen.”

“But you didn’t actually make the trade Lou.” Brendan observes.

“Fuck it, I’m spent. I need a pizza and a steam. Happy fuckin Lous’day.”