Chapter 232: Lacroix

Chapter 232: Lacroix—A View From the Top

 

            Pierre Lacroix frowned when he saw how erratically Patrick was acting. When the goalie accosted the referee, much to the delight of the audience but also to everyone’s confusion, Lacroix decided that the only explanation had to be that Patrick was under the influence of some substance other than liquor. It irked him, to be truthful; he didn’t see why Patrick would do something like that when the boy had never so much as smoked a cigarette before. The standings race was neck to neck in the division and in the conference. They did not need something like this.

            Lacroix leaned his forward on his arm, staring down at the ice rather than watch the various camera angles provided him in his box. He liked to see the whole picture, the entire sheet of ice and the aerial view of how a play can form and then disintegrate.

            Only two plays had disintegrated in this game for the Rangers to score two goals on them. The other two goals the Rangers scored were soft floaters from center ice. Patrick, in his defense, Pierre knew, would insinuate that he was screened and the player who scored had made a good shot. Pierre knew that this was not true. They were bad goals, two bad goals scored when the Rangers were taking advantage of the Avalanche’s vulnerability, and scored very quickly in the game.

            He heard various people in the room with him curse, he saw how red Stan Kroenke the team owner, turned. Pierre knew that his cheeks did not even warm, nor did he react. Inwardly though, he felt disappointed, angry and betrayed.

            Kroenke said something to him in a low, rapid voice. Pierre did not really care to hear what it was. He merely held up his fingers to him, made no eye contact and nodded. It was a move that told the one watching, I understand, and I have it under control, do not worry.

            Four goals in less than three minutes within the beginning of the third period. A three goal lead was lost. This was the situation and Pierre knew it could not be changed. It was the “whys” that he would have to explore. What caused this?

            Lacroix blinked as the television time out began and he took a drink of bottled water. Patrick was one of the factors in this game. It was obvious that he was not mentally well, for whatever reason. Lacroix suspected that the reason was something that Patrick could have controlled, so yes, he was at fault. It was disturbing because all season he had seen that Patrick had seemed to be having issues with holding leads, with consistency, with movement. Interjected into this were flashes of his old brilliance with shut out streaks and games where he outplayed every player on the ice. What Pierre and what the team needed from Patrick was consistency. A loss every now and then was expected, but there should be the confidence that they would win in every game.

            Lacroix’s main point of interest, however, was Bob. Yes, the coach was a close friend of his, a pleasant, clean man. Pierre had chosen Hartley initially because of the almost youthful exuberance he brought to a team, the sheer delight he took in instructing and molding. When he became excited over a subject, it was impossible to stop Hartley from inculcating you with every detail of it, should you so ask him about it.

            Lacroix had been happy with the decision in three conference finals and a President’s trophy and a Stanley Cup. The team had responded to Bob. And who was to say that they still were not?

            But here is where the two points intersected, here is where Pierre knew he had to think and judge carefully. Was Patrick responding to Hartley anymore? In the morning whatever substance that was in Patrick’s body would be gone, and if Patrick did not remember what had happened in this game, he would be informed. He would ask the same question that many others would ask, why was I allowed to play?

            It was Hartley’s decision and responsibility to declare who plays and who doesn’t, how the lines would look and which goaltender would start. Pierre knew how Patrick liked his ways in determining his own schedule, but overall, it was Hartley who had to give the last word on it. If Patrick was obviously unfit to play, then it was up to one man to declare him so.

            Pierre was not sure how he should immediately go about this problem. He had noticed a trend in Hartley over the past two years that he had seen before with coaches of Patrick’s. They fall in love with Patrick’s aura, his name, and they give Patrick unconditional control of his life. If Hartley was falling into the habit of giving Patrick his head in situations like this, then that problem would have to remedied. He would have to keep a close eye on the developments of this situation.

            Tonight was just one game. You can learn from one game. You will learn from one game if you were smart.

            Lacroix half grinned when he saw a replay of Patrick teasing Kerry Fraser on the television. The boy never ceased to surprise him. He remembered the first time he had seen Patrick. He had been a true boy, at fifteen. He was losing a game, his team was being outplayed and like a budding rooster, the boy had strutted in his crease, slashed at players, including his own, and tottered around the corners and boards, playing the puck. Pierre had watched him as he bobbed his head, took off his mask and flicked the sweat from his ginger, scruffy hair.

            The only thing he had thought to himself was I want him. He had a feeling at that point, that the boy would blossom into something strange and weirdly beautiful, something that would be remembered forever. It was a good instinct and Pierre was proud of himself for following through on it.

            He picked up a pair of small binoculars, peered through them. He saw Patrick in his crease, cleaning the snow away and peering at the jumbo tron. How much longer did his treasure have?

            He moved the binoculars to the audience, saw her. Coco’s little pet, the bottle blond, slim, blue eyed snake. From the very first time Patrick had introduced Michele to him, Pierre had seen the dangerous edge she carried within herself, an edge he knew that she didn’t realize was there. And then something terrible happened, he didn’t know what had happened but he could guess. He knew the night it had happened, and suddenly Patrick called her Mimi. Pierre had liked that, she was the last ingredient in the formula that would make Patrick who he was. She was a brazen, lusty slut and that, inspired and ignited Patrick’s competitive fire that still blazed brightly to this day. Life was a fabric of threads that crossed, separated and bound every moment in time together. Nothing was ever a coincidence and things happened for a reason. What Pierre loved the most was sitting back, and studying it.

            Women were interesting creatures. Pierre enjoyed them; he loved the quiet ways of his wife. Coco was placid and cool, Mimi was fiery and damaged. Katrina had eyes like a cat, eyes that devoured the crumple of money and the glint of jewelry. Every woman had a price whether it was emotional or material. They responded purely for a profit, and more often than not, never realized that.

            Pierre yawned as the game started. He was not sleepy nor was he bored, but he did want to show everyone who would be looking for his discontent that he was. He did not want to show them worry.

            “What is he doing?” someone gasped.

            Pierre raised his eyebrows as Patrick left the crease with the puck on his stick in the middle of a swarm of players. It seemed an obvious abandonment of reason. Pierre half-grinned remembering Patrick the Boy making saves, tossing the puck back into play and screaming, “Take another shot!”

            Pierre stood up when he saw Patrick tee up the puck almost at center ice and he fired it into the far corner. The puck made a loud noise as it banged off the glass and then onto the helmet of the Mimi’s Toy Blackburn and into the net. The red light flared and the crowd screamed, the pandemonium erupted on ice.

            “Does that count?” Stan Kroenke exclaimed.

            “For certain,” Lacroix said and he stood up and cheered. Things happened for a reason, and suddenly this game made some sense to him. Perhaps Hartley was no longer in trouble, and Patrick as well.

            The noise was barely done and the crowd swelled louder with cheers as the announcer confirmed that it was indeed an Avalanche goal scored by number thirty three, Patrick Roy. Not only that, it was a game tying goal. A novelty he would never see again he was sure.

            “You son of a bitch!”

            At that moment, Pierre turned around, frowning, saw that it was the GM for the New York Rangers, Glen Sather. The man was red faced, trembling with anger. Pierre relaxed his frown and remained calm. “Excuse me?”

            “You son of a bitch,” Sather repeated. “What did you do this time? Send two girls to fuck my goalie? Now your team is celebrating like this, rubbing it in? How much humiliation do you enjoy putting people through? Talk about a fucking classless organization!”

            Pierre crossed his arms. “Sit down, Mr. Sather, have a drink, calm down.”

            “I will not!” Sather roared. “This league has had ENOUGH of your arrogant ways, your classless ways, thinking you can have everything you want. And now you cheer your goaltender, your spoiled, tyrannical, goaltender when he humiliates us?”

            Lacroix shrugged, “It looked like a clearing attempt to me. It went in on a fluke, I think the shot was very stoppable, the boy was just caught off his guard yes?”

            Sather narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps,” he said. “What happened to him this time huh? Did Patrick send his slutty wife in again? Did he send his daughter with her?”

            Pierre felt the red in his cheeks, thought quickly of little Jana Roy and actually felt the urge to do something more to Sather than stare. “I do not put much store on idle gossip, and neither should you.”

            Sather shook his head. “Useless, the kid is useless.” He ran his hands over his head and laughed. “Do you want him?”

            Pierre grinned, thought of his goaltending, Patrick’s bad hips… “Why would I want a goaltender that can’t stop a shot from another goalie? No, my friend.”

            Sather narrowed his eyes. “Why not? You’ll take any fag off any other team, why not this one?”

            Pierre smiled, but he didn’t answer. He had received more than a few barbs from other GM’s in the league over the past weeks trying to “unload” their “morally undesirable” players on him. It also did not help that the prospect he had sent to Dallas in the Mike Modano trade was already playing on the team and producing at a remarkable rate. It was a jab at his abilities as a GM.

            As Sather walked briskly out of the room, Pierre heard him yell loudly into his cellphone about immediately putting Blackburn on waivers. It was rash. It was the actions of a humiliated organization, it was a move to save face.

            Pierre sniffed and picked up the phone, dialed. “Yes,” he said. “Listen carefully, in minutes, the goaltender for New York, Daniel Blackburn will be on waivers, I want you to pick him up now.”

            “What are you doing?” Stan Kroenke asked as soon as Pierre hung up. “You don’t want THAT goalie do you? Do we need him?”

            Pierre grimaced. “No we do not need his services here or in Hershey.”

            Stan frowned. “Then why?”

            Pierre sat down. “There are some other things we need. And sooner rather than later, New York will realize this.”

            Almost on cue, the door swung open again and Sather howled, “You bastard!”

            Pierre smiled.

            “You said you didn’t want him and you steal him like this?” Sather roared.

            Pierre shrugged. “I haven’t stolen a thing.”

            “What the fuck kind of game are you playing Lacroix!” Sather said.

            Pierre nodded. “You acted rashly, I understand this. You acted on emotions and before you could rectify the situation, I stepped in. But I do not want you to be unhappy, you can have the boy back and it will be a lesson learned, yes?”

            Sather narrowed his eyes. “For free?”

            Pierre shook his head. “No, nothing is for free.”

            Sather cursed and turned around.

            Pierre said loudly but calmly. “Practically for free, it will not be a bad deal.”