I stare at the empty stadium. If these were the Direwolves in Manhattan, it would be packed with fans wanting to see their favorite players and kids looking for an autographed puck. I’ve placed a few inflatable elves around the stadium to make it look less desolate. But the elves just look creepy.
The door to the lobby squeaks open then slams against the wall.
“Hey, people!” I call. Maybe I can do a video of the fans. They may very well be the only Rhode Islanders fans to exist.
Despite my best efforts—including giveaways, dress-like-your-favorite-player contests, and even free food—I can’t move the needle on attendance. We have five, literally five, season ticket holders, and one of them is a guy who bought tickets drunk and has been trying to return them ever since he found out. The people that do show up are on their phones. They come to the game late and leave early. Rhode Islanders colors have never outnumbered the away team’s fans.
“Things can only go up from here,” I remind myself. Look at all these excited new fans. Sure, they’re not dressed in team colors, but I have extra jerseys to give out.
“Hey! Hello! Hi, fellow fans! Merry Christmas! Do you want free swag? You don’t even have to wait till Christmas Eve to open it.”
The fans don’t seem excited to trade their all-black attire for burgundy and gray—probably because it’s going to clash with the bright-yellow FBI letters on their shirts…
“Shiiitttt.”
I almost trip down the stadium steps on my way to the ice as the FBI and a SWAT team swarm the Rhode Islanders’ practice.
Fletcher looks freaked out for a second and turns like he’s about to bolt until the agents and the SWAT team jump the GM.
“I didn’t do it!” he screams as they tackle him to the floor and handcuff him.
The coach snorts awake as an FBI agent sticks a badge in his face. “Joseph Demarcus, you’re under arrest for collusion in gambling, drug trafficking, and exotic animal trading—”
“I thought this was America,” he says through wet coughs. “Man can’t buy a gorilla?”
“Embezzlement, tax fraud…” the FBI agent continues to list.
“You’ll never take me alive!” the GM screams, red-faced and sweating.
Yeah, that might be coming sooner than you think…
“Fuck this shit,” one of the assistant coaches is cursing as he’s forced down on the ground. “I told you that you were going to get caught. I have all the information. I can testify! I don’t want to go to jail,” he begs the FBI agent who’s dragging him off the ice. “It’s Christmas! You can’t make me spend the holidays in jail. My mother is going to kill me. You don’t understand…”
The FBI head past me down the tunnels that lead to the team’s windowless offices, swarming and carting away boxes of electronics and paperwork.
“Oh my gosh, this is terrible. I need to call Dana Holbrook.” I run around in a panic. “You can’t take him away,” I beg the agents as they drag Joe Demarcus to the exit in handcuffs. “That’s our coach. We’re already doing badly. What are we supposed to do without a coach? We have to play the Direwolves tomorrow night. You’ll let him out on bail, right?”
The FBI agent snorts. “Coach or no coach, y’all were gonna lose that match.”
The hockey players watch in horror.
I’m in bad shape, but they’re worse off. They gave their whole lives to play in the NHL, and now with no coach, no GM? And they have to play the Direwolves in two days? They’re hosed. This horrible season will be a black mark on their records forever. Once their contracts run out? They’re never playing in the National Hockey League again.
It’s deathly silent when the FBI clears out, the door slamming on the GM’s screams.
I point my phone camera to the nonarrested skills coach who’s whispering with the equipment manager. “So, how about some words of wisdom from the Rhode Islanders’ new coach?”
“New coach?” He scoffs at me. “Fuck that. You tell Dana Holbrook I quit. My cousin works in Toronto, and he’s giving me a job. This team sucks. You all suck!” he screams to the players. “I’m out.” He tosses his clipboard on the ice.
I point the camera at the equipment manager. “New coach?”
“I haven’t been paid in weeks.” He spits, tosses the bundle of hockey sticks he was carrying on the ice, and follows the now ex–skills coach.
Fletcher skates over to me, blades a deadly whisper on the ice.
I glance around, trying not to panic. The ice needs cleaning. Did the Zamboni driver quit too?
“So,” he asks me, “are you going to make your grand exit, Candy Cane? That’s the only thing that would end this day on a somewhat positive note.”
