Brendan Shanahan, Mark Hunter, Kyle Dubas, and Lou Lamoriello are wrapping up another long day of work on the forty-first floor of Toronto Maple Leaf Tower. Brendan sips a glass of wine as he listens to his team. Mark is doing bicep curls with a bag full of nickels. Lou is blinking rapidly, amusing himself with the resulting strobe effect. Kyle checks his phone before speaking.

“Last item today; Garth Snow left another message. He says he has proof that the trade he agreed to was only three prospects for Grabner. He is claiming you used some sort of voodoo or witchcraft to add the other two guys.”

“Tell Garth a deal is a deal, no take backs. And also, don’t forget to have my livestock guy send a dozen lamb’s to Baton Rouge. It’s real important they get to a blind pirate named Wink before the new moon rises.” Lou says.

All the lights turn off without warning, flooding the room in darkness. Almost immediately an alarm starts blaring and the emergency lighting activates. All four men are standing, but only Brendan acts. His presidential powers allow him to use the building’s control system with his phone. The first thing he does is turn down the volume of the alarm. Next he accesses the external cameras. Several of them have been damaged, but from the few that still work Brendan can see what is happening. A crowd of people has surrounded the tower. Although there is no audio, the rage of the mob is hard to miss. They are clawing at the concrete and smashing their bodies against the reinforced windows, desperate to get inside. Dozens of filthy corpses litter the ground in front of the main entrance. Brendan watches, appalled, as the horde surges forward. The camera angle does not allow him to see what is happening inside, but the attack is pushed back quickly, the carpet of dead growing thicker at the entrance.

“It’s a total media frenzy! I’m going to call Jeff to find out what it’s all about.” Brendan tries several times before Jeff O’Neil finally answers.

“Brendo, are you okay, it’s a nightmare out here man.”

“What set them off O-Dog?”

“There’s a rumour going around that Lou is going to ban donuts at press conferences. Everybody is going ballistic. It’s not true is it?”

“No, it’s not true, we would never be stupid enough to try something like that. Are you safe?”

“Yeah, I’ve started a new fitness program so I was able to fight my way free.”

“Okay, keep your head down buddy. Shanahan out.” Hanging up, Brendan walks over to the bar. He puts down his glass of wine and picks up the bottle. From his suit pocket he pulls out a throwing knife. “We all knew this day was coming. It’s only going to get worse when the regular season starts. Let’s go make this a safe place for our players.”

“Finally” says Lou, as he pulls a shotgun from one of his desk drawers. Mark’s left eye is twitching as he tightens his grip on the bag of nickels. Kyle has lost his usual happy grin but makes no overt move to arm himself.

Mike Babcock bursts into the room just then, holding a bloody spear. Everyone tenses for a split second. Lou almost fires at the coach but restrains himself with an effort.

Staring at Lou as though reading his mind, Mike speaks to Brendan. “Just wanted to give you guys an update. We got real lucky this time. A couple hundred reporters attacked but the other coaches and I were able to hold them off at the Main doors. The largest group of them tried to get behind us through the park grounds but something out there spooked them because they all ran away pretty quick. We’ve been tossing donuts at the mob out front and that seems to have eased some of the tension.”

“Good work Mike. We were just on our way down. We can help you sweep the building, make sure there wasn’t any breach.”

“Great, can we just say it one time for luck?”

The five men 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.”

“Let’s go meet the press.” Lou says, pumping a round into the chamber of his shotgun.

Far below, Joffrey Lupul, James Van Riemsdyk and Nazem Kadri are doing their best to ignore the commotion. They are playing an intense game of ‘Hungry Hungry Hippos’ and the stakes are high. Without warning, a metal grill falls from the ceiling. All three players stare at the skinny legs hanging from the exposed vent duct. With a pathetic little grunt, the rest of the filth covered body drops down, landing heavily on the floor.

The reporter’s clothes are ragged and so dirty that whatever colour they might have been is lost. His long greasy hair hangs in threads in front of his face. Wild eyes dart around the room, never landing on any one thing. A thin strand of drool hangs from the corner of his mouth; it thickens as the lips curl into a demented grin. The three Maple Leafs stand as far away from the grotesque figure as they can.

One emaciated claw of a hand grips a digital recorder tightly. As this hand extends toward the frightened group, the other hand starts to scratch at a rash covered neck.

“Who will be the leading scorer on this team now that Phil’s gone?” The question is not directed at anyone specifically. No one answers for a moment. Rage flashes on the reporter’s ugly face and he takes a step closer. Nazem blurts out his answer as the three huddle closer together.

“At the end of the day it doesn’t come down to one person. Everyone needs to do a little bit more.” He can’t hide the tremor of fear in his voice.

The reporter seems to savour the answer as though it were a taste of fine wine. He wiggles with revolting delight before asking another question. “Can Mike Babcock fix this team?”

This time it’s James who answers, standing tall in the face of this depraved apparition. “He brings that instant credibility with him. He’s been part of a lot of winning programs.”

Nazem and Joffrey try to use the distraction to edge closer to the door, but the reporter springs across the room with the speed of a flea and lands on his hands and feet. A malicious grin spreads wide as he holds out his digital recorder again.

“How are the practices going? I hear Mike can get a little boring.”

Joffrey is getting angry but he knows better than to provoke the media. “He’s not drawing everything out. He’s kind of describing what he wants, then we do it. And if there’s something that can be improved on, he’s stopping and teaching then.”

The reporter’s eyes roll back into his head and an orgasmic shudder ripples through his frame. Before another question can be asked, the door to the room crashes open and a bag full of nickels hits the reporter hard in the back, sending him sprawling to the floor. Mark Hunter and Kyle Dubas stride into the room.

“Is everyone okay?” Asks Kyle.

“I’m excited,” says Nazem, the terror of the moment fading.

“We’re excited.” James says, also choosing to ignore this brush with true insanity.

Only Joffrey speaks with his real feelings. “Bit of a nightmare for us.” His eyes are locked on the twitching reporter on the floor. “Nothing but fond memories.” He says with a sigh. A far off look passes the Leafs face, pain from years gone by.

Mark stands over the body. His throw had shattered several bones but the reporter is not dead. With one hand Mark reaches down and fixes this with a squeeze and a snap. The journalist seems to weigh nothing as Mark tosses his corpse into the hall.

“Have you seen anymore?” Kyle asks.

“I don’t understand the question.” James answers.

“Media. Have you seen anymore media?”

“No!” All three answer loudly.

“We’re just trying to focus.” James says as the players turn back to the Hungry Hippos.

Kyle shakes his head. “It’s getting late. Are you guys almost done?”

“We’re just getting started here.” Joffrey answers without looking up.

“Just be ready to go.” The players do not respond. Kyle and Mark leave them to their game. The tower is nearly clear. Just another day in Leaf nation.

In the sub-sub-basement of Toronto Maple Leafs Tower there is a 420,000,000 BTU boiler. If you want to look behind this boiler you’d need to stand so close that the heat would start to singe your skin. If you can bear that long enough to search the ground you will find a small red button that can be reached with a toe. If you push this button, the wall behind the boiler will open revealing a well-lit stairwell leading down. If you manage to navigate past all the dead ends and traps to the bottom of the stairwell you will find Kyle Dubas sitting in front of a large bank of computer monitors displaying the empty streets of Toronto at night.

The central monitor is the largest, showing three shadowy figures standing on the beach by the lakeshore. A light flashes three times from the water. The shadowy figures flash their own light twice in response.

“Dion, it looks like the ship is about to come in.” Kyle speaks through a headset that transmits directly to a small ear piece mounted in Dion Phaneuf’s helmet. “They are on the beach about a kilometer east of the ferry dock at Queens Quay.

“Great.” Dion says. He has been circling above the city for hours waiting for the American smuggler’s shipment to arrive. They’ve been selling guns to several rival street gangs in the city and using their influence to start conflicts between their customers. That stops tonight.

Dion spots the smugglers from high above right where Kyle said they would be. He dives down headfirst at them, adding his own power to gravity’s force. At the last possible instant he kicks his feet around and lands with a meteoric impact. The shockwave knocks the five smugglers off their feet. The two who were pulling their boat ashore splash into the water. One of these smugglers is first to his feet. He takes one look at The Captain in his suit and flees. Before Dion can pursue, two of the three from the beach rush The Captain with knives drawn. Their attack is coordinated and deadly, showing years of training and battle together. They don’t even get close.

Dion sidesteps a thrust to his belly and lashes out with his elbow, shattering the attackers extended forearm. With his other hand he catches the wrist that would have delivered a slash to his neck.  His grip breaks bone but he twists hard to break the arm further. The Captain’s roundhouse kick catches both broken armed smugglers in the head sending their unconscious bodies sailing through the air to knock down their comrade who had been slower to recover.

The other smuggler in the water clears her pistol and aims. Dion is on the beach in front of her as she looks down her sight, but he is behind her before she can pull the trigger. As gently as he can, The Captain bonks her on the head knocking her unconscious. Dion carries her to the beach and casually tosses her on top of the other knocked out smugglers. Only then does he notice that the fourth smuggler is not down. The bullet hits The Captain right on the heart and bounces off his armour with no effect.

Dion is angry. Elisha always knows when he gets shot, and she hates it. Before the smuggler can fire again Dion rushes forward and twists his head completely around.

The fight is over so quickly Kyle barely has time to process what he has seen. As always watching The Captain in action is a dreadful and awesome experience. As a reflexive compulsion Kyle mutters under his breath as though 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.” The sigh he lets out is more of a release from tension than an expression of any frustration.  “What now Captain? You should probably kill all of them.” Dion makes no move. There is only silence and the water gently lapping the shore. “You can’t just leave them for the cops. They’ll tell stories man.”

“It teaches them.” Dion answers. With both hands he grabs his lower jaw and pulls. With a grisly grinding his mouth stretches until it extends below his bellybutton. An endless star scape fills The Captains maw. Awkwardly he drops the smugglers corpse into the gaping void and his jaw slams shut with a wet snap. Kyle knows to protect himself from the horrible sound.

“The fifth smuggler is still on foot. He is running North. I see three options. A: You chase and capture him. B: Follow him to his secret base and stake the place out for a bit, so we can finally have some useful intel on these guys. C: Forget about all this stuff and just be Dion. You got shot tonight man. Elisha’s going to be pissed. Besides, training camp starts in two days.”

“That would be A.” Dion says. Then he leaps several hundred meters into the sky.

Flying low Dion spots the smuggler running along the dimly lit streets. Ahead The Captain finds an alley to land in and as the smuggler runs past he grabs him and pulls him into the darkness. Dion is about to speak when he notices that he accidentally knocked the smuggler out. He drops the body and pulls a small spray-paint can from his boot heel. He sprays a blue ‘C’ on the wall and secures the smuggler before he takes off into the night.

Kyle does not need to be told to contact the authorities and the police have been dispatched before Dion has landed at his secluded gazebo in the park grounds behind Toronto Maple Leaf Tower. He removes his gloves, mask, and helmet first and takes a long sip from his beer fountain. He removes the rest of his armour and hides his Captain suit in some tall grasses. This is unnecessary. No one would intrude on Dion’s sanctuary. The habit of secrecy is not easily broken.

For the remainder of the night The Captain meditates naked in his gazebo. The chill in the September air eases his muscles. As he sits and breathes his mind wanders to the things he loves the most. Elisha. Justice. Hockey. As the sun rises he dresses in his everyday workout sweats. He does a few laps around the park ground at full speed before heading to the practice facility. Keeping his abilities hidden will be the hardest part of the day, as always. Dion loves the challenge. To bring his super human speed and strength to the ice would not just sully the game he loves. It would separate him from his brother Maple Leafs. This is not an option.

Dion is at the gym two hours before the informal practice is scheduled to begin. He is not the least bit surprised to see he is the last to arrive. Every man on the roster and several hopefuls are already working hard. With a smile Dion finds an empty weight station and gets to work.

In the early morning the sound of whistling echoes through the forty-first floor of Toronto Maple Leaf Tower. The whistler is Lou Lamoriello getting a ridiculously early start on his workday. The tune he is whistling is “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” from the film of the same name. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is Lous favorite piece of work by Dick Van Dyke, narrowly winning over Mary Poppins only because of the Dick screen time comparison.

Lou is whistling as he sorts through a large pile of vacuum-sealed jerky packs on his desk. He is separating the packs into smaller piles based on both meat type and flavour. The work takes hours. The sun rises; the workday begins for more sleep inclined people; Lou carries on whistling. He has started to place select packs of jerky into a large cooler that sits on the floor beside his chair. The tune he whistles now is “No Cats In America” from An American Tail, which is not Lous favorite animated musical despite being a timeless classic.

In his left hand Lou considers gator jerky and in his right a pack of teriyaki ostrich. He is weighing the merits of each when Brendan Shanahan, Mark Hunter, and Kyle Dubas enter his office. Lou does not look up.

“I’m gonna need another couple of hours gettin’ my meat packed over here fellas.”

Mark and Kyle exchange a glance loaded with both confusion and concern. Brendan walks over to Lous desk and starts perusing the jerky.

“What are you packing up your meat for Lou?”

“For the trip to London. Aren’t we all headed out there today? You know, to get all drunk and sloppy before the rookie tournament starts. Rutherford called me, said there was a party tonight.”

“We are driving out to London today Lou, but it’s not that kind of trip. Besides, you’re not coming. I need you here.”

“Not coming?” Lou collapses into his chair. “I was packing all my best jerky. They have a strip club right outside of town that allows RV parking. I was gonna make pickles and waffles for you guys. It’s our first road trip.” He throws the two packs of jerky back onto his desk and sinks even lower into his chair. “I guess I will just have to watch Fern Gully all by myself then.” Fern Gully is also not Lous favorite animated musical, but it is the one he finds travels best.

“I told you, it’s not that kind of trip Lou. There is a ton of stuff to do before the pre-season starts. Everybody is super busy.”

“Oh yeah? Well what are you working on then?”

“I have two charity golf tournaments and a fundraising gala booked. The identity of the new Legends Row statue almost leaked last night so I have to find and plug a hole. I am still working non-stop to keep Gary and his ads off our jerseys, and I want to have at least one lunch and one dinner with the rookies parents.”

“Okay, well what about you?” Lou looks directly at Kyle. The eye contact is a clear indication of just how rattled the GM is, he would never normally acknowledge his assistant as a real person.

“I am researching the ‘Powerall’ home battery. I want to see if we can get the ACC to run completely off-grid on renewable energy. Plus I am hoping that if we partner with Tesla I might get a chance to meet Elon Musk.” Even heroes have idols and Kyle makes no attempt to hide the note of giddiness that always creeps into his voice when talking about Tesla or Mr. Musk.

“None of what you just said makes any sense to me. What is an Elon musk? Is that one of those man perfumes?”

“Elon Musk is probably the most innovative and forward thinking person on this planet. He is going to turn our species into interplanetary space travellers and finally get us off the fossil fuel death train.”

“Sounds like you’re pretty sweet on this fella. What about you Mark? I know you’re always down for the cause.”

Mark stares at Lou. Lou stares at Mark. Mark stares at Lou. Lou stares at Mark. Mark stares at Lou. Lou stares at Mark. Mark stares at Lou. Lou stares at Mark.

“Well count me out then, that’s twisted even for my tastes. So I guess you’re all too busy. Can I please come anyway Brendan, please?”

A piano sounds and Method Man starts singing from Brendan’s pocket. “Cash rules everything around me. Cream, get the money. Dolla’ dolla’ bills y’all. Cash rules everything around me. Cream, get the money. Dolla’ dolla’ bills y’all.” Brendan pulls out his phone, checks the caller ID and answers.

“Hey Jeff, we’re hitting the road in about twenty minutes. What!?” Brendan starts pacing as he listens to what is obviously bad news. “Okay. Okay. It’s done. I will just have to take care of it. No, you’ve done enough. Just try to relax. Don’t you start your show today? I know you’re not on ‘til noon. Whatever you say O. ” Hanging up on Jeff O’Neil, Brendan looks to Kyle. “Who is our contact at Molson? O-Dog accidentally drank four kegs this morning. He says there are only twelve left at the house.”

“I’ll get right on it.” Kyle pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through his contacts. Brendan turns back to Lou.

“I need you here Lou. I need you taking calls, if any calls come in. I need you to tell ‘em we are evaluating our team right now. You can listen. You can talk. You can’t deal. Understand? Can you do that Lou?”

“But I gotta be with the team. I’m the general manager.”

“That’s just it Lou, What we’re doing in London is more of a specific management type of thing. Just man the phones Lou, that’s where I need you. Can I take this?” Brendan is holding a pack of sweet n’ spicy boar jerky. Lou nods.

Opening the jerky, Brendan walks over to the bar. He pours a pint of rye for Lou and makes a flaming sambuca shot for himself. The president does not blow out the flames before downing the liquor and when he burps after, smoke comes out of his mouth. As Brendan walks Lous drink over, Mark and Kyle start looking through the jerky on Lous desk.

There is a knock on the door and Mike Babcock walks into the office before anyone can answer. He strides into the room with a kingly step, analyzes the scenario in a moment and heads straight for Lous desk.

“Van’s all packed boys. I have the entire Adam Sandler catalogue lined up for the drive. What’s going on here? Jerky?”

“Help yourself,” says Lou.

With his mouth half full of boar meat Brendan speaks. “So you’re going to be okay by yourself Lou?”

“Oh sure Brendan. I’ll listen to offers, if they come.” Lous tone says exactly how unlikely he thinks those calls to be. “No deals though. We’re just evaluating our team on the ice for a minute.”

“Boys we gotta go,” says Mike. “If we don’t get to the house before the giant sub, O-dog is gonna eat the whole thing and you know it. Lets just say it with Lou one last time before we head out yeah?” 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 picks up six packs of plain jerky: moose, horse, yak, eel, salmon, and quail, then heads to the door. “Take it easy Lou. Thanks for the meat.” he says, without looking back.

With a nod Mark takes two packs of spicy snake jerky and follows the coach out the door. Kyle picks a pack of peppered peacock.

“I am going to stream all the games straight to your desktop remotely. All you have to do is be here to watch them.”

“Thanks, you’re a good assistant.”

Stunned by the compliment Kyle heads out the door, leaving Brendan and Lou alone.

“Please can I come Brendan? I wanna have fun with you fellas.”

“Its not that kind of trip Lou.” Brendan shakes Lous hand warmly and pats him on the shoulder. “Just take care of business until we get back.”

Picking up Lous rye and taking a long sip, Brendan scans the jerky pile. He finally decides on the teriyaki ostrich before heading out the door.

For a long time Lou sits in his chair and stares. At last he lets out a long sigh.

“Happy Lous’ Day.” He says to himself.

After finishing off what is left of his drink, but before pouring another one, Lou gets set up to watch his favorite animated musical South Park: Bigger, Longer, Uncut and orders an extra large, thin crust, pepperoni pizza.

The first change made to Toronto Maple Leaf Tower by Lou Lamoriello was the installation of a speaking tube connecting his office with the office of Kyle Dubas on the floor below. This, turn of the previous century, device was rarely used because Kyle was rarely in his office. However, with training camp only a few weeks away Kyle was working without pause.

At the moment, Kyle is catching up on a little sleep, so obviously the speaking tube booms into life.

“Ass!” Kyle is awake instantly, the pieces of his reality dropping into place with mechanical precision. By the time Lou bellows “ASS!” again he is ready. Kyle knows if he ignores the call Lou will contact the Toronto Fire Chief personally and have two ladder trucks sent over. He has only just replaced his door from the last time, and so decides on a prompt response.

“Yes Lou.” Kyle takes a swig from a stale cup of black coffee from some day before. The bitterness on his tongue helping to sooth the bitterness of his boss.

“Get up here. I fuckin need you. Fuckin fast.”

With Mark Hunter taking the scouting staff on a week long, LSD fuelled, corporate vision quest; and Brendan Shanahan paying his respects at the wake for Al Arbour; Kyle knew this was going to be a very long week. So far today Lou had demanded assistance with deciding between carrot and bran muffins, and locating Slovakia on a globe. None of those crises had gotten a ‘fast’ from Lou so Kyle knew something totally fucked was going on upstairs.

Pausing just before he opens the door, Kyle folds his hands together and bows his head. Alone he speaks 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.”

With his obsessive compulsion satisfied Kyle heads up to Lou, who is swearing before Kyle has even stepped into his office.

“Fuckin took you long enough ass. Fuck. I need your help with the fax scanning devicey thing here.” Lou has the remote for his cable box and is pointing it at his desktop screen, mashing his thumb on the buttons with the apparent goal of pushing as many as he possibly can at once.

“Just give me what you want to send, Lou, and I will take care of it.”

“I can’t. I want it to be a surprise for you guys, like a thanks for having me over gift you know.” Kyle says nothing. Lou says nothing. It takes every ounce of his training but Kyle does not crack. “Fuck. Alright. I’m trading Nylander to Florida with a third rounder for Dave Bolland.”

“No.”

“Fuck you. You’re my fuckin ass! Me and Dale figured it all out over a bukkake the other day. As soon as I can get this fuckin space trek faxiscanner to fuckin work the deal is done.”

“I can’t let you make that trade Lou.”

“What the fuck you gonna do about it ass?”

“Do I need to call Brendan?”

“Have some fuckin respect for the fuckin dead, pubic braid. Al Arbours wake is more important than any of this.” Lou waves dramatically around his office. “Al Arbour has taken shits that had more impact on the game than you ever will. I’m fuckin serious. He would leave a floater in the visitors change room before every game in the old Coliseum. Stank the room up so bad you could hardly think. I introduced him to pepperoni and sausage pizza before the season started in ’80, and you know how that year ended. Fuckin guy. You gonna help with this, shit ass?” He continues to grind his remote.

“No Lou”

“Your fuckin fired.”

“Okay.” Kyle pulls out his phone and dials. A voice picks up immediatley. “Hey Nancy, it’s Kyle. I need you to disconnect and isolate Lous office please. Yes again. I know it’s the second time this week. I know it’s only Tuesday.”

“It’s fuckin Lous’day.” Lou interjects.

“I’ll tell you what, just leave it dark until I tell you otherwise okay. Thanks. No you’re the best Nancy. Okay. Bye now.”

Lou hurls his remote at Kyles face but the nimble assistant easily dodges. “This is why everybody hates you.”

“Was that all Lou?”

“No. Something is wrong with my Netflix.” Kyle raises an eyebrow, always amazed at Lous ability to redirect. “Every once in a fuckin while I like to indulge in the classics. So I was searching for Mobsters, the 1991 smash hit, and the fuckin picture comes up on my Netflix but it says title unavailable. How the fuck can it not be there when they know what the fuck movie I’m fuckin talkin about?”

“It’s something to do with the Canadian Content Laws Lou. Always fucking us over.”

“The Law?! We are the fuckin Leafs!. You telling me that instead of Richard Grecos tour de force performance as Bugsy Siegel I gotta watch some fuckin documentary about Franco-Manitoban lesbian dog stylists? They never even show any bitch on bitch action. I thought I was watching doggy porn, but no! Richard Greco out acts that whole cast in Mobsters. Except maybe Dempsey, but no one tops Dempsey. Anyway, Grecos Bugsy is the only inspiration I have left ever since the Gottis went on reality T.V.”

“Sorry Lou. Even the Toronto Maple Leafs don’t have the power to conquer antiquated and ridiculous nonsense. If that was all, I am going for a break. I will have someone get Mobsters set up for you on blu-ray, alright big guy.”

Lou does not answer. Dejected he walks over to the full service bar along the East wall of his office and pours himself a pint of dark rum. Kyle leaves, quietly closing the door behind him. He pulls his phone out as he heads to the elevator and presses a button on the side.

“Jeff O’Niel,” he says. The phone dials. “O-Dog, whats good brother. You got time for Johnny? Get over here, see you in a minute.”

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.”

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.”

The top floor of the Toronto Maple Leaf Tower holds the presidents private sanctuary. Brendan Shanahan’s home away from home on those nights when work forces him to stay away from Catherine and the kids. Much to his dismay Brendan is here more and more lately, as he sinks deeper into the mess that is Toronto Hockey.

The day starts at 6am for the president. Without turning on a light or opening a blind he completes an intense and intricate Yoga and Tai Qi routine in the dark, keeping his perfect physique in prime condition.

Naked and sweaty, Brendan leaves his room, entering the days light for the first time. Waiting outside the door, three beautiful naked women hold his coffee, newspaper, and silk robe respectively. The newspaper is always opened to the comics. Brendan likes the funnies. He walks to a lush array of cushions beside a koi pond where he laughs while sipping his coffee, breathing deeply to take in the serenity of the moment. He prepares for another day managing the greatest franchise in all sport. Then his phone rings.

Today the first caller is a surprise, given the hour, Brendan answers. “Jeff, how are you.” It is the O-Dog Jeff O’Neil.

“I’m amazing Brendo, I found a mini-putt out by Ajax that has the best chili fries you ever tasted in your life. You gotta get out here man.”

“I would love to but,”

“But nothing. This place is open 24 hours. I’ve been here for 3 days. The course is really challenging, but not so hard as to spoil the fun you know.”

“It’s mini-putt”

“I know right. And the chili fries, man! I’m freaking out here Brendo. I may never leave.”

Brendans phone starts to buzz as his usual first call of the day arrives. “I gotta run O. Call Noodles for me buddy. He can help you.” Brendan switches calls before Jeff can reply. “Good morning Mike, how are ya?”

“Hey Brendan. I am having a great time as you know. Came up with a seven hundred and thirty-fourth possible ice time breakdown for each skater for the first period in the preseason. Probably gonna work shop a few more. Lots to do, lots to do. I was calling, you know, hoping we could say it together, just you and me. To get’er rolling, you know.”

“Sure thing Mike” Brendan holds his hands together and knows that Mike Babcock is doing 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.”

“Thanks, gotta go.” Says the coach, hanging up.

Brendan finishes his coffee and comics in peace. Invigorated by the caffeine the president heads to the shower. Two more beautiful naked women are waiting for him. One holds a loufa sponge, the other a bottle of Mane ‘n’ Tail. The shower is running, and steam is filling the room.

Brendan always has his showers at 119 degrees farenheit for three minutes. The scrub he employs is a hard fast one. Pink with a fresh layer of skin, he steps out of the shower and receives his towel from one of the beautiful naked women. The other holds his under clothes waiting for the president to be dry. Two more beautiful naked women have selected the days outfit and await Brendan in his palatial closet. They help him with his daily grooming as he gets dressed. Every detail of the presidents image must be immaculate.

Brendans phone has been placed at a table for one, in front of a floor to ceiling window. Looking out over Leafs Nation as the sun rises Brendan meditates on the path he walks before he sits down. A beautiful naked woman serves him his usual breakfast, three eggs and a pound of tofu bacon fried in coconut oil. The same beautiful naked woman returns in a moment with a fresh mug of coffee.

His phone starts to ring, Brendan checks the caller ID and returns to his breakfast. It takes seven and a half minutes for Brendan to finish. The same caller tries back three more times and Brendan lets it ring to voice mail each time, knowing the sting this causes the ego on the other end. The hook to C.R.E.A.M. by Wu-Tang Clan never gets old which is why it is the standard ringtone on Brendans phone. As he eats, the president is reminded that cash rules everything around most. ‘Dolla’ dolla’ bills y’all.’

The fourth time his phone rings Brendan takes a sip of coffee before he answers.

“Good morning Patrick.”

“Call me Le Roy Shanny.” The hall of fame goalies french accent is really thick today. This tells Brendan a lot.

“What time is it in Colorado?”

“Time. I not know. I am a party with some bikers. Time is good. Listen Shanny, I am call for Joe okay.”

“Joe can call me himself.”

“But he asked for me to call you because he wants to trade. Trade with you.”

“I’m sorry Patrick”

“Le Roy”

“Like I told Joe before, all trades go through my GM.”

“Come on Shanny, Lou is an asshole. You know this. Does Stevie Whyzeeman need to deal with Lou? I bet no. Come on we are all in the Hall buddy. Don’t make us deal to that prick. I know you hire him for this. I respect moves. Come on.”

“All trades go through my GM Patrick.”

“Le Roy.”

“No exceptions, not even for old friends.”

“This is the bullshit Shanny.”

“I’m sorry Patrick.”

“Le Roy.”

“Tell Joe to call Lou. I gotta go.”

“Fuck you.”

Brendan actually gets to finish his coffee in peace, but the clock seems eager to get to quarter to eight. As he stands to leave a beautiful naked woman approaches with his briefcase. She speaks softly, doing her best to make eye contact with the elusive president..

“We are having another orgy on Saturday. Can you and the missus come by?”

“I don’t know.” Brendan is noncommittal knowing how fast his plans can change.

“Please. It’s never as much fun with just us girls.”

Brendan considers her frown for a moment. “Talk to Catherine okay.”

“Oh goody.” There is a spring in the beautiful naked womans step as she turns away.

Brendan does not notice as he steps into his private elevator. The ride is quick since the offices of the President and the GM are only one floor below. The first thing Brendan sees when he walks into Lou Lamoriello’s office is the clock that keeps the time since the Leafs last Stanley Cup win. It strengthens his resolve with every second it counts.

“Your fuckin late.” The silky voice of his surly GM brings Brendan back into the moment. Mark Hunter and Kyle Dubas have made it to the office before Brendan. “Who the fuck shows up late on a fuckin Lous’day.”

In a stairwell of Toronto Maple Leaf Tower Kyle Dubas and Mark Hunter hold a heated conversation.

“Listen Mark I know its brutal but you have to tell him.”

Marks left eye twitches twice in reponse.

“Of course I will owe you one. I’ll owe you ten. Please, it can’t be me who tells him.”

One twitch.

“You know why. He hates me.”

This time Mark gives a snort and a grimace simultaneously.

“Well sure, but he doesn’t hate everyone the same way as he hates me and you know it.” An alarm starts beeping in Kyle’s pocket. “Fuck, it’s time. Please tell him for me.”

Mark leaves the stairwell, headed towards Lou Lamoriello’s office for the daily meeting.

“You’re an asshole Mark” Kyle says silencing his phone and chasing after the older man. Arriving in the office Kyle is surprised to find Lou away from his desk. Mark takes his usual seat to Brendan’s left and Kyle walks across the office to stand alone with his white board. The silence in the room is deafening until Brendan’s phone rings.

“Hey, whats going on. No way. No way! Sure thing, later though okay. Later means later. What can I say. Okay. Bye.” He hangs up then says “Only the O-Dog, Jeff O’Neil, could get excited about a vegan steakhouse. What a guy.”

There is a flush and a door beside the bar on the East wall of the office opens. Lou steps out wiping his hands on his shirt

“First good shit I’ve had in three months. Fuck I’m old. What are we doing today?”

“Can we maybe try to make a trade today Lou?” Answers Brendan.

Lou grunts and farts. “Ah fuck.” Picking up his phone Lou says, “hello? It’s Lou here. I need some pants brought to my office, quick like sweetheart.” It takes a half hour for Lou to get cleaned up and into his new gear. “Trades, okay. Who we doin Skippy?”

As is his custom Lou speaks to a point on the wall a few feet above Kyles head. Trying not to let the obvious disrespect shake him Kyle answers. “Before we get to that Lou I have some bad news.”

Mark is shaking his head slowly as Kyle continues.

“The Radisson in London refused to take omelettes off the breakfast menu while our rookies are there in September. So far none of the hotels we’ve approached in the area have been willing to do this for us.”

Lous face is turning red as he keeps his stare locked above his assistants head.

“God fuckin cheese stuffin dicks! What the fuck kind of ass quack bullshit is this! Where the fuck is the justice? I wanna fuckin know. Who lets these fuckin people just carry on ruinin lives!”

Kyle is beginning to wonder whether Lou knows what an omelette is. Mark is placing an order with the kitchen, which exist somewhere in the tower. Brendan watches in awe of his majestic GM.

“Did I ever tell you boys about ’82? A good friend of mine is eating an omelette on the go. Has a little slip and BAM! He dies. Dead. These fuckin close eyed dog rat turd fucks are gonna refuse me? What the fuck happened to Leafs nation? I’m fuckin Lou! I’m looking out for the team!”

Lou carries on in this fashion for a good while. Every time he seems to be winding down he says something that just fires him right back up. The only reason he does eventually stop is that the food ordered by Mark finally arrives. Kyle’s suspicion is confirmed when Lou digs into his four-egg southwest omelette without remark. The other three share a brief look. Mouth full, Lou addresses the space above Kyle.

“Who we doing today Skippy?”

“We want to see what we might get for Polak” Kyle answers.

“Good. You can’t trust those people. Whats his name.”

“Polak. Roman Polak. He’s on our team.”

“You say so Skippy. What can I ask for him?”

It is Brendan who answers. “I want a player and a pick, late rounds are fine.”

“Who we Trading with?”

Brendan hurls a dart at the large map on the West wall.

“Columbus? Like Ohio? They have a team? Fuckin news to me. Lets just see here.” Lou pulls out the only requested paper copy of the official NHL directory from a desk drawer. He flips through the pages for only a moment, then stops on the verge of speaking. Lou sits, mouth open and eyes staring, for a long while. Kyle allows himself a brief fantasy of a dead Lou. When at last Lou comes to, it is with violence.

“What the fuck is a Jar ‘o’Keikalekalak?”

“Jarmo Kekalainen,” says Brendan. “He’s the GM.”

“Well fuck me with a sea otter Brendan. How the fuck do I do business with a mook who has a name like Jarmar?” Lou points at the directory. “What about this guy, Bill Zito. That sounds like the name of a real person.”

Marks balled up steel fork falls to the floor. Kyle actually seems to grow a few inches, he perks up so fast.

“Zito is the assistant GM Lou.” Brendan says.

Before Lou can say anything there is a knock at the door and Mike Babcock walks in uninvited.

“Hey boys. Lou. How are we all today? Did you say it yet?”

“Not yet Mike, no.” Says Brendan.

“Perfect. We can all say it together.”

The five men all hold their hands together and 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.”

Mike is already gone as the other four raise their heads. They can still hear him saying “Lots to do!” as he breezes away through the hall.

Lou looks at Brendan “And for sure I can’t fire him?”

Brendan responds, “How about you make a call Lou.”

“Bill Zito right?” It is a sign of Kyle’s optimism that he speaks so boldly. “About Roman Polak.”

“What?” Lou looks up as if to see who spoke. “Zito? I can’t deal with an ass. It sets a bad example. No, I’ll just have to call Kookafuckaloohoo here.”

“Kekalainen,” a sullen Kyle says.

“Kekaleeky, like I said.”

Lou picks up his phone and the three other men activate their ear buds to hear what Lou can hear. A receptionist picks up the line after three rings.

“Thank you for calling the Columbus Blue Jackets, we play hockey. How may I direct your call?”

“Hiya doll. Get me Kekalek. Can I speak to Kekaka. Fuck. Listen, I need to talk to Mr. Kee, Mr. Ka, Kooka, Jarma. Fuck!” Lou slumps back into his chair as he hangs up. Defeated by the Finnish name.

For several hours the team tries to get Lou comfortable saying Jarmo Kekalainen. The closest he gets is Jaromir Jagralainen. Frustrated and hangry, Lou finally gives up.

“Sorry fellas, I just don’t got it in me. Maybe we can work on it again later. I gotta go. The Kensington meat auction starts in a half hour.”

“Good work today Lou.” Brendan says. “I gotta run too boys, I kind of want to try this vegan place of Jeff’s.”

Kyle looks over at Mark when the two are alone. “Well that was all obviously your fault.”

Marks right nostril flares. Once in, once out.

“Whatever tough guy you know I’m right.”

Mark picks up a coffee mug and crushes it into powder. Kyle laughs.

“Ain’t that the truth buddy. Well, I can’t stay mad at you when you bring the comedy let’s go, there’s fresh crab at the peelers.”

The offices in Toronto Maple Leaf Tower were quiet. They were always quiet on Tuesday lately. Tuesday was Lous’day. No one did anything to bother Lou Lamoriello on Lous’day.

The man himself was seated behind a massive south facing desk that takes up the whole North quarter of his magnificent office. On the wall behind him a digital clock reads 422,873:36:12, keeping time to the second. Below this was a small plaque with a red button in the middle. Engraved below are the words ‘Press to reset when Stanley Cup is won.’ Someone had carved BB WILL PUSH THE BUTTON repeatedley into the wall surrounding the plaque.

On the other side of that desk are Brendan Shanahan; Mark Hunter; and Kyle Dubas. Kyle is writing and erasing numbers on a white board situated so all the men can see it. There is a large map of North America on the West wall behind him. On this map each of the other NHL franchise locations are marked by their respective logos. Mark is gripping a pencil and staring at this map with intensity. Brendan is on the phone.

“Ok, yeah that sounds great. I gotta go. Yeah. No. Okay, bye.” Before the phone has been returned to Brendans sport jacket pocket Lou is barking.

“How goes the social media Marsha Brady, can we get to fuckin work now?”

“Sorry Lou, Jeff O’Neil was telling me about a soft taco food truck he found”

Lou does not acknowledge the apology, instead he starts talking to a spot on the wall above Kyle Dubas’ head. “Who we doin today Skippy?”

Kyle does his best to feel confident as he consults his phone and answers. “Bozak”

“Alright, who we gonna trade with?”

A dart flys from Brendans hand in answer, striking the map on the West wall no more than an inch away from one of the logos. The pencil in Marks hand snaps and Kyle sighs audibly. It is Lou, of course, who breaks the silence.

“Edmonton. Fuck. Fuck you Brendan. I know you throw darts like a polish sailor you Irish fuckin rat.”

There is an abrupt knock on the door on the South wall of the office. Before anyone can answer Mike Babcock steps into the room.

“Hey boys. Lou. Did you say it today?”

“Yes Mike.” Brendan answers

“Would you all like to say it together one time with me?”

Another pencil snaps in Marks fist, Kyle smiles, hidden by the white board. Behind the coaches eyes there is a hardness which cuts through the innocence in his tone. He is not to be denied. The five men all hold their hands together and 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.”

“Gotta go boys. Lou. Lots to do.” The door is closing behind the coach as the others look up.

“Holy fuck. Can I fire him yet?”

Brendan just stares in response.

“Alright, alright fuckin Bozak to fuckin Edmonton. Fine, no problem.” Lou pulls a well worn stack of business cards from a desk drawer. As he flips through the cards he begins cursing under his breath, louder and louder until at last he finds the card he wants. “Chia fuckin Rally. Alright lets do this.” While Lou dials the others activate small earpieces that are digitally linked to the phone allowing each to hear what Lou hears. After six rings the familiar voice of Peter Chiarelli answers.

“Hello”

“Petey, its Lou, fuck off and lets do some work”

“Its 6:30 in the morning Lou”

“Its 6:30 in your mother mother fucker. We gotta move on from Bozak. You need someone to take a D-Zone draw. What’ll ya give me?”

Silence greets this question. Lou lets it linger breathing heavily into the phone. At last Mr. Chiarelli answers. “I could maybe move Nikitin, but he’s got one year left only.”

Kyle consults his phone and then springs to the white board writing INJURED? with his green erasable marker.

“Nikitin, what is he? A winger? I don’t need a winger.”

“He’s D Lou.”

Kyle underlines the word on the white board.

“I do like a D-man.”

“Maybe I should talk to Brendan.”

“FUCK YOU! Talk to Brendan? You can talk to Brendan fuckin Shanahan at my fuckin funeral you piece of Harvard dog shit. You wanna deal Nikitin? Fine, Bozak for Nikitin. Done.”

Lou is panting as Kyle furiously underlines INJURED? On the white board. Another pencil has snapped in Marks fist. The only one in the room who seems calm is Brendan.

“Hold on Lou, Bozak has three years left on his deal. Niki only has one. You gotta sweetin the pot.”

“Alright ya prick. Bozak has three years? Like I fuckin know. What if I keep 600k on my books?”

“I don’t know Lou.”

“800k you fuckin piece of fuckin shit. Fuck.”

“Bozak minus 800k for Nikitin? Okay.”

“Great. I’ll have some papers fax machined over to you. You’re a hell of a guy Petey.”

“I hate when you call me that Lou.”

Kyle has slumped into his chair and is weakly waving at the white board. Mark pulls a pencil from his jacket and immediately snaps it. Lou winks dramatically at the wall a few feet above Kyles head.

“Oh wait, Petey, he is medically cleared to play right.”

There is a long pause followed by a sigh. “No Lou, not technically, not as of today.”

Lou begins screaming into the phone, a passionate and entirely coherent rant about Mr. Chiarelli and the qualities he shares with leeches. Kyle finds a name on his phone, re-checks his numbers, appreciates his flawless math, writes the name on the board, and still has time to be impressed by the depth and thoroughness of the tirade his boss is throwing down. Without a moments warning Lou changes track.

“What about this Schu fella. He’s a D ain’t he?”

“Schu?” Peter can’t help but sound a bit thrown off by the wily tactics.

“Yeah, whats his name? Justi Schu? I don’t know. Fuck, he’s on your fuckin team.”

“Oh, Schultz. You mean Justin Schultz. Bozak minus 800k for Schultz?”

“600k you lyin piece of shit. And a seventh rouder in ’18 for trying to cheat me ya meatball butt toy.” There is silence on the other end of the line. Lou gives a thumbs up before he continues. “Insulate McDoodoo Petey, you know it’s best for the kid”

After a long pause there is a long sigh.“Sorry Lou. I can’t do it.”

“Whats a matter bitch? Old papa Pharma-Mart won’t let you trade a Norris contender? You fuckin bitch.” Lou hangs up the phone with contempt then looks above Dubas’ head. “Hope you were fuckin taking notes Skippy, cause that’s called making magic happen.”

“But you didn’t actually make the trade Lou.” Brendan observes.

“Fuck it, I’m spent. I need a pizza and a steam. Happy fuckin Lous’day.”