Lunch time is nearly over in Toronto Maple Leaf Tower. For Lou Lamoriello this presents a difficult challenge. He has only eaten one slice of the extra large thin crust pepperoni pizza he ordered. Can he make the remaining eleven pieces last until next Lous’day? And if he can find proper storage, will he be able to finish the whole pie before the next chance to indulge his pizza habit. Last week he had been forced to feed several stray dogs with the remaining slices. Giving freely did not sit well with the GM.

Kyle Dubas is lazily picking at his remaining sweet potato fries. He has mostly lost interest, only eating out of habit. Kyle is focused on his phone where he is reading up on stats for his upcoming fantasy lacrosse league draft. He is trying to decide if the move to Saskatchewan will have any upside for league champion Rush’s captain Chris Corbiel.

Mark Hunter sits across from Kyle. He holds a full bucket of boiled shrimp under his arm. An empty bucket lies on top of a small mound of shrimp husks at his feet. Mark is rhythmically pulling shrimp from the bucket; dunking them in horse radish; tossing them into his mouth for a quick, loud chew; then spitting out the chewed up tail and husk, adding to the pile. The steady chew, spit and thwack of shrimp carcass is the only sound in the office.

Brendan Shanahan sits beside Mark. His regular meal of three eggs and a pound of tofu bacon fried in coconut oil digesting in his contented belly. The president lets out a loud belch, signifying the end of break time.

“Did you talk to Leos’ lawyer yet?” He asks Kyle, who nods and taps at his phone several times. “Well, what are we looking at?”

“He led the police around Finland in a high speed pursuit for over an hour.” Kyle is reading his phone. “When he finally pulled over in front of a butcher shop he told the police that Jeff O’Niel had sent him on an emergency beef run.”

“Fuck. What was he on?” Asks Brendan, fearing the worst.

“He wasn’t on anything. All they found was three large ziplock bags of Shakeology powder in his trunk. They were labelled ‘Cocaine’, ‘Crystal Hash’, and ‘Under-Age Prostitute’. That’s why the fine is so high. I guess the crime lab booked a week of over time while they tried to figure out what was in the bags and the state wants to recover the cost.”

Chew, spit, thwack, chew, spit, thwack.

“What the fuck do I do?” Lou is wondering aloud whether he should freeze his pizza. It might last longer, but would it ever be the same?

“I don’t think we do anything.” Brendan answers. “He didn’t rape anybody, he wasn’t busted with any drugs, hell, he didn’t even crash his car. We support Leo during this difficult time and welcome him back whenever he’s available.”

“You don’t actually think he’ll get any jail time do you?” Kyle asks.

“We’ll just have to wait and see. Have legal contact Leos’ lawyers, offer any help they need. Moving on, Lou, I want to see what we can get for Dion, if we can get a first round draft choice in a deal we might make a move.”

Chew, spit, thwack, chew, spit, thwack.

Kyle breaks the tension. “Mike is pretty excited about Dion, B. He talks about him all the time.”

As if he were answering a call Mike Babcock bursts into the room. He is sweating and out of breath.

“Mrs. Mathias brought a truckload of cookies to the rink!” Turning to leave, Mike is surprised when he sees nobody rush to follow him. He faces the group again. “They are pretty good cookies boys. She even made some oatmeal ones just for you Lou.”

“We fuckin just finished fuckin lunch.” Lou responds. “I ordered a whole fuckin pizza over here. What the fuck do I want oatmeal cookies for?”

“So no one’s coming for cookies? Mrs. Mathias worked really hard to make them you know. Well, if you don’t want any cookies, at least we can all say it together again.”

The coach holds his hands together and bows his head. The other men in the room do the same. 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.”

Without another word Mike takes off at a run. Lou picks up his phone and presses the intercom button. “Send someone to the rink to pick up my fuckin oatmeal cookies.” Hanging up he looks to Brendan. “So, who we trading our captain to?”

A dart flies from Brendans hand in answer. It strikes the wall size map of North America across the room, almost directly on the logo of an NHL franchise. Lou shakes his head, quietly cursing amateurs as he flips through the worlds last functioning rolodex. As Lou dials his phone, Brendan, Kyle and Mark each activate an earpiece which allows them to hear what Lou hears.

“Hello.” The booming voice of Vancouver Canucks GM Jim Benning assaults their ears. “Hello, hold on. No that one goes there and those ones go over on the other side. You know what, just leave, I’ll do it myself okay. Thanks. Sheesh, some people just don’t understand flower arrangements. Hello, who is this?”

“It’s fuckin Lou Lamoriello, dipshit.”

“Holy shit, Lou? Hi, hey, hi, um, whats going on?”

“I’m calling about tulips.”

“Really?” The genuine excitement in Jims voice pours through the phone line. “I love tulips, what kind do you have? Let me guess, Tulipa Ulophylla? Tulipa Lemmersii? Not Tulipa Edulis?!”

“Are you fuckin high? I called about work. Fuck.”

“I’m not not saying I’m high. It’s all good, it’s still early. Let’s trade goalies. You want Miller?”

Lou doesn’t even need to look at Brendan to know the president is shaking his head. “I’m not giving you Bernier for fuckin father time over there. No fuckin chance.”

“Bernier? What, Oohhhh, right, I forgot. Leafs, Leafs, hmmmm.” Jim continues to ramble on to himself. Lou motions to Brendan, wondering if he can hang up but the president shakes his head. “Wait, that’s it. Lou, can we talk about Phaneuf?”

“We can talk about anyone Jimbo. What have you got for me?”

“I’m just brainstorming here, but, what if I give you the twins for Dion.”

Frantically Kyle starts checking his phone, writing stats and figures on the white board beside his chair. Lou plays flabbergasted to buy his assistant time.

“Holy fuck Jimbo. That’s a huge fuckin deal. Huge fuckin deal. I mean I guess, fuck, but if you throw in some fuckin draft picks we could have something.”

“Picks? But you get two guys man. Two.”

“And in three years I have jack shit while you have my captain. Come on, throw in a first rounder in ’18. ’19 if you like. I’ll even buy you a hookah for your hemp parties”

“I did just break my hookah last night in a waggy dog suit incident. Okay. I’ll take the hookah, and give you a first rounder in ’19. But lets do Phaneuf, Rielly and Brenier for Borrows, Horvat, and Miller.”

“That has to be the stupidest fuckin trade I ever fuckin heard in my whole fuckin career Jimbo.”

Jim has no response to this. The steady chew, spit, thwack of Marks shrimp fills the silence. “Whats that noise?” Jim finally asks.

“I’m watching a bulldog eat shrimp. It’s fuckin disgusting.”

“Oh man, that reminds me, Lou I gotta go. I am totally starving. I’ll call you back after my sushi.”

“Don’t worry about it Jimbo, I don’t think we have a deal here.”

“Okay, but I really want that hookah, just don’t mail it to work okay. Politics, you know.”

Lou hangs up and looks over to Brendan.

“Nice work Lou, but you do have to buy him that hookah.”

“Fuck Brendan, no. What the fuck. I don’t even know what a hookah is. I read about them one time in Hustler is all. God fuckin shit! Well, I might as well get a fuckin pizza fridge while I’m at it.”

“There’s a fridge in the bar Lou.” Brendan says, waving at the bar behind him.

“That fridge is to small for the whole pie to lie flat. You gotta stack the slices. I won’t fuckin stack ‘em Brendan. Not on fuckin Lous’day.”