Lou Lamoriello sits in his office on the forty-first floor of Toronto Maple Leaf Tower. The entire space is hazy with smoke from the large joint Lou is puffing on. The pungent marijuana fumes wreath the GM’s head as he cradles a joint as big as a babies arm in both hands. An ashtray overflowing with the stubbed-out roaches of previous joints sits on his desk. Lou reaches out to press the intercom button on his phone and a large chunk of ash falls from the joint onto his lap.

“Nancy, it’s Lou. I need a large, thin-crust, pepperoni pizza. Also, can you rent a puppy for me to play with for about an hour. And I want pumpkin spice latte but instead of pumpkin spice put in a banana. And where the hell are my fancy stats from last night?”

The receptionist sighs loudly and waits a long time before answering. “My name is Nathan, Lou. Again, there is no Nancy at this desk. My name is Nathan. And I ordered your pizza five minutes ago.”

“Well that’s great Nancy, what about the rest?”

Another loud, long sigh precedes the response. “Puppies are not a rentable item, I will have another latte with a banana in it made immediately, and all the game stats are in the folder on your desk labelled ‘Analytics.’ Was that all Lou?”

Lou does not answer. He finds the folder underneath the ash tray and begins to look through it. Time passes while Lou sits in a smoky tableau. A new joint, as big as a babies arm, is fired up moments after the old joint is finished. Suddenly, without any warning, the door to the office is opened and in walk Brendan Shanahan, Mark Hunter, and Kyle Dubas.

“What are you doing Lou? The whole tower smells like dope.” Brendan does not look like a happy president.

“Close the door!” Lou barks.

Mark moves to close the door then makes his way over to the full service bar. He clatters around in the fridge then pops back up with two pints of chocolate milk. As Mark walks back to Brendan’s side, Kyle starts to cough. Mark hands one of the pints to Kyle and keeps the other for himself.

“Whats the problem? I’m just having my medicine. It’s the only thing that eases my bowels. Getting old is the worst.”

“You can’t do drugs at work, Lou.” Brendan says.

“Why not? I thought weed was legal now. Isn’t that why you voted in that pretty boy with the face and the hair. What’s his name? I can’t believe it, it’s Not wrong, um, it’s A fact, um um…”

“It’s Trudeau.” Kyle chimes in between gulps of sweet chocolatey cow nectar.

“Right, I can’t believe it, it’s Trudeau. Didn’t he legalize it? If I can’t sit here and get baked in my office to calm down my explosive diarrhea, then what the hell are we doing here? The politics in this country are so confusing and pointless.”

Mark walks over to Lou and takes the joint. He pulls long on it as he walks back to Brendan, then exhales into his chocolate milk, blowing bubbles that surface with a smoky pop. Mark hands the joint to Brendan who gently kisses it and takes just a little smoke in before he speaks.

“I don’t want you to suffer Lou, but do you have to smoke so much?” Brendan takes another pull before handing the joint to Kyle.

“But I hardly even had six joints today.” Lou whines.

“I think six joints a day is plenty Lou. In fact I am making a presidential decree. As a new club rule, only six joints may be smoked per day, in the office.”

Lou slumps in his chair. Kyle passes the joint back to him, but it doesn’t soften his pouty sulk-face. “Six joints starting now.” Lou mumbles under his breath between puffs. Brendan hears him, but before he can correct the GM there is a knock at the door and Mike Babcock steps into the room without waiting for an answer.

“Smells pretty good in here boys.” Mike says. He takes an exaggerated sniff. “Out door crop, some kind of Purple Kush. Harvested somewhere south of Nelson B.C. I think. Grower uses a lot of coffee grounds in their fertilizer. That’s why the earthy undertone is so pronounced. I wish I had time for a session, but there is just too much to do. I had the team write essays on perseverance after the game last night, and before I start marking them I need to cross reference each guys ice-time to caloric intake ratio. The goalies are starting their ancient mythology course today, and we just got the compressor for the bouncy house fixed. Plus I need approval in the budget to get a team greenhouse started. I want each player to nurture a lily over the course of the season. It will help them learn patience and commitment.”

“No problem Mike.” Brendan says.

“Great. I gotta run. Let’s just say it quick.” Mike holds his hands together and bows his head. The other men 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.”

Mike says, “Let me get just a little taste of that.” He runs over to Lou and takes the joint from his hands, spilling ash all over the GM. The coach takes an impossibly long drag. A full inch of massive joint is sucked up into Mike’s lungs. He passes the joint back and runs to the door. “I love out-door Kush.” he says, exhaling into the room before he leaves, slamming the door shut.

“God I hate that guy. He even juiced up the end.” Lou says, puffing on the joint despite the fresh coat of Babcock saliva. “Hey ass,” Lou is referring to Kyle. “These fancy stats you gave me suck. There isn’t even a percentage of shots against versus saves made.”

Kyle walks over and looks at Lou’s folder. “Save percentage is right here on the first page, and a more detailed breakdown of the numbers is right here in the section marked save percentage.” Kyle reaches out for the joint but Lou pulls it away.

“Never fuck with the cypher.” Lou says, holding the joint out to Mark, who takes it. “Another thing I can’t find is the player salary to ice time metric.”

“That is not a stat we track Lou.” Kyle says.

“Like I said, these stats suck. I don’t even know why I bother with them. Analytics shamalytics. You know how I tell which guys are playing good? I feel the heat coming off their ass cheeks. Fool proof system”

“We talked about that.” Brendan says, accepting the joint and taking a gentle little toke before passing it to Kyle. “The players don’t feel comfortable with your system Lou. That’s why you’re not allowed in the locker-room between periods anymore, remember.”

“Another thing I don’t understand,” Lou says. “How the hell can that Harpist guy just quit?”

“Harpist?” Brendan looks to Mark and Kyle who both shrug, as baffled as the president.

“You know. The loser. The ex-president or whatever you call it up here.”

“Harper? Are you talking about politics again?”

“I’m pretty sure his name is Harpist. Anyway, how can he just quit? He ran in the election right. He won some kind of chair. How can he just walk away from that?”

It is Kyle that answers. “Well I guess because his party got beaten pretty bad he decided he couldn’t be effective anymore.”

“What a bunch of bullshit. He only wants to be in the game if he’s in charge? That’s how a four year old plays. He got voted in because enough suckers still believe in his shit and want that shitty greedy view represented. Then he pulls some cowardly crotch punching garbage and bails on the morons without even giving a speech? He quit in an email! What a bitch. If I was one of the stupid lazy crack-addict slobs who voted for that guy I would be pissed.”

The intercom on Lou’s desk buzzes. “Your pizza is here Mr. Lamoriello.”

“Excellent. Send it in Nancy.”