As Mike Babcock strides through Toronto Maple Leafs Tower he hums to himself as softly as he can. This is quite loud to human ears. The song is not one he’s heard before on the radio or the itunes. It is the song of the universe that the coach is channeling, everlasting and ever changing.

As a courtesy he remembers to knock before opening the door to Lou Lamoriellos office and is surprised when he finds the GM alone.

“What the fuck do you want?” Asks Lou.

“I was just looking for the boys.”

“They ain’t here.” Lou doesn’t add ‘DUH!’ with his voice, just his eyes.

“I know they had a thing this morning. I thought they would be back by now though.”

Lous phone rings and he answers before the ring is even complete. After listening for one full second he yells as loud as he can.

“FUCK YOU!” Hanging up he looks back to Mike. “What the fuck are you still here for?”

“I was wondering if you knew when the boys are getting back Lou?”

“How the fuck would I know?”

The two men lock glares. Each look has wilted many lesser men, and will again. No one blows off a question from Mike Babcock. Lou Lamoriellos answers are all final ones. Time stops on the forty-first floor of Toronto Maple Leaf Tower. Even several stories below computer screens stop working and the water drains counter-clockwise. How long could such a stare-off last? The demi-gods in the room themselves probably could not answer. Lous phone rings, ending the contest. Snake like Lou picks up the phone and after only the briefest of moments bellows.

“FUCK YOU!” Slamming the phone he looks back at the coach to find that Mikes glare has not altered one bit. “I’m gonna fuckin love firing you one day ya fuckin wierdo.”

“I don’t think you will fire me Lou.”

‘You shit your thinking, you hoof lickin fuck. I can fire a coach so fast its like a bottle rocket up his ass.”

“I don’t believe you can fire me. Not without permission Lou.”

“Permission!?! Lou Lamoriello doesn’t ask for fuckin permission. Lou fuckin Lamoriello fuckin gives permission! I give you permission you zit tickling fuck nibblet! I give you permission to get fuckin fired bitch!”

“My contract is longer than yours Lou. And I make more money.”

“So what? I already hired your replacement. What do you think Jacques’ special assignment is, cum stain? One fuck up is all I need, ass squirrel, and you are done here.”

“I’m going to be the coach here long after your dead old man.”

“I’m gonna fire you and go for a hummer. Only thing I love more than firing coaches is a nice sloppy hummer.”

The doors to the office open and in walks Brendan Shanahan, Mark Hunter, and Kyle Dubas. Brendan and Kyle both hold half eaten blue cotton candies, and the candy has gotten everywhere. Mark holds a dozen balloons, which float above his head like a rainbow halo.

“Hey Mike,” says Brendan. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Lou told you we ran into Jeff O’Neil at the fair?”

“Yeah, no. No problem. I’m actually on my way to show Devon and some of the boys how to juice and pickle beets. Not at the same time.” Mike laughs a genuine and hearty chuckle not shared by his companions. “I was just hoping we could say it one time first.”

“Sure.” Brendan says.

Kyle hids his smile behind his cotton candy, and takes a quick bite. Mark squeezes a blue balloon between his hands, popping it. The men all bow their heads and hold their hands together. 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.” Even as they speak the last word Lous phone rings.

Reacting automatically, and forgetting who is in the room, Lou picks up the phone. He listens for a hearts beat.

“FUCK YOU!” He yells then slams the phone down hard.

Every man in the room appreciates the beating Lous old landline can handle. No smart phone could ever stand up to that sort of abuse. Mark pops a green balloon between his hands, and the president speaks.

“I thought we dealt with this already Lou.”

“I just,” Lou seems to shrink a little as he appeals to Brendan. “I just need a little more time. One month, maybe four.”

“Call him Lou.” No one else on the Earth would ever dream of telling Lou Lamoriello what to do.

“I just…I fuckin…Can I..? Fuck.” Dejected, Lou picks up the phone and dials.

Brendan and Mark activate their earpieces. As he activates his own Kyle walks over to Mike, handing one to the coach so he can hear what Lou hears.

“Hello?” It is a wary voice that finally answers the other line.

“It’s me Ray. I’m sorry about hanging up on you like that before.”

“I understand Lou.” Ray Shero, GM of the New Jersey Devils, has always been reknowned for his sympathetic ear. That and his webbed feet. “It’s okay to be mad, but hey, look at you, GM in Toronto, nice deal! Oh, can you remind Jacques that he has my Grease 2 soundtrack. He left before I could get that back.”

“Did you call to suck dicks together all day?” Asks Lou.

“I want to do business Lou, Like the old days. You remember the Modry deal?”

“You were just an ass in Ottawa.”

“Whatever. Who did you end up taking with that pick anyway?”

“Alyn McCauley”

“Good times. Look, the reason I’m calling is I wanna know if I can maybe pry Gardiner away from you. But I gotta tell you up front, I won’t be able to throw in any picks this time, bodies only.”

Brendan is frowning and shaking his head the moment ‘no picks’ is uttered. Lou smiles from ear to ear.

“Let me hear your pitch then Ray.”

“I can’t give you picks, but what would you say to two hometown boys? Cammaleri and Burlon. Let me tell you about this Burlon.”

“I know your fuckin prospects asshole. So, Burly and Camm-Town for the Expressway.”

“The what?”

“Gardiner. The Gardiner Expressway? Fuck, nevermind. I like it.”

“You do?”

“Sure. I’ll give you Gardiner, you’ll give me Cammalleri, Burlon, and a hummer.”

“What?”

“A hummer Ray. From you, ya team stealing fuck. You come over here and hum ‘America the beautiful’ on my frothy grey balls and I will do this deal. But I like my hummers sloppy Ray. Real sloppy.”

“Fuck You Lou.”

“FUCK!!! YOU!!!” Lou slams his phone down so hard it shatters then lets out a long sigh of relief.

“That was great,” says Mike. “Gotta go. Lots to do, lots to do.”

Leaving the office, the coach tosses his borrowed earpiece back to Kyle then starts humming loudly. Even prepared Kyle would struggle to handle the famous Babcock heat. He doesn’t stand a chance now, noticing the projectile only as it impacts his forehead. The welt it leaves is deep red and growing quickly. Kyle staggers from the hit. Mark squeezes a yellow balloon between his hands, popping it.

“Don’t worry,” says Brendan. “We’ll get you another phone right away Lou.”