Chapter Twenty-Two
This morning, the Sentinels locker room possesses a unique type of tension you don’t find elsewhere. It’s not the usual tension caused by pre-game anxiety or post-loss silence. This one is different.
A players-only meeting is rare enough that when one happens, even the guys who sleep through team meetings suddenly develop attention spans. I scan the room. No one’s taping sticks or fiddling with equipment. It’s all been replaced by an eerie quiet.
This isn’t about hockey today. This is about the thing we all pretend doesn’t matter until it’s the only thing that matters: money.
The NHL’s Collective Bargaining Agreement—a document nobody’s actually read but everyone has opinions about given its implications—is about to expire.
The owners and the NHLPA have been “negotiating” in the way that eastern European countries negotiate over territories, which is to say: badly and with lots of posturing and very little progress.
I sit forward in my stall, elbows on knees, feeling the pressure of being the team and league’s NHLPA rep.
It’s a position I accepted because someone had to, and apparently my ability to read contracts with relative comprehension qualified me for labor leadership. Across from me, Dewey Carter stands up.
Dewey’s usually the guy who keeps things light—first to chirp, last to take anything seriously, the emotional support comedian of our team. Not today. Today, he looks like someone explained capitalism to him, and he’s on the wrong side of it.
“Alright, boys,” Dewey says, his voice cutting through silence. “We all know why we’re here. This isn’t about the next game—it’s about the next decade.”
Several guys exhale in that way that means they’ve been holding their breath since the last time we went through this dance six years ago.
“The league wants to keep this ridiculous salary cap locked at a number that’s already lagging behind reality,” Dewey continues, developing the kind of passion and fervor usually reserved for arguing about offside calls.
“They want even more team control over contracts, making it harder for guys to hit free agency and actually get paid. They’re gonna tell us we should be grateful for what we have.
” Dewey’s pacing now, like a caged economist. “Meanwhile, you know where guys are going? Switzerland. Sweden. The KHL.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the room.
“I’ve got buddies playing in those leagues,” he continues, building steam, “and guess what? They make more per game than if they were playing here. Housing covered. Expenses paid. Benefits that actually benefit them. And they play, what, fifty games?”
The room fills with the sound of professional athletes discovering they might be getting screwed.
Kevin Desjardins, our veteran defenseman who’s survived multiple CBA negotiations, lets out a breath that contains decades of frustration.
“Yeah, I’ve got a buddy in Sweden who’s clearing close to what I make here post-tax.
Less travel, fewer games, full benefits, and they treat him like a king.
Not to mention…the broads in Sweden.” A couple of whistles fill the locker room because even labor disputes can’t completely eliminate locker room culture.
Will Kelly, one of our younger forwards, frowns, his face the picture of confusion of someone who thought the system was fair. “So, what are we supposed to do? Just tell the league to pay us more? You think they’re gonna cave just because we ask nicely?”
Dewey snorts. “You think we’re asking? We’re telling them what’s gonna happen.” Dewey looks at me, passing the invisible talking stick of union leadership. I stand up, meeting every gaze in the room, letting the moment stretch like the last minute of a period when you’re protecting a lead.
“Carts is right,” I say, channeling the calm authority I definitely don’t feel.
“If we let them get away with this, they’ll come for more next time.
And the time after that. The owners want a salary cap that doesn’t reflect league growth.
They want to keep young guys locked into a team’s control longer, meaning it’ll be harder to hit the free agency market at a prime age.
” I scan the room, making eye contact with guys who are mentally calculating their career earnings.
“And they want contract term limits for us—but not for themselves.”
That gets the reaction: profanity in multiple languages, heads shaking like bobbleheads, guys sitting forward, animated, gesturing.
“They want control over when we get paid, how long we stay, and how easily they can get rid of us,” I continue. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m not signing off on that.”
“Damn right,” Dewey leans back against the wall, arms crossed in the universal posture of righteousness.
Will still looks like someone trying to solve an abstract algebra theorem in his head. “I get all of that, but what happens if we hold out, and they don’t budge? What happens if we get locked out?”
“We remind them who sells the tickets,” I say. “Who fans pay to see. Who actually makes the league money. Because without us, there is no NHL.”
It’s a simple truth that sounds revolutionary when you say it out loud.
“You really think we can win this fight?” Will asks, and I hear in his voice every young player who’s been told to be grateful for the opportunity.
My tongue runs over my back teeth. “If we stay together? Yeah, I do. Look,” I continue, feeling like a character in a sports movie who’s about to deliver the speech that gets meme-ified, “I know the idea of a lockout scares some of you. It should. None of us want to sit out. But the owners are betting we’re too scared to take this all the way.
They think we’ll break before they do.” I pause, channeling every captain’s speech I’ve ever ignored. “But we don’t break.”
A murmur of agreement spreads through the room.
“We have one shot at this. We have to show them we’re unified. No cracks, no exceptions, no guys making side deals because their agent knows someone who knows someone.”
More nods, more commitment. Dewey steps forward, emboldened as if part of a revolution. “We vote now?”
“We vote now,” I confirm. “All in favor of holding the line?”
Every hand in the room shoots up. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just hands raised in unity. I exhale slowly. “Then that’s it. We stand together. We don’t blink first.”
Dewey claps his hands together. “Atta way, boys!”
The room feels different now, charged with purpose instead of anxiety.
We’ve made our choice and drawn our line on the ice.
It’s not war, exactly. It’s more like aggressive negotiations with the threat of mutual destruction.
It’s players versus owners, arguing over who gets the bigger slice of a pie that fans ultimately pay for.
It’s absurd and unnecessary and probably inevitable.
But standing here in this locker room, surrounded by guys who just voted to risk their careers for a principle, I feel like I’m part of something bigger than individual statistics or personal comebacks.
I’m part of a team that’s about to find out what we’re really made of—not on the ice, but in the conference rooms where the business of this game plays out.