Silence rules the forty-first floor of Toronto Maple Leaf tower. Brendan Shanahan and Mark Hunter do nothing to break the spell as they approach the daunting doors of Lou Lamoriello’s office. The foul reek of sweat and stale smoke assaults Brendan’s nose as he opens the door. When he steps inside he is surrounded by snoring, as if the very walls were deep in slumber. The dim light from the hallway does little to illuminate the scene. What he can see is a mess of beer cans, chip bags and pizza boxes.

“Mark can you hit the lights please.” Brendan waits for Mark to find the light switch in the darkness. The big man moves silently. With admirable consideration Mark decides to turn the dimmer switch to its lowest setting, allowing himself and Brendan enough light to see without disturbing those asleep in the office. Sadly nothing protects them from the disturbing sight.

A fire pit smoulders in the center of the room. The remains of a roasted goat have been piled on the ashes. The goat was clearly slaughtered nearby where blood has splashed all over the walls and pooled on the floor. Garth Snow, GM of the New York Islanders, lies naked cuddling the goats severed head covered in clotted blood. Next to the fire a large pile of empty pizza boxes stirs and collapses to the floor exposing Don Sweeney, GM of the Boston Bruins, his bare ass in the air and a half eaten pizza slice is stuck in his hair. In a chair near to Lou’s desk Dale Tallon, GM of the Florida Panthers, is using an empty bottle of rye as a pillow. Goat blood is painted all over his naked body in shamanistic swirls and shapes. Throughout the room dozens of old men snore naked.

Kyle Dubas is curled up on Lou’s desk. The Toronto Maple Leaf assistant GM is fully clothed and seems to be having troubling dreams. He cries out with pathetic moans between snores. Reaching out and drawing back simultaneously.

Standing behind the desk is Lou himself. In one hand he holds a tumbler filled with brown liquor, in the other an enourmous joint burns slowly. His head is tilted back and his eyes are closed. His snow white bush glimmers in the joint light that shines on his ample manhood, which stands in triumphant erection for the first and last time of the year. Brendan thinks his GM is asleep until he lifts the joint to his mouth and takes a deep long toke.

Even as Brendan starts to make his careful way toward his GM, Lou’s eyes open.

“Wait outside Brendo, I’ll be right there.” Lou does not move as he waits for Brendan and Mark to leave his office.

Fifteen minutes later Lou emerges, still naked, and quietly closes the door behind himself. He has refilled his glass and a new joint is tucked behind his ear. Puffing on the old joint in his hand Lou smiles as he greets his boss.

“Hey Brendo, What a night. We were celebrating a job well done, what with the trade deadline passing. We kept it pretty low key, you know, civil. I wish you could have been there but, GMs only. You would have so proud of Kyle, he really held his own. He’s gonna be great for this organization for years to come. What can I do for you? I was just about to have a hot beer and a cold shower but I can put that off if you need me to.”

“You were supposed to hold a press confrence yesterday.” Brendan tries not to sound too angry.

“Oh, yeah, I blew that off. Screw ‘em. All they have is idiot questions about stupid crap anyway.” Lou takes a sip of his drink.

“Well I rescheduled it for today, you need to be ready in an hour. Is that enough time? Or should I call in some help?” Brendan has a staff of stylists on call twenty-four hours a day.

“Damn it Brendo. Fuck. Why’d you do that.” Lou whines, drinks and smokes. “Whatever. I guess I’m gonna talk to the media. My boner wasn’t gonna last much longer anyway. Don’t call your goons, I can be ready in an hour.”

“Thank you, Lou.” Brendan says.

“You better thank me. I gotta listen to idiots come up with seven thousand ways of asking me about Marlies or tanking.” Lou takes an angry swig and spills as much as he drinks. “I hate that word. Fucking tanking! What the hell did they think we were talking about when we said ‘acquire as many draft picks as possible and give our younger players a long look to see what they are about.’ It’s not like we didn’t tell them exactly what was coming. And now we stick to what we say and people are all shocked and saying we are trying to lose games. I hate losing games. And I know that crazy fuck Mike hates losing at least as much as I do. Nobody wants to lose! How is that something I need to explain to those godless media monsters?”

“I know Lou.” Brendan puts a supportive arm around Lou’s shoulder and immediately regrets it. “I know it’s stupid. But that’s what people want to talk about. Never mind that we are doing what we said we would. They want us to trade for Subban and Stamkos and a Stall. They want to draft first every every summer and lift the Cup every spring. Just remember that none of them matter. Not one little bit. All that matters is that we win. And we will. Until then you have to answer stupid questions over and over again. At least we can focus on our team for the next few weeks, and not worry about the others so much.”

“Your right Brendo.” Lou says, cheering up. “Things can only get better from here right.”

“Have mercy Lou,” Mike Babcock has jogged up the stairs to the forty-first floor though you can hardly see any effects of the effort. “Where are your pants?”

“Don’t be scared Mike, this is what a man looks like.” Lou waves himself at the Toronto Maple Leaf head coach.

Mike recoils in disgust. “It’s so wrinkled. How are you still alive, old man?”

“What did you need Mike?’ Brendan asks, hoping to divert the brewing confrontation.

“I just came up here to say it real quick. So much to do with all the young men coming up. But how can we keep our heads held high if we don’t give our best day in and day out? That’s what I tell my kids, and anyone else who will listen. Let’s get going here.”

The coach bows his head and holds out his hands. Brendan, Mark and Lou join hands and form a circle with Mike. After a moment of silence the men 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.”

“Great chatting with you gentlemen, I gotta go, lots of work to do. So much work.” Mike begins mumbling to himself as he leaves the group. He leaves the way he came, bounding down the stairs six steps at a time.

“What did he say?” Lou asks nobody in particular. “That fuck is crazy. You should really let me fire him Brendo.”

“No.” Brendan replies. “Mark can you please get Kyle out of there. Lou, you need to send your guests home and get ready to go in front of the media.”

Mark immediately slides into the pitch black office.

“Brendan please.” Lou protests. “Don’t humiliate me. You gotta let those guys rest. They earned it. General managers work harder than any other human on earth ever, for the forty-eight hours leading up to the trade deadline. They blew off a little steam and now they’re recovering. Don’t worry, they won’t cause any trouble and I will be ready in thirty minutes. Please don’t make me kick them out.”

Brendan considers his options and finally decides that the path of least resistance is best.

“Fine. Let’s go.” This he says to Mark who emerges silently, cradling Kyle in his arms. Mark has also grabbed an eight pack of Black Label pilsner which he hands to Brendan.

Lou watches them leave then looks down at his flaccid penis. “Can you believe those assholes stole our beers? Come on weiner, let’s go get ready. Maybe we can find some pizza.” He lights the new joint off of the old one as he heads back into his office to prepare.