The garden on the roof of Toronto Maple Leaf tower is open to the public. On this chilly February morning only Lou Lamoriello is enjoying it. He is wrapped in a woolen blanket, smoking a cigar and tossing old pizza crusts at the birds. He wants to feed them but is only managing to scare them away. Some of the bolder pigeons fly back down to pick at the projectiles to the delight of the GM.

The sun rises over the city of Toronto. Lou sits on a heated bench and falls asleep. The cigar clings to his lip dangerously close to the blanket. Lou smokes in his sleep and ashes fall into his lap. This is how Brendan Shanahan finds him. Kyle Dubas and Mark Hunter flank the Toronto Maple Leaf president. Mark is drinking a hot toddy and Kyle is playing SimCity on his phone. They watch Lou for twenty minutes. Finally the cigar burns Lou’s lips and he wakes with a sputter.

“Brendan, crap.” Lou stands up and stamps out the stogie. He pulls another one out from under his blanket and sucks on it without lighting it. “I was just bird watching over here. What are you doing sneaking up on me like that? A guy could get shot doing that sort of thing. What do you want? Did we have a meeting?”

“No Lou.” Brendan says. “We don’t have a meeting planned for today. I just wanted to see what you were doing. With the trade deadline coming up I imagine you’re very busy making and taking calls right. Have you got any more deals cooking?”

Lou pulls a pizza crust from under his robe. Carefully he aims at the nearest pigeon. Squinting, he looks down his arm and waits. The gentle breeze dies completely. Lou cocks back his arm and hurls the crust hard. He nearly clips the bird as it flies away.

“Damn.” He says. “You assholes distracted me. I almost had that one. I have lots of deals in the works. I can’t even remember them all, that’s how many deals I’ve got cooking. Don’t worry, if my phone rings I’ll answer it.”

“Kyle, can you call Lou please.” Brendan says.

“Yup, just a sec.” Kyle collects the iron he needs to fabricate the nails required to upgrade his residential properties, then orders  all his factories to produce more. It takes a minute for the factories to spit out the resource. Kyle spends this minute browsing the online trading post but doesn’t find anything worth buying. Finally he closes the game and opens his contact list. He finds Lou’s cell number and calls it.

“It’s ringing.” Kyle says.

“Can you put it on speaker please.” Brendan asks.

Kyle presses the speaker button and the sound of ringing spills out of his device. For several moments this is the only sound in the garden. Lou makes a show of checking his pockets then shrugs.

“I bet the dummy has the wrong number.”

“Hello this is Lou.” It is Lou’s voicemail that finally answers. “If I wanted to talk to you I would have answered my phone. Fuck off. I’m busy.”

“Gimme a break Brendo.” Lou pulls a pizza crust out from under his blanket and takes a bit. “I know what I’m doing. I didn’t just leave my phone somewhere and forget about it. The old Let Your Calls Go To Voicemail gag is one of the oldest tricks in the GM book. It’s all part of the process. Haven’t I made enough magic happen yet for you to trust me?”

“How does not taking calls help you make trades?” Brendan asks.

“Because if some shmuck leaves a message then I know he’s desperate.” Lou answers.

Mark tosses his empty cup over his shoulder and wanders over to the edge of the roof. He snorts like a walrus with a sinus cold then slowly lets a loogie drop from his mouth over the side. He watches the spit as it falls but loses track of it before it lands far below.

Lou takes a bit of his soggy cigar end and chews it. He then takes another bit of pizza crust and chews wetly as he wanders over to Mark. He looks over the edge of the building and spits out his cud ball. Both Lou and Mark watch in silence as the tobacco, saliva, and pizza dough reach terminal velocity. The ball lands on the street with a thwack missing several heads, but catching one new pair of sneakers in the splash zone.

“See, the trick is to chew up something fibrous but colourful. That way you can watch it all the way down.” Lou hands his wet cigar and half pizza crust to Mark as he explains. “I find that the heavier I make the wad the more likely it is to hit where I aim.” Mark nods as he takes the ammunition from Lou. “The thing to remember is that it’s all a game.” This is directed to Brendan who has been exercising his patience. “If I talk to another GM than he knows what I am trying to pitch. If I don’t talk to that GM than not only does he need to wonder what deals I am trying to work, but who I might be working them with. I’m planting seeds of doubt, then, when those seeds grow into a doubt bush, I pick the berries dinglling in the breeze. Dingle berries Brendo, dingle berries.”

“I can’t believe that actually makes sense.” Brendan says to Kyle.

Kyle does not look up from his phone. He is trying to decide whether to  comission more power stations or save up to buy an education department for his SimCity.

“Still,” Brendan walks over to Lou and Mark by the building edge. “I would like to know what sort of plans you have going into the deadline. I mean there are lots of interesting possibilities right, given our cap space and our long term goals.”

“Sure Brendo, I got plans.” Lou says. “Possibilities? Lots of things are possible. I could trade our next four first round picks to get the Stalls out of Carolina or I could give Reilly and Marner to Edmonton for Nugent-Tompkins.”

“Hopkins” Kyle chimes in to correct Lou.

“Gesundheit.” Lou says.

“Don’t make either of those trades.” Brendan says.

“I know boss. We want to gather picks not send them away.” Lou shakes his head and does not say what he really wants to say. “I understand the plan and I’m going to stick with it no matter how much I hate losing.”

“Any more talks with Stevie?” Brendan means Steve Yzerman, the GM of the Tampa Bay Lightning.

“We haven’t talked since the last time.” Lou says. “He will only make a deal for Stamkos if we throw Rielly in the mix. He won’t budge on that. Fuck ‘im! If he wants to be a stubborn prick he can lose his franchise player for nothing.”

“It would be nice to ship some contracts out to make more cap space though.” Brendan says.

“Sure it would be Brendo, but no one would ever trade Stamkos for Lupol and Bozak.” Lou pulls another pizza crust out from under his blanket. This one he hurls at Kyle, who does not notice the projectile until it is too late.

“Ass!” Lou shouts at Kyle. “come over here. Kids these days. Am I right.”

Mark and Brendan do not respond, they are watching Marks tobacco/crust wad plummet to the ground. Marks aim is true and he dents the hood of a taxi on the street below. Kyle has put his phone away and stares daggers at Lou as he walks over to the group.

Lou clears his throat. “So listen, you know I hate doing this but we gotta be productive today right.” Lou lowers his voice to a whisper forcing the other men to lean in close. “We all know Yzerman is painted into a corner here. Stamkos will only waive his no trade to come here but we ain’t willing to give up what he wants. Our best play is to just keep prayin’ and waitin’. So let’s do this.”

“Ha!” A shout erupts from behind a bush, surprising the group. Mike Babcock stands up wearing his Toronto Maple Leaf urban camouflage suit. “I caught you! I knew you believed in it too. This is great, let’s all say it together.”

The Toronto Maple Leaf head coach jogs over and holds out his hands. The others reach out and they form a circle. As one they 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.”

“That was great guys.” Mike says. “Gotta run. We are having goat for our team dinner tonight, so I’m taking the boys to the farm. Any man who won’t slaughter his own goat is benched, so this is gonna be a great trip.” Mike whistles as he leaves the group.

“God I hate that guy.” Lou says. “Just let me fire him Brendo. He’s creepy. How the hell did he sneak up on us like that? I think he’s a witch.”

“No.” Brendan says.

“Fine, if I can’t burn him at least let me tie rocks to his ankles and throw him in a river. Then if he floats he’s a witch, and I can fire him up. If he drowns then we know he was an innocent soul and he’s freezing in Hel.”

Brendan, Mark and Kyle stare at Lou blankly. The silence stretches out awkwardly.

“You know, Hel, the Scandanavian underworld where souls go when they can’t get into Valhalla. It’s freezing cold all the time and there’s a snake that might just swallow you whole. Pretty miserable really. Almost like East Jersey, now that place is miserable. One time I saw a hooker pee on a guy on a street corner there. It was awful. You guys wanna go to the peelers for breakfast?”