Poisoned Ice

[Cindy Berry]

Ryan stared unseeing into his oak paneled stall inside the Baltimore Blaze locker room. A decades old photograph was tacked to the wood grained back, safely secured in the plastic Ziploc baggie that Ryan had plucked from the box inside his mother’s pantry when he was eight years old. He remembered delicately placing it in the flexible, plastic pouch after carefully cutting it from the page of a sports magazine he had found discarded on the front lawn after the garbage trucks had made their weekly pickups.  Every season since he started in the league it had made its way from the top drawer of Ryan’s bedroom dresser to this exact same spot. The seven by eight and half inch square of paneling was a noticeably lighter shade than the rest of the area. It was accompanied by a single hole that had grown larger each year it was tested by the same red -headed metal tack. He vowed that it would stay ensconced in its transparent prison until an exchange could be made for the real thing. It was a “Wanted” poster of sorts, featuring a bounty that still evaded him after a nearly ten- year chase. Lord Stanley’s Cup was a prize reserved for only those deemed worthy after being tested at the highest levels.  And although Ryan’s dedication was unquestionable and his skills exceptional, another season had ended without him earning its release. Letting out a deep sigh, he reached out a calloused hand to grip the edge of wood trim as he leaned against it and dropped his head, gazing at the checkered pattern of the carpet that extended throughout the dressing area.

“R.T.” Ryan’s head snapped up as Chet Mosley, the Blaze’s head trainer called out from the doorway. “They want to see you upstairs.”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed, “Who?”

Chet shrugged his massive shoulders, “Management.”

“Tell them I’ll be up there in a few minutes,” Ryan said, his tone noncommittal.

“Uh…I think they mean now,” Chet replied.

Ryan let out a frustrated groan. This couldn’t be good. Locker cleanout day wasn’t normally a time for meetings with management, even when you’d just spectacularly lost the last game of the Stanley Cup Finals. Everyone was wrung out and exhausted from a long and ultimately gut-wrenching season, looking forward to spending some downtime with family and friends and trying to get over the fact that it was, well…over.

Ryan plucked the well-worn tack from its home and placed it with its accompanying baggie into a small metal box that once held his childhood collection of hockey cards. His heroes, Steve Yzerman and Joe Sakic had been well represented there with several copies from each of their twenty plus years in the National Hockey League. Both fellow Canadians had gone on to illustrious careers as captains and general managers of their respective teams. Each were outstanding athletes with multiple Stanley Cup championships, over 3,000 combined points and membership in the Hall of Fame. But perhaps more importantly, they led by example, earning the highest respect from both their teammates and opposing players. They were loved by their fans, revered even. Simply put, they were the epitome of everything Ryan believed a professional hockey player and a leader should be, everything he aspired to himself. It was no wonder that when he was signed by the Baltimore Blaze following his freshman year in college, he asked to wear number nineteen on his back. The same number worn by his exemplars. He hoped that someday he would be worthy of it, but until then he would draw strength and inspiration from it. It was his I Ching, his oracle. And it served as a reminder of what he had yet to accomplish.

 “Of course, now,” Ryan muttered under his breath as he zipped up his bag and headed toward the elevator.

The executive offices of the Baltimore Blaze were located on the fourth floor of the building that also housed the arena and training facility. Although it had been built nearly thirty years ago, it was meticulously maintained. So much so, that the night maintenance staff was required to carry a palette of small paint samples with them to touch up any painted surface that displayed a chip. There was always someone polishing, buffing or vacuuming something. In fact, Ryan could not recall a time when he had seen so much as a smudge on one of the glass doors or bathroom mirrors. Amazing really, considering that there were always large, sweating athletes coming or going. 

When the elevator doors opened, Ryan stepped out and turned toward Brad Jossler’s office. Brad was the current General Manager for the Blaze, a former player and enforcer who was known to play dirty. He brought that approach with him into the front office, making a name for himself as a ruthless negotiator. Ryan didn’t care much for him personally, but he made it a point to keep their business relationship amicable since he saw no point in kicking a hornet’s nest. Ryan had always been smart and controlled that way, thinking before he acted. It was one of the attributes that made him a standout player and a trusted leader, aside from his exceptional athletic skills.

“Thompson,” a voice thundered from behind him. When Ryan turned, he saw Brad waving him toward the office suite on the other side of the lobby area.

The hairs on the back of Ryan’s neck prickled as he began walking apprehensively down the hall in the direction Brad had indicated. Ryan hadn’t been in this wing of the executive suites since he signed his first contract with the Blaze almost a decade ago. The hallway opened to a handsomely appointed, wood paneled reception area with two leather wingback chairs that flanked a hand-carved table on one side and a small desk on the other. Next to the desk was a large solid oak door that led to the owner’s executive suite. In the corner was a brass container holding an exotic plant with large, shiny dark green leaves, no doubt dusted regularly by the overly attentive cleaning crew. The carpets were a rich burgundy and in the center of the room was an ornate area rug in alternating hues of hunter green, burgundy and cream. Brass lighting fixtures and finishes adorned the space and gave it a distinctive atmosphere.

Ryan noticed that not much had changed except for the nameplate on the door that read, MALCOLM POWERS, OWNER in block letters and the addition of four large, framed oil paintings. Each one featured one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Pestilence, War, Famine and Death in graphic scenes of the end times as described in the biblical Book of Revelations leading up to the Last Judgement. Ryan found the artwork an odd choice for a corporate office unless the goal was to intimidate and unsettle visitors by facilitating psychological mind games. Ryan did not know much about Malcolm Powers but based on what he had heard, it shouldn’t have surprised him.

“You may go in now, Mr. Thompson,” the stern looking woman behind the desk stated as she glanced up from her computer monitor and over the half glasses that were perched on the bridge of her pinched nose. Ryan figured she was probably in her early sixties, very thin and wore her hair in a sleek, structured grey bob. She sported an understated, tailored suit which was also grey, making her stand out in sharp contrast to the rich colors and textures of the room.

“Thank you.”

“Can I get you anything?” she asked as he walked past her desk and placed his hand on the brass knob.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” Her tone and demeanor made him hesitant to ask for anything although his mouth had gone dry the moment he had been called to the owner’s executive suite.

The heavy, solid wood door glided open with remarkable ease and Ryan stepped over the threshold. Two leather sofas and a low coffee table in a dark cherry finish sat to the left of the door with another intricately designed oriental rug underneath it. Two matching end tables were situated at either end of the sofas. All three were impeccably clean and polished to a mirror finish, not a speck of dust or fingerprint to be found. Several brass planters held smaller versions of the foliage found in the reception area. A crystal decanter holding deep amber liquid and matching tumblers sat atop a solid mahogany buffet server. An assortment of other top-shelf liquors was visible through the flawlessly clear glass panels. To the right was a set of solid wood paneled, sliding doors that led to another room which held a large, highly polished conference table surrounded by ten, quilted leather chairs. A variety of television monitors were affixed to the walls and linked to a top-quality conferencing system with streaming audio and video capabilities. The table itself was outfitted to accommodate multiple technology needs at each station. And, it seemed to Ryan, the only place where technology was welcome in Mr. Power’s suite.

Across the room, directly in front of Ryan sat the man whose name and title adorned the plate on the door.  To say Malcolm Powers was an intimidating figure would be an understatement. Not so much tall, but certainly over six feet, he was broad and overweight with a barrel chest that Ryan was sure had more to do with a probable pulmonary disease rather than true upper body strength given the ever- present cigar held between his fingers. His bald, domed head shined with perspiration that proceeded to gather in the thin band of white hair that encircled the back of his head. His face could only be described as doughy with hanging jowls, fleshy lips, and eyes that glinted through the slits below his creased and crinkled brow. His clothing was disheveled and generally ill-fitting although the fabric would indicate it was not cheap. A solid gold, diamond-encrusted Rolex watch and multiple rings became visible when he extended his bear claw of a hand in greeting over his desk to Ryan. The two men exchanged grips and Malcolm motioned for Ryan to sit next to his GM in the unoccupied leather wingback that was arranged in front of his oversized, hand carved mahogany desk. As he did so, Ryan couldn’t help but notice his reflection in its high-gloss, cherry finish.

“So, how is my star player planning to spend the off-season?” he asked.

“I honestly haven’t had much time to think about it, sir,” Ryan replied, attempting to make himself comfortable against the stiff quilted leather.

“Well,” he said with a hearty chuckle, “It would seem to me that you could do just about anything you want with what I’m paying you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“After all, what is money but a means to an end, right?” he said as he twirled his cigar between his fingers, the smoke curling around him made Ryan nauseous.

“Sir?” he choked.

“What I mean is, that there are some things that every man wants. Money can bring men most things. But then there is that one thing,” Malcolm lifted the hand holding the cigar and curled the last three fingers and his thumb down into his palm so only the index finger remained extended.

“That one thing, specific to each man that money can’t buy, but that he must have. That he would do anything to possess,” he said knowingly. “Right, Brad?” he asked as he looked over to his GM who dutifully nodded. Ryan continued to listen, unsure of exactly where this conversation was headed.

Powers continued, “Take you for example, I’m guessing money is not a prime motivator for you at this point in your career. You’ve made your millions, no ex-wives to pay alimony or child support to. But there is one certain thing which has…eluded you.” He gazed meaningfully at Ryan, gauging his reaction.

“I’m not sure I’m following you, sir. I’m looking for a fair contract and endorsement opportunities like everyone else.” Although Ryan’s contract was up after next year, he found it difficult to believe that management would be interested in discussing it so soon.

Malcolm continued, “What about what you’ve had tacked up in the back of your locker for the last nine years? Something you’ve wanted since you laced up your first pair of skates, I imagine.”

Ryan thought of the old, worn picture that he had stowed in his bag, lowered his head and answered quietly, “Isn’t that what everyone wants?”

Malcolm looked a Ryan for a long moment and then pointed at him with the hand still holding the cigar, “But not like you. You want it more than all of them, which is why I want you to be our captain next season. I need someone who will do whatever it takes to bring the Stanley Cup to Baltimore.”