A Handsgate Exclusive, Part II: How To Make Squeeze & Influence People, From Soft Proofs To Highlight-Reel Rescues

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A Handsgate Exclusive is my next blog-series which will tell an entirely fictitious story loosely inspired by the buttocks-grabbing controversy, AKA “Handsgate.” It will be released in three parts. Here is part II. MAKE SURE YOU READ PART I FIRST if you haven’t! Also be sure to read Part I‘s full disclaimer about how the events, dialogue, police officers, and personalities portrayed in this story are entirely fictional and not real, and only intended as humor!

When last we checked, Claud Gireaux went to his local police station to report to Officer Cillian Hemigeht his fear that the Flyers were colluding with other NHL teams by trading all his best wingers away, but then he almost got sent to Guantanamo for using the word “conspiracy.” Then Dany Heatly showed up, and Gireaux eventually helped him sign a contract with the Anaheim Ducks, only to be shown no gratitude by Heatly who walked out. Captain Wilson also showed up and brought his abrasive personality to the conversation.

The final words of Part I were “And just like that, Heatly left.” And now we continue with more from that sentence. Clearly cutting it off with a period was a poor idea. But here we go…

(And just like that, Heatly left), reminding Gireaux of why he had come to this station in the first place, that emptiness he felt having lost almost all his best wingers in Philadelphia.

“Why do I always give like this when all my GM ever does is take from my line?” He said to Officer Hemigeht. “I still can’t believe they traded Harty!”

Officer Hemigeht: “Claud, I know change can be hard, but I honestly just don’t see the big deal with the Hartnel trade. Didn’t he just have that one really good year? I mean yes, he has pretty good size, and he’s a decent skater and passer with probably above average hands and an above average shot, but I just don’t see him as an elite player, you know?”

Gireaux didn’t take kindly to this know-it-all amateur scout-slash-police officer who clearly didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Oh yeah? And what would you know about hands, anyway? You coppers fight with guns and tasers. In hockey we fight with our fists!”

The officer responded only with a quizzical look, as if to say at least be fair.

Gireaux hesitated. “Well I mean, okay, fine, maybe not me, but, like, uh, Steve Downey! Yeah how’d you like some of that??? Bet you wouldn’t last two minutes with Stevie!”

“OH YEAH?” Said a new voice. “WELL NONE OF YOU WOULD LAST ONE MINUTE ON THE CREEK!”

And just that moment, James Van Der Beak appeared from around the corner, being escorted to the front of the station for release by another officer, as he screamed in a horse, shrill-sounding voice that seemed to carry with it the knowledge of someone whose eyes had witnessed horrors no human being should ever have to witness.

“WE HAD TO SPEND EVEN LONGER WITH KATIE HOLMES THAN TOM CRUISE DID!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO WHY KATTIIIEE NOOOOOOOO!!”

And then from the interrogation room to the left, where a bald gimp and an Italian…ish looking Cop could be seen through the blinds sitting across from each other, the words “And like that, poof, he’s gone” could be heard in Kevin Spacy’s signature voice.

And so he was, James Van Der Beak henceforth and forever gone, never to be seen again by Claud Gireaux or anyone else, Claud assumed. Most of all a television camera.

Gireaux was getting confused. He was beginning to question whether he was still living in a satire, or if his story was about to go full on Mulholland Drive, just with more pop-culture references. Could he be imagining all of this? Could Kevin Spacy’s immortal line actually have been just a metaphor, hinting for him to let go? To come to terms with the loss of Hartnel in that unspeakable trade? With losing Jaromir Jagr to the Devils for nothing? To let go of the need for competent wingers entirely? God knows that’s what Flyers’ management wanted him to do. And what did the Beak mean by the Creek, exactly? Did he just mean the show or was it a riddle? And was it meant to rhyme? There were creeks in Philadelphia, literal ones. Gireaux knew this much. There were also audible creeks on the Flyers’ ice every time Luke Schenn took a stride. And Luke Schenn was traded for James Van Riemsdyk, which prompted Scott Hartnel to come into this very station and allege collusion against his bosses in Flyers’ management. And then he was traded himself! What did it mean??? Was the Beak trying to send him a message? It was beginning to seem that way. But then why do it in person when you’re a TV star? Why not just write a subliminal message into one of his TV lines like Disney? Oh yeah, he’s not allowed on TV anymore, Gireaux remembered. But still! What could it all mean? Could it be, after all, a conspir… Gireaux dared not even think the word now. Guantanamo may have looked a welcome sight just a few minutes earlier, when the greater chance to win a Cup was all that mattered, but now, Gireaux feared, something far more sinister was at work.
Gireaux needed to investigate.

“Tell me more,” he said to Officer Hemigeht.

“More about what? I just think you should look at the positives, that’s all…” Hemigeht replied.

Claud Gireaux: “No, you were talking about Scott Hartnel’s hands. I want to know why…”

“Oh, right.” Said Hemigeht. “I mean I’ve already been over it, really. Do you want exact details or something?”

Claud Gireaux: “I want the truth!”

Shark Circle: “Sorry I’m not available to explain the truth now. Busy writing. But you’re free to do your best, Officer!”

“Sure…” Said Officer Hemigeht. “Well it’s not just his hands where I feel he’s short of elite, no matter how solid he is. For instance if you really want specifics, I’d say size, for a forward, six out of ten. Hands, seven out of ten. Speed, six out of ten. Hockey sense, seven. See what I mean? A good player, but nothing irreplaceable.”

Six. Seven. Six. Six. 6-7-6-7! It was a code! This officer, Cillian Hemigeht, was trying to communicate with him. Gireaux knew it!

“For the record,” Hemigeht piped up. “Steve Downey has also been in here a bunch. Something about concussion lawsuits and how hockey has gotten way too violent and predatory against skill players like him. How he’s always being targeted…”

“Yeah!” Captain Wilson piped up. “We tased him a few times just to show him what real men with real skills look like, so he’d stop being a pussy. The truth is none of you hockey players know anything about real violence. The streets, yo. You weren’t out there during Occupy Wall Street. You didn’t have to look them in the eyes. I don’t even want to think about it… In fact I think I need to be alone right now….” And then he walked out.

Where is this going, exactly? Gireaux thought to himself. His confusion was only growing. Were these more codes and clues, or just the mad ramblings of a scarred officer who had been in one too many battles against otherworldly horrors and now hid his vulnerability behind a veil of arrogant ignorance? Kind of like James Van Der Beak. Just then, another officer walked into the room.

“I hope I didn’t just hear what I think I heard! You never talk about them! It gives them strength!”

Hemigeht laughed. “It’s cool, brotha. You have nothing to worry about. They’re gone. Vanished.”

Claud Gireaux: “Also like Van Der Beak!”

“What? Van Der Beak joined Occupy Wall Street?” Said the other officer, whose badge read “Officer Ellison.”

Hemigeht pondered the question for a moment. “In a way, yes. Yes. You see them both in the same places. They both get just as much screen time on TV these days. So yes, you could they’re the same now. But I wouldn’t count out Van Der Beak just yet.”

Gireaux’s eyebrows furrowed. The Officer Ellison squinted hard. Finally he cleared his head and spoke up. “Definitely. Definitely… Wait, were you guys talking hockey before?” A look of concern swept across his face.

“Yeah,” said Hemigeht, unphased. “He plays for the Flyers.”

Suddenly Ellison looked angry. “Dammit Hemigeek why’d you let him in? I thought Sheriff told you!”

Officer Hemigeht: “Told me what?”

Officer Ellison turned to Gireaux. “Look, Luke, I might be new but Sheriff told me all about you, and the answer is the same as the last ten times you came in here. He says we barely have enough ice time rented out to prepare for the game against the firemen ourselves. We don’t have any extra time to help you with your skating. I’m sorry.”

Gireaux’s confusion continued doing the opposite of subsiding.

“No no!” Said Hemigeht. “It’s not Schenn. This one is called Claud Gireaux. He’s actually a really good skater.”

“Oh right! For sure! Yeah I’ve heard about you,” chuckled Officer Ellison. “You’ve got some of the best hands in the NHL, don’t you?”

Some of??? Grimaced Gireaux. I am Jack’s raging bile duct, he thought, before speaking up. “Just some of the best hands in the NHL? Oh yeah? Who exactly has better ones then, huh?”

Ellison thought for a second. “Well, I’m not a huge hockey fan or anything, but I think I remember. God what were their names? Scott Hartnel! No… not him. Jaromir Jagr?! No… Riemsdyk! No… Haha wait you used to play with them, right?”

I am Steve Mason’s suffocating hockey pads.

Officer Ellison: “… That Jeff Carter guy in LA is pretty damn good. Two Cups in three years now, yeah? I mean that’s not bad. How many have you won Claudio?”

I am Paul Holmgren’s pulverized payroll.

Officer Ellison: “… No no, I remember now. Don’t get me wrong Claudio, you’re real good. But the best stick handler in the NHL? I know who that is! That would…”

Don’t say it…

Officer Ellison: “…. Would have to be ….”

Don’t you dare say it!

Officer Ellison: “… His name …”

Actually f*** it. Say it. Say it!

Officer Ellison: “…. His name is ….”

Say it!! I want you to say it, out loud. Say it, Bella. My skin is always cold after ice hockey games. I’m quicker than most humans who aren’t professional athletes. Say it!!! Vampire! Vampire!! Vampire!!!

Officer Ellison: “… His name is… Patrick Taves! Yeah, that’s him!” Ellison looked over at Gireaux.

“… If you’re a dream Bella, then I don’t ever want to wake up … I know but I don’t care!” Mumbled Gireaux. Then he blinked his eyes a few times in quick succession, looking back at the officers, disoriented. “Wait, what were we talking about?”

Hemigeht had his hands up to his face, shaking his head. “I’m this close to arresting you both, you know that?”

At least I got to hear one original cop joke out of all this insanity, Gireaux’s internal monologue continued. And Bella. That made it all worth it. She really is more important than everything. Ever. It’s true!

Officer Ellison didn’t catch on for a minute, but then he remembered. Then he said it. Out loud.

“Oh, not Patrick Taves! I meant Patrick Kaine!”

And that’s when it all flooded back to Gireaux. The goal Kaine scored five-hole against Michael Leighten to win the Stanley Cup against the Flyers. The motherf***ing mullet. The whole conversation that had just transpired between him and these two cops. Everything.

F*** your stupid cop jokes. I am Michael Leighten’s unsuspecting thighs caught by surprise under broken, ill-colored red confetti skies, those that gave birth to these Chelsea Dagger’d memories I so despise, highlights of which coming on television force me to close my eyes. Patrick Kaine, you made my teammates cry! Patrick Kaine, what you said about that night with Bella is lie! Patrick Kaine, the time has come for the truth we must decide! Patrick Kaine, you are mine! … And so is Bella! Hands off!

Officer Ellison: “… Claudio? You there? Everything OK there Claudio? I hate to be that guy, but if you took drugs on police property, well, you’re not allowed to do that, really. Technically. F*** I want drugs so bad. Can you get some??”

Claud Gireaux: “No, but I can bring you some doughnuts, f***face. How’s that?”

This is when things really got bad. And weird. According to my sources.

“‘How’s that?’ Are you joking?” Hemigeht jumped up in enthusiasm. “We love doughnuts!”

Officer Ellison officer squinted his eyes again, this time sternly.

“Actually, that’s a stereotype, and a harmful one at that. Then again, they say drugs are harmful too…”

“Oh yeah??” Said Gireaux. “You know what else is a stereotype? That Patrick when-I’m-done-with-him-he’ll-need-a-Kaine has better hands than me! The only thing he’s better than me at is playing for a competent team. And being an immature party boy douchebag.”

Officer Hemigeht: “Immature party boy? I thought we traded that guy like five times already…”

“I don’t know, Claudio,” said Officer Ellison. “Like I said earlier, and I was totally upfront remember, I don’t remember all the names of the players anymore, necessarily, because we’re so busy doing important work here. For the people, you know…”

(At this point my sources said they could hear voices in the background saying stuff like, “He’s still going ahead with the story? Well how can we get to him?“)

Officer Ellison: “… but I do get access to the station computers all day long, which has allowed me to become an expert in corsi-fenwick. Have you heard of it? And at least the 40% of the most important stats categories in that tell me Patrick Kaine is better. I’m sorry but it’s hard to argue with that. You can’t argue with statistics, after all.”

Background voices: (“… I don’t care what the crime statistics say. We need to confiscate all of them by 2016, otherwise He will cut our funding in half, or She will soon after, and they’re going to send the IRS after us like those dumb journalists who still tried telling the truth …“)

Gireaux didn’t even care anymore about the mystery. He had become engulfed in proving this stupid officer wrong. Patrick Kaine would not win. He couldn’t. Not this time. Michael Leighten wasn’t around anymore to ruin everything. I mean talk about collusion!

Claud Gireaux: “So you really think Patrick Kaine is better than me, do you?”

Officer Ellison: “Yes. I’m sorry Claudio, but I have to be honest. I’m an officer of the law, after all.”

Background voices: (“… So why didn’t that work on him? Now we have to find another way to get him to not publish the story …”)

Claud Gireaux: “And you really think he’s got better hands than me?”

Officer Ellison: “Yes. I do. Only the truth here. Honesty is all that matters not just for us cops, but the government at large.”

Background voices: (… Oh that little situation. We can just say it was self-defense. The judge is on the payroll too, so… …)

Claud Gireaux: “And there’s nothing I can say that will convince you that my hands are better than Patrick Kaine’s?”

Officer Ellison: “Nothing that I can think of. Sorry.”

Gireaux looked to the floor for a moment, pondering the situation, then he looked up at Officer Ellison, standing in front of him, meeting his gaze in a totally platonic way…

“Then so be it.”

And that’s when it happened. Gireaux lurched forward as if he was plunging himself into a violent body-check, extending each finger to its maximum length before recoiling them all at once, with the power and precision of a master, until his hands were filled to the brim with each side of the officer’s donut.

Claud Gireaux: “Feel them. Feel my power.”

I am Patrick Kaine doing a keg stand on a desert island with the last sip of beer left in the entire universe, the only situation in which his hands could possibly find the motivation to out-duel mine!

“HOLY S***! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!” Cried Hemigeht, as he reached into his pants and whipped out his tazer, pointing it at the scene unfolding before him. “Stop or I’ll!–”

“NO!!! DON’T TAZE HIM, BRO!” Yelled Officer Ellison, putting his hands out. “This is, uh, important, uh, quantitative analysis, for me. Maybe, uh, corsi-fenwick… doesn’t tell you everything, after all, yeah? You know?

Yesssss…” Whispered Claud Gireaux in his ear. “Now you understand. Feel my talent flow through you.”

Logun Coutoure suddenly barged through the station door. “YOU GUYS HEAR WE’RE GETTING ICE GIRLS? SO F***ING HOT!” Then he spotted Gireaux and Officer Ellison looking like they were trying to complete an electrical circuit with Gireaux’s left arm attached to the negative charge, and Gireaux’s right attached to the positive.

Logun Coutoure: “Oh… nevermind…”

Officer Hemigeht: “Woah Logun. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you can’t say stuff like that. It’s sexist.”

“Yeah,” said Gireaux, tightening his squeeze. “You might even call that sexual harassment.”

“Oh…” Hesitated Coutoure. “Uh, sorry. I was hacked!” And with that he ran out the door.

Gireaux immediately turned his attention back to Officer Ellison so he could convince him his hands were the best.

Claud Gireaux: “You feel their strength, their tenderness, don’t you?”

Officer Ellison: “Oh f*** yeah! I’ve never felt anything like it!”

Gireaux nodded knowingly. “Exactly. Now imagine if these same hands, this same grip that you feel now, were holding onto a stick instead of your ass! Imagine the dekes I would bestow upon my enemies. Imagine the backhand shelfers before unseen in the history of humanity and then you dare tell me afterwards that anyone on this earth could handle a stick better than I!”

“Well,” stuttered Officer Ellison, thinking of how to best articulate the words he wished to get across. “Maybe, while we’re still in imaginationland picturing your great dekes, maybe if you could just take a little skate around Big Buff there, and maybe put on a nice deke until you reach the slot there between the faceoff circles, as you’ve done many times before, it just so happens that there should be a stick right there on the other side that you could use to, uh, demonstrate your unmatched abilities… If you, uhh, feel me… what I’m getting at….”

And like that, poof, the room fell silent.

“Woah. That’s kind of gay,” said Gireaux, with a quick crossover maneuver back across the room. “I just wanted you to admit that my hands are better than Kaine’s! I honestly can’t understand what I did that could have possibly given you any other impression!

“Yeah,” said Officer Hemigeht, “that’s umm… well…” he glanced at Gireaux, then back at Officer Ellison. “Well, no comment.” Then he slowly slid his tazer back into his belt.

“What did you just say to me, boy?” Said Officer Ellison.

Gireaux seemed unphased and confused. “Come on. That was kind of gay. No value judgement, I’m just saying. You know it. I know it. Cillian knows it. I have nothing against gay people, in fact Michael Sam is probably going to be my left-wing this year once Hextall is through, but that’s just not what I’m into, personally.”

Officer Ellison looked over to Hemigeht expectantly. “You heard it too, didn’t you?”

Hemigeht hesitated, reluctant. “I guess… but it was kind of…”

“DISCRIMINATION!” Chanted Officer Ellison. “You are clearly a prejudice, Claudio! It’s people like you who are causing mother earth to cry, which is why we have global warming now because she can’t keep the earth cool without her tears! Your hatred knows no bounds! I would have thought that a Mexican immigrant like yourself would understand what’s it like to be a minority in this country, but I guess not! You are under arrest!”

“I guess you didn’t hear the Mexican’s chants at the World Cup….” Said Officer Hemigeht to Officer Ellison. Meanwhile, the police station’s television set already showed Gireaux’s arrest on the news.

… Arrested for violent discrimination … The President has already condemned Gireaux’s actions and stated that if Gireaux came from anywhere but Mexico, he’d send him back … When we reached out for a statement from Gireaux’s publicist, she said she no longer worked on his behalf as she’s decided to quit after hearing about his horrible rampage of discrimination …

Gireaux couldn’t believe any of it. “Arrested?” He asked, incredulous. “For what I said?

“No. Don’t be silly, Claudio,” Said Officer Ellison. “We have freedom of speech in this country.”

Claud Gireaux: “Oh okay. Whew….”

Officer Ellison: “It’s for what you thought! I can see the intent in your eyes and it is cold! Like the earth used to be before people like you ruined it!”

I am the average reader’s so much f***ing confusion right now…. Gireaux thought to himself.

And with that, Officer Ellison ran up behind Gireaux, grabbed his arms behind his back, handcuffed him, and pushed him into a cell, locking the gate behind him.

“Let’s see how good your hands work, now,” he said. “Wow I never thought I’d get such a good opportunity to use that one. The boys were so right about memorizing good cop one-liners ahead of time. You just never know!”

Meanwhile Gireaux protested to Hemigeht, but Hemigeht put his arms up in the air, helpless. “You’ve been accused of discrimination. There’s not much anyone can do for you now.”

Claud Gireaux: “Wait, does this mean I get to play for Guantanamo after all? Yes! This must be what Silver Linings Playbook means!” I’m sorry Bella but if I get to meet Jennifer Lawrence, Edward and Jacob can have you back for all I care.

“No no…” Said Officer Ellison, a look of glee stretched across his face. I’ve got a special place for people like you!

“NOT SO FAST!”

And like that, poof, there he was.

“OH NO!” Screamed Officer Ellison. “It’s Taves! RUN!!!”

Officer Hemigeht shook his head, increasingly frustrated. “It’s Patrick Kaine, you idiot.”

Gireaux’s head snapped around upon hearing the words, as if in slow motion, to see Patrick Kaine dressed in a tuxedo, holding a hockey stick.

Claud Gireaux: “Uhhh… what are you doing here?”

Patrick Kaine: “I thought this was the kegger? No? Could you guys maybe check the address then? I thought I got it right!”

“DID SOMEONE SAY SOMETHING ABOUT A KEGGER???” Mike Richard appeared through the door to the station.

Officer Hemigeht: “I could have sworn we traded him…”

“Yeah that way,” Gireaux pointed in the other direction. “Scram!”

Mike Richard put his ear to the ground and started crab-walking in the direction Gireaux pointed, sniffing every few steps. Once he was out of ear shot, Kaine spoke up.

“I was just kidding about the kegger, guys! I’m matúre now!”

Gireaux wasn’t buying it, even with the tux. “Then what are you really doing here?”

“To save you, silly!”

And with that, Kaine charged at the officer holding the keys.

Officer Ellison: “RUN CILLIAN! RUN! And Taves, try saving him without these!”

Officer Ellison threw the keys down the cell-row, towards the bars to a locked cell. But Kaine reacted as he always does: with the quickness of a lynx in heat. He wall-jumped from jail-bar to jail-bar, gaining altitude with each thrust, and then he reached out with his stick at the perfect moment to corrale the keys in the air through the bars before they were too far back to reach, before bringing them down through his legs until they were behind him, without them ever touching the ground, and then he flicked them back up from behind, in a parabola over his head, before catching them in front of his eyes with his outstretched stick and cradling them from side to side, all the while continuing forward from wall to wall. His momentum only increased as he propelled forward through the air, his head nearly grazing the ceiling now, as he spun around, cradling the keys on the stick with each twist of his wrist, like a lacrosse player combined with the speed of a Kazakh eel. Once he reached Gireaux’s cell, he dismounted down to the ground with a backflip, twisting the stick in his hands as he twirled so that the blade would always stay upright and parallel to the ground, and then landed with the grace of a 12-year-old female Chinese gymnast, all the while maintaining control of the keys at the end of his stick blade. Then, with one lightning-quick flick of the wrist, he shot them towards the key hole at the perfect angle so that not only would the right key on the keychain enter the keyhole, but that the momentum of the shot would be enough for the key to turn the lock open all by itself, without Kaine even having to turn the key with his hands. The door to Gireaux’s cell swung open, and, mouth agape, he walked out.

Claud Gireaux: “Well, I don’t know about mature or not, but you’re still a f***ing show off.”

Patrick Kaine: “Oh come on silly, we have to get out of here! Cereal is waiting.”

Gireaux used the keys to uncuff himself and started to walk, before stopping in his tracks. “No wait. How’d you know I was here?”

“The news, duh!”

Claude Giroux: “And why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?”

Kaine paused, and looked down. “I wanted to… make amends, for what happened.”

Claud Gireaux: “What do you mean?”

Patrick Kaine: “For taking from you what might be the only chance in your entire lifetime to fulfill the dream you’ve had since you were a child. For winning the Cup at your expense. And then winning it again just for kicks, you know?”

You are Jack’s s***tiest rescuer ever.

Claud Gireaux: “But why? I still don’t understand.”

Kaine seemed confused, or reluctant, as to how to explain. “It’s just something… I’m supposed to do. That I need to do. To make things right. Do you understand?”

Claud Gireaux: “Not really. But one more thing.”

“What?”

Gireaux’s eyes narrowed. “… Who do you think has better hands, you or me?”

Kaine laughed. And continued laughing. Only when he saw the stone cold look on Gireaux’s face did his laugh start to hesitate and stutter, before finally dying down.

Patrick Kaine: “What… you mean… you’re serious? I mean did you just see what I did?”

Claud Gireaux: “It’s one thing to do it in practice, but can you do it when the opponent is literally on your ass, putting the pressure on real hard? That’s the real question. That’s what I want to find out. That is, if you really think you’re better?”

“Well….” Kaine looked down at his bow-tie, adjusting it slightly. “What does ‘better’ or ‘worse’ really mean, anyway? You could almost call these arbitrary conceits our modern society abuses simply to create unnecessary hierarchies that aren’t actually based on skills or values related to survival or the furthering of the human race in most instances, you know?”

There was a silent pause.

Patrick Kaine: “… Does that answer your question?”

Another pause.

“YOU BASTARD!” Gireaux said, reaching around in one quick motion and clutching Kaine’s ass with both hands, pulling him towards him as they faced each other. “Try to look at me with a straight face and tell me you still believe your hands are better now!”

“I don’t know how we’re supposed to looking straight no matter our facial expressions so long as we’re like this, but okay then, how about you tell me…” countered Kaine quizzically, as he reached and grabbed Gireaux’s ass back. “Can you still look at me with a straight face? Can you look at me at all? Or are you afraid of what you might see?”

And slowly, the two of them transitioned from simply looking at each other, to looking through each other. They began to stare into each other’s eyes, ever more intently as the minutes dragged on, each one feeling only like a warm passing breeze as their faces came closer together, the reflection in their pupils speaking volumes to the truth. But only the tips of their noses touched. It was a passionate, competitive stare. But just about the hockey. And finally, Gireaux lowered his gaze, disheartened. He’d seen the truth.

Claud Gireaux: “You were right, man… Everyone was right. Your hands truly are the best. I can’t deny it anymore. I’ve felt their power for myself.”

Kaine nodded, a soft blush in his cheeks. “I know. But if makes you feel any better, I have to admit your ass is the best! I mean my god. Do you go to the gym?”

Gireaux did his best to withhold tears as he looked down at his shoes, but he couldn’t hide a small snivel as he responded. “Sometimes… Sometimes. You?”

“Nah…”

Gireaux nodded, wiping off his eyes.

“… I mean I won the Conn Smythe, you know?” Kaine continued. “Plus with hands like these it’s kind of like, why…?”

Claud Gireaux: “I understand. They truly are… tres le somptueux.”

Patrick Kaine: “I know. But yours are great, too. They really are. I mean it!”

Claud Gireaux: “That means a lot, coming from you…

Kaine nodded.

Claud Gireaux: “Here’s looking at your highlights next year, kid.”

Patrick Kaine: “Here’s looking at yours…”

Giroux smiled.

Patrick Kaine: “… When I’m not too busy winning Cups.”

Bastard.

Claud Gireaux: “By the way, do you think the NHL will ever have a gay athlete come out? It’s all the media ever talks about anymore.”

Patirck Kaine: “Nah… Impossible….”

Claud Gireaux: “Yeah I mean, come on. As if!

Kaine laughed. “Yeah! Maybe when pigs fly. Haha. Or how’s this Claud? You’ll like this one. When you guys win a Cup, that’s when we’ll see it haha. Right bud?”

Claud Gireaux: “… Yeah …”

Bastard.

“So should we go?” Asked Giroux, tersely.

“Yeah,” beamed Kaine. “Let’s. Follow me!”

To Be Continued…

Written by Shark Circle

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This concludes Part II of A Handsgate Exclusive. The rest is already written so check back daily for the final entries in the adventure. You can catch up on Part I here.

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Diverging Realities, Part III: My Thoughts On Thornton, Marleau, And The Sharks Future

Beware Of Advanced Stats In The Hands Of Less-Advanced Statisticians
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