Jules nodded and sat back.
“He’s just one of the players we’re considering,” Darby said and turned the screen to face him. “When I narrow it down, I’ll let you know.”
“Okay.” She turned to Jules and asked out of one corner of her mouth, “Do they have to discuss trades with me?”
He nodded and set his briefcase on his lap. “Did I forget to tell you that?”
“Yeah. You did.” And it was kind of important, although she couldn’t complain. If not for Jules, she’d be lost. Well, even more than she already was lost.
He pulled out a stack of Hockey News magazines and handed them to her. “Dig in.”
She flipped past various copies and settled on the February issue, with Ty Savage on the cover, his face beaded with sweat as his vivid blue eyes looked at the camera from beneath his white helmet. He looked intimidating and intense. The caption on the left read “Can Ty Savage Deliver Lord Stanley to Seattle?”
The magazine had come out a month before Virgil’s death, and she thumbed past a story on Jeremy Roenick to the center of the magazine. On the right side was a color photo of Ty appearing bare chested. He had his hands behind his head and his chest was rippled with clearly defined muscles. In black ink, his last name was tattooed down his side from just below his armpit to the waistband of his jeans. She had a Playboy bunny inked in the small of her back. It had hurt like crazy, and she couldn’t imagine getting a tattoo the size of Ty’s.
Looking at his photo, if she didn’t know better, she’d think she was staring at a “hunk of the month” calender. The shot was from the waist up and only the hint of a smile curved his mouth. The left side of the center spread was filled with columns of career stats with the byline “Saint or Traitor?” superimposed on the impressive list going back to his days in the minors. The article began:
Without a doubt, Ty Savage is one of the NHL’s best and toughest players. He’s known for laying on the big hits on open ice. As a result, he makes opponents keep their heads up and think twice about going up against this Selke winner.
He is, as everyone who follows the game knows, the son of hockey great, Pavel Savage. A relationship he is reluctant to talk about.
“My father was one of the best players in NHL history,” he says in his best surly Savage.
Faith smiled. She knew exactly what the reporter was talking about. No one did surly better than Ty.
“But I am not my father. We play different games. When I hang up my skates for the last time, I want to be judged by my skill on the ice. Not by my last name.”
Enough said.
Unless he commits an unpardonable sin, history will judge this former Art Ross Trophy winner with the same respect it reserves for the likes of Howe, Gretsky, Messier, and dare we say it, Pavel Savage.
Although there are those in Canada who’d like the younger Savage deleted from their national archives. This stems from Ty’s defection from the Vancouver Canucks to the Seattle Chinooks this past month. To many Canadians, the name “Savage” is sacred, like Macdonald, Trudeau and Molson. Perhaps unfair, this native son who once was hailed as a hero is now considered a traitor. In the past weeks, the Vancouver media has vilified him, even going so far to burn him in effigy. At which Savage merely shrugs. “I understand their feelings,” he says. “Canadians are passionate about hockey. That’s what I love about them, but they don’t own me.”
When asked about his reputation for playing a hard physical game, he laughs and responds, “That’s my job.”
Faith looked up from the magazine. Ty laughs? She’d been around him several times in the past few weeks, and the man had barely cracked a smile.
She returned her gaze to the Hockey News in her lap and turned the page. She looked at the photos of Ty colliding center ice with a Flyer, and of him scoring a goal against Pittsburgh.
“Some might say your hard physical style hurts people. That you’re not a very nice person.”
“I play hard physical hockey. That’s my job, but I never go after anyone who doesn’t have the puck. If that means I’m not a nice person, I can live with that. I’ve never been interested in the Lady Byng Trophy, and I’m not going to lose sleep worrying about whether people think I’m ‘nice.’ If I’m a dick sometimes, no one will ask me for money or want to borrow my truck to move their crap.”
“Has that happened to you?”
“Not so much these days.”
Speaking of money, the Chinooks paid $30 million for their captain, and there were a lot of people, including those in the Chinooks organization, who thought the money would have been better spent on their defense. But owner Virgil Duffy knows the wisdom of acquiring a player the caliber of Savage.
“Every time he steps on the ice,” Duffy is quoted as saying, “he increases the value of the Chinooks franchise.”
A few rows behind Faith, she heard the shuffle of newspaper mixed with the low hum of deep male voices. If Virgil had thought Ty was worth 30 million, then he was, and more.
Traitor or Saint doesn’t matter much to Ty Savage. He just wants to play hockey his way and win the cup. “I have no doubt we’ll make it into the final round. We’ve got the talent to get us that far. After that, it’s going to come down to who hits harder and puts the most points on the board.” He flashes a rare smile. “And what a guy’s got in his sac.”
Enough said.
Faith closed the magazine. Somehow she doubted Ty had been talking about those Sac poof chairs.