Page 11 of Puck You Both

"I am a goaltender," I tell the kitchen. "Observation is my craft. This is fine."

The kitchen doesn't buy it either.

***

MORNING BRINGS A mild headache from a night of aggressive not-sleeping, and an email from Wolves PR.

Subject: Border Battle for Paws — Campaign Brief & Assignments.

I skim it while I sip my much needed coffee.

Season-long joint charity campaign with Milwaukee. Mama Paws' shelter has several sister locations now, and the Milwaukee one is apparently falling apart. Renovation fund. Monthly joint events. Spring gala finale. The PR people are calling it "a rivalry with a heart," and I almost puke in my mouth. Bet they patted themselves on the backs for that one.

As far as inconveniences go, this isn’t the worst one. It’s for the cause. And for the animals. And for Mama Paws. And so I find myself nodding along as I read, until I stop on the line that makes me choke on my coffee.

Co-Chairs: T. Wallace (CHI) / P. Grezkowsiak (MIL)

Co-chairs. As in, the two of us? As in, me and him, monthly, for a season?

Yeah, I don’t fucking think so.

I'm already drafting the decline email in my head (schedule conflict, workload, ongoing goaltending commitments). Except you can't decline a dog charity. There's no version of "I can't help the shelter" that doesn't make me a monster. What am I supposed to tell Mama Paws, sorry, no puppies, I watched the co-chair give a handjob to a guy?

And then the typo catches me, and my panic trips over it.

Grezkowsiak.

The hardest name in professional hockey, and someone in our PR department looked at it and thought, needs more chaos.

They've moved the z, dropped a vowel from a word that desperately needs more of those, and ended up with something you'd get if you sat on a keyboard.

I stare at it. The wrong version sits there being wrong, and it bothers me. I don’t know why. It’s not like I can pronounce it. I’ve sneered vaguely Grześkowiak-shaped sounds at him through a cage for years, grunted Gres-whatever at reporters when forced to reference him, and otherwise avoided it by calling him "the other guy" or "Patrick" or, most often, nothing at all.

I clear my throat.

"Grez— Gshesh—"

That was a sneeze committing to a bit.

"Greh-SHKOH-vee-ack."

Closer, but no.

"Gzheh-SHKIO-vyahk."

Huh. That might've been close, and there's nobody here to confirm, and this is when I catch up to what I'm doing: standing at my counter at 7 AM, coffee going cold, practicing the surname of someone I don’t like.

It's the typo. Totally because of the typo.

My phone buzzes in my hand and I nearly put it through the window.

Mama Paws. I smile instinctively and don’t even get to say hello when I answer.

"Wall, honey, before you say anything—" She's talking at the speed of a woman who has been rehearsing since dawn. "I told them to ask you first. I made them promise. And then, this morning Jimmy shows me the email and your name is just on it, already on it, and I am so sorry, sweetheart, a whole season is a big ask, so if you're too busy you say the word and I will march down to that PR office myself and—"

"Ma’am."

"—because the Milwaukee shelter, Wall, I won't lie to you, it's the plumbing, the plumbing is a tragedy—"