NHL Collective Bargaining Agreement. 39.330
Exhibit 1.
Standard Player's contract.
NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE STANDARD PLAYER'S CONTRACT (2013 FORM) BETWEEN
Philadelphia Furies, hereinafter called the "Club," a member of the National Hockey League, hereinafter called the "League"
AND
Nicolas di Angelo, hereinafter called the "Player"
1. The Club hereby employs the Player as a skilled hockey Player for the term of one League Year(s) commencing the later of July 1, 2016 or upon execution of this SPC and agrees, subject to the terms and conditions hereof, to pay the Player a salary of Five hundred and seventy-five thousand US Dollars ($575,000).
If the Player is not in the employ of the Club for the whole period of the Club's NHL Regular Season Games, then he shall receive only part of such Paragraph 1 Salary in the ratio of the number of days of actual employment to the number of days of the NHL Regular Season.
Nico couldn't sleep. No matter how many times he rolled over and flipped his pillow to the cool side, sleep wouldn't catch him. Every time he closed his eyes, he'd be back in that chair in Brunner's office, getting offered the deal of a lifetime.
In the morning, his alarm would go off, and he would have to have a decision ready. Either he'd take Brunner's offer and quit his job, or he'd decline and go to work just like it was a normal day - though he doubted it could feel normal, knowing what he'd have turned down.
By all accounts, it should have been an easy decision. He should be jumping at the chance—and a few years ago, he would have. Unfortunately, things were a little more complicated now.
Ever since he'd left home, he'd been on his own. He had to fend for himself, trying to make ends meet and hopefully save some money to go back to college - on his own terms this time.
The timing was so unfortunate, too. Last week, he'd finally gotten some good news. He had heard he was on the fast-track of becoming assistant manager at the Target where he worked. It wasn't the best of jobs, or the most well-paying, but it was the best he could hope for without a college degree, and he didn't even mind the work so much.
He'd started at the bottom, taking the crappy shifts nobody wanted for shit pay, and after working his ass off and forging good relationships with the store manager and assistant managers, going so far as to make sure the district manager liked him, it had finally paid off. If he landed the position—and he was at the top of the shortlist—his pay would increase, and that meant being able to put more money into his college fund, as well as a little more room to breathe every month. If things went well, he'd finally be able to move out of his shithole apartment.
It had taken him two years of hard work, but he was finally getting somewhere, and now, he was forced to make a choice. He could choose his boyhood dream, his five minutes of fame, and couple thousand dollars for a handful of games, or he could choose financial stability, a steady job, and being able to pay his rent every month.
It should have been an easy choice. The hockey was a once in a lifetime opportunity, but how long would it last? He had no guarantee he'd be able to keep playing after the season ended next month, but in return it would earn him enough money to bridge the gap in between the season ending and finding another job, though that job would likely come with less money than what he was making now.
He did a sloppy version of the math. He'd be under contract for about a month, with twelve games left to play. There were taxes to take into consideration, money to be put in escrow, other costs. All in all, it would leave him with about $40,000 of his $575,000 contract. More than enough to keep paying his rent for the rest of the year and well beyond. More than enough to bridge the gap between hockey and finding a new job. More than enough to pay for college tuition. So why was he still hesitant?
He knew he was a good goalie, better than average. But what if better than average wasn't good enough? What if last night had been beginner's luck? What if he didn't manage to keep up his game? He wouldn't just let down the team, he'd be letting himself down as well.
He didn't know what to do. This choice was the hardest he'd ever had to make, and that included the choice to give up his life and leave home.
He tried to sleep. A clear and fresh mind would help him figure things out, but no matter what he did, he couldn't fall asleep. He tossed and turned, pulled the comforter over him only to kick it off a moment later, tried countless positions, but none of it worked. He wasn't getting any sleep tonight.
He crawled out of bed and went into the kitchen to make himself some coffee. He'd tried to keep any and all thoughts about hockey from his head in order to fall asleep, but his thoughts hadn't stopped buzzing in the back of his mind.
Could he really do it? Could he really throw his life as it was away for hockey? He'd done exactly that, years ago, and it had left him in a city he didn't know, without a home to return to, working at Target to try and keep his head above water. Why would this time be any different?
Hours later, he was still sitting at the table, his fourth cup of coffee cooling in front of him. Light was already filtering through the windows, and after going back and forth all night, Nico had finally made his decision. He'd made a list of pros and cons, and had spent hours weighing his options, but it wasn't until then that he realized it didn't matter what the most rational decision was. The question he had to ask himself was: What did he want?
The decision had been easy once he'd asked himself that. What was the point of living if he was going to make nothing but the most responsible decisions? What he wanted to do had to count for more than what was the wisest choice. He was still young, his dream had been handed to him on a silver platter, and he was going to take it, damn the consequences. If he had to start at the bottom of the ladder again after the NHL, so be it. He would do it with a smile on his face.
He grabbed his phone and dialed the number Brunner had written on top of the contract draft before he could change his mind. His heart raced a mile a minute as he waited for him to pick up.
"Hello?"
"Mr Brunner, this is Nico di Angelo. I'm calling about your offer. I'd like to accept it."
The rest of the hour was filled with business talk. Brunner had told him he'd call back to set a time to finalize and sign his contract, and after that he'd called his manager at work to resign, which hadn't quite gone the way he'd thought.
He'd expected anger—especially since he'd only called in fifteen minutes before his shift started—but his manager's response had been mostly positive. Apparently, he'd caught the game last night, and after promising that Nico bring him some signed swag once he'd made it big, his manager had wished him the very best with his new career.
He felt pretty good about himself. From now on, he wouldn't be Nico di Angelo, Target employee. No, he'd be Nico di Angelo, professional hockey goalie. It didn't matter how long it would last—it would be the experience of a lifetime.
When Brunner called back, Nico was told he'd have to come to the Furies' practice facility in New Jersey, a 45-minute car ride away. His contract would be waiting for him, and all he'd have to do was sign to make the whole thing official.
Three hours and a short nap later, Nico had gathered every piece of hockey equipment he owned and had taken a series of buses to get to the practice rink. It had been a hellish two-hour journey, and if this was going to be one he'd have to make every day, he'd really have to invest in a car. So much for being financially responsible and saving his NHL money.
The facility looked like the type of rink where he and his teammates would play their beer-league games. It wasn't as flashy as the stadium, the only indication of this being the right rink was the Furies logo on the wall outside, and a merchandise shop and sports bar across the street.
When he came inside, dragging his hockey bag behind him, he found the team's equipment manager, Hudson, waiting for him, a smile on his face. "Welcome to the team, man," he said, shaking Nico's hand. "Just leave your gear with me and I'll get a stall and a locker set up for you."
"Thanks," Nico said, cracking a smile. The difference between the amateur leagues and the NHL was staggering. He didn't even need to drag his own bag around, and Hudson was just as friendly and helpful as he'd been last night. "Can you tell me where Mr. Brunner is?"
"He should be with Will. Down that hallway," he said, pointing off to the side. "Third door. If it's open, you can go in."
"Thanks again," Nico said, handing his gear to Hudson. He went down the hallway and, seeing the door was open, knocked on the doorframe and peered inside. Brunner was standing near a counter, the blond medic from the night before standing next to him.
"Nico, good to see you," Brunner said, beckoning him over. "This is Will Solace, team physician."
"Hey man," Solace said, smile wide and bright, walking over and clapping him on the shoulder. "Good to meet you, man. Welcome to the team. You were the bomb last night."
"Thank you," Nico said, smiling back. Everyone was so welcoming. It felt like people genuinely wanted him to be there—a stark contrast from last night, when he'd gotten the urge that he was only getting the offer so they wouldn't have to bring Valdez up—and it only reaffirmed his belief that he'd made the right decision.
"Will here's going to check you over," Brunner said. "I'll have the papers ready for you to sign after practice." He turned to face Will. "Have him on the ice at three."
"I'll walk him there myself," Solace said, walking Brunner out and locking the door. He sat down behind his desk and gestured for Nico to take a chair. "You nervous?"
"A little," Nico said. It was a little weird, sitting here in this office across from the guy who was the team's doctor, even though he didn't look much older than he himself was.
"You don't have to be," Solace said, laughing. "It's just a physical. And I've been told I have warm hands." He held up his fingers and wiggled them.
Nico couldn't help but crack a smile. Solace seemed like an okay guy. Last night, he'd seemed serious and in control, dashing onto the ice after Ahlstrom had gone down, but now, the way he almost lounged in his chair, his speech casual, he was disarming.
"So here's how it's gonna work. I'm going to take your medical history, fill out some forms and more of that boring stuff. Then I'm going to draw some blood, and I'll give you a physical. Sound good?"
Nico nodded. Nothing he hadn't endured before.
Solace had been right. Filling out a bunch of forms and going over his medical history was boring. More than once, Nico found himself zoning out, staring at the photos lining the walls of Solace's office, and the row of bobbleheads on a filing cabinet in the corner. The office was full of knick-knacks, a personal touch added to what would have been a cold and sterile room without it.
His head snapped up when Solace laughed. "Yeah, I know. It bores me too. I didn't get into sports medicine to be a glorified secretary," he said. "Roll up your sleeve so I can draw some blood and we'll get started."
After drawing three phials of blood, Solace directed him to the corner of his office, sectioned off with a curtain. Nico stripped down to his boxers, neatly folding his clothes and putting them on a chair, before stepping back into the room. Solace was waiting for him, clipboard in hand.
"You ready?"
Nico nodded. "As ready as I'll ever be."
Despite having had a few of them in his life, having a physical exam was nerve wracking. The team obviously wanted their athletes in the best of shapes, and while Nico was in pretty good condition, he wasn't a walking underwear advertisement like most of the guys on the team were. He didn't really have any obvious muscle mass to speak of, no washboard abs, nothing.
What if it wasn't enough? What if he didn't meet a certain standard? He'd had various injuries in the past, what if one of them hadn't healed right—not up to NHL standards? It could ruin his career before it could even start. Maybe he should have taken some vacation time, instead of quitting his job before he'd even signed his contract with the team. God, he really hoped Solace wouldn't find anything.
He took a deep breath and stepped on the scales in the corner of the office, heart beating in his throat.
After the physical, he felt like a trained monkey. He'd spent a good portion of the past hour doing what Solace said. Stand there, bend your knees, bend your arms, lean forward. It had seemed like it would never end, and he breathed a huge sigh of relief when Solace told him to go put his clothes back on.
Solace had been great throughout the whole thing. He was professional and kind, cracking the occasional joke every now and then to break the tension. He'd made Nico feel comfortable and at ease, which had been an impressive feat, considering he hadn't been able to stop thinking about how stupid he'd been, giving up his job just like that—and he hadn't been lying when he'd said his hands were warm.
Nico sat down in the chair Will had gestured to, hands clammy with sweat. During the exam, Solace hadn't said a single word about his results, but now he looked all business, flipping through the pages on the clipboard.
"We'll have to wait for the bloodwork to come back," Solace said, taking a few notes, "but everything seems like it's in order."
Nico's shoulders drained of all tension, the knot in his stomach loosening.
Solace cracked a small smile. "Your bodyfat percentage is on the low side, and you're going to have to work on increasing your muscle mass and building your strength, but you're in good health."
"I've always been a skinny guy," Nico said, smiling sheepishly. "It's just my build, I guess."
"That's perfectly fine," Will said, tapping his pen on the desk. "But I'm going to tell Lacy, our nutritionist, that you'll be coming to see her. She'll set you up with a diet. Try to follow it. I don't want to see you in here because you've collapsed at practice, okay? This isn't everyday life. This is the NHL, and it's going to take a lot out of you. I don't know what you did before you landed this gig, but it's hours upon hours of rigorous exercise, a crazy travel schedule, and then the games on top of that."
Nico opened his mouth to speak, but Will cut him off.
"We're all here to help you, so don't give me that look, okay?" He leaned back in his chair, dropping the clipboard. "If your blood work is clean, I'll give you the okay to play games. It should come back in a few hours if I put a rush on it."
"Thank you," Nico said, cracking a smile.
"One more thing," Will said, leaning forward, the look on his face more serious than it had at any point since Nico had met him. "If you're on anything you shouldn't be, now would be the moment to tell me. If you're not honest with me, and those blood tests come back positive, you and I…" he said, gesturing between them, "we're going to have a problem."
"Do I look like I'm on steroids?" Nico asked, raising an eyebrow and gesturing down his body.
Will barked out a laugh, loud and boisterous. "I guess you don't. I had to ask." He checked his watch. "You should get over to practice. Hedge will chew me out if I keep you in here any longer, and you won't be able to sign until the blood work gets back, anyway. I'll run up and tell Brunner." He got up and led Nico over to the door, where he shook his hand. "Listen, if there's ever anything, come see me. Whatever you say to me stays between us, unless I absolutely have to report it to the team."
"Thanks," Nico said again. "I'll remember that." It'd be nice to have a friend in the organization, someone he could trust. "I'll be seeing you."
"You betcha," Will said.
Walking into the locker room was surreal, maybe even more so than it had been last night. It was every bit as fancy as the one at the stadium, the stalls made of polished wood, a plush little seat for everyone instead of a giant bench everyone had to share. He'd expected a luxurious locker room at the stadium, but this one was perhaps nicer still.
He looked to his left and saw his own stall, his breath catching in his throat. His gear hung in the stall, a practice jersey neatly folded on a hanger, his skates on hooks to the sides. And most important of all, the thing that made it all real: A small plaque on the overhead shelf that read 35 - Di Angelo.
Last night had been like a dream, but this was real life. This was happening. This was his stall now, and nobody was going to take it away from him.
He smiled and sat down in his stall, taking the room in. There was an enormous TV-screen mounted on the wall in between the two rows of stalls, the Furies logo in the middle of the floor, and on the top of the walls, the words DISCIPLINE and EXCELLENCE were painted in bold black, ringed with orange. It was obvious what the team wanted from him, and he'd try his damnedest to deliver.
He took a few deep and steady breaths, before standing up and stripping off his clothes. Putting on his gear would take some time, and practice had already started, but he wouldn't rush. He wanted to step on that ice and give it his best, and he could only do that if he was strapped down in his gear as best he could. He couldn't afford to rush himself.
He put his skates on nice and tight, put his leg pads on, did a final check to make sure his padding was in place, and headed out to the ice, his helmet tucked under his arm. The air grew cooler, and he was met with the familiar sounds of skates on ice and sticks slapping against pucks.
A large door in the corner boards was open a crack, and Nico was about to step onto the ice there when he stopped. The players on the ice were doing drills, half of them wearing a white jersey, the rest a black one. They were playing a game with an open net, the white jerseys on defense, the black ones on offense.
It amazed Nico how good these guys were. Even without a goalie, the black jerseys had a difficult time getting pucks to the net. Seeing them play from up close really made him have all the more respect for their skill—a lot of the nuance was lost on TV, or high up in the stands. A smile crept onto his face. From now on, these were his teammates, the guys he'd have to rely on to win games.
"Look who decided to join us," Hedge barked from further up the ice, a grin on his face. He skated over. "You're twenty minutes late to practice, cupcake."
Nico stood there, letting out a nervous chuckle as he tried to weather Hedge's glare.
"I'm just kidding. Welcome to the team." Hedge laughed, then blew his whistle. All the players stopped their drills and skated over to them.
"This here's di Angelo. You might recognize him from last night," Hedge said. "For those of you who haven't heard, he'll be with us for the rest of the season."
The players tapped their sticks on the ice, and Nico saw a few smiling faces. In the back stood Grace, standing tall and proud, raising his stick in salute.
"Hi," he said, holding up his glove in an awkward greeting. He felt a little awkward, standing there, not quite knowing what else to say. Thanks for having me? It's so good to be here?
He was saved by Hedge blowing his whistle again. "Back to what you were doing before. White, you're looking good but I need great. Black, where's all that skill gone? You look like a bunch of peewee players. Let's go!"
The players skated off, and Nico was left alone with Hedge. "Go warm up," Hedge said. "I'm going to have the guys take a bunch of shots at you later, see how you hold up."
Nico nodded, and started on his warmups. He skated around for a few moments, before sinking to the ice and trying to warm up his limbs.
He stared through the grating of his mask. On the blue line separating the two halves of the rink, eighteen players stood lined up, a bucket full of pucks dumped on the ice in front of them.
He took deep, slow breaths. Let them come, he thought, as three players broke away, passing one of the pucks between them at an incredible speed. They faked passes and did whatever they could to throw him off, but when Yew took the shot, Nico saw it coming.
He raised his glove and caught it, throwing it behind him only to raise his head and see the next trio coming, already halfway up the ice.
He had no idea how long he'd been in goal for, and he'd long since lost count of the amount of shots they'd taken at him, or how many he'd saved—counting hadn't been important, he'd needed all his focus to make saves. His limbs were burning, the practice having taken more out of him than ten of his beer league games put together.
They'd tested him, trying to see what he could do, how he'd hold up against shot after shot after shot. They hadn't held back, pushing him to his very limits. Every time he put the puck down, three other guys would be in front of him, and the next shot was never more than a few seconds away.
Hedge was standing off to the side, at the boards, talking to Brunner. When had Brunner gotten there? He'd been so focused on practice that he hadn't noticed a crowd had gathered.
When he got up, shaking his limbs out, he looked behind him in the goal. One, two, three… Seven pucks. He'd let in seven shots. He felt the pang of disappointment, before he caught the rest of the pucks he'd thrown beside the goal. There had to have been over fifty of them.
"Good job," Grace said, taking off his helmet and ruffling his hair after stopping beside him. "Only seven. And without D backing you up. That's impressive."
Nico took his helmet off and removed his hairclip, brushing his sweat-soaked hair away from his face before putting the clip back. Sweat was gushing down his face, and he gladly accepted the water bottle Grace was holding out for him. "That was crazy. Were you guys trying to kill me?"
Grace laughed. "It's like I told you on the drive home. The brass wants to know if last night was a fluke or not," he said, leaning on his stick. "It clearly wasn't. You're gonna do some great things here, I just know it."
"Thanks," Nico said, grateful for the vote of confidence from the team captain. "I'll try my best, if they ever let me off the bench."
"Oh, Hedge didn't tell you yet?"
"Didn't tell me what?"
Grace's expression turned serious. "Ahlie's out for the rest of the season, and even though Harry could play if he absolutely had to, he's a little banged up, and they want to keep him benched," he said. "The next game is all yours, my friend."
Nico hadn't expected that—his second game in the NHL, and he'd be the starter goalie. He'd known he'd get to play; there was no way Harald would be able to play twelve games in a row, but the starting position on his second night?
"They're not wasting any time throwing me to the wolves, huh," Nico said, smiling sheepishly.
"Yeah, no kidding," Grace said, slowly skating towards the boarding. "C'mon, we should go get showered. We're watching game footage the rest of the afternoon. Have to be prepared for Saturday."
Nico didn't want to ask, but at the risk of sounding like an idiot, he did so anyway. "What's happening on Saturday?"
"We're gonna lose on Saturday," a guy in a white jersey said as he skated by.
"Shut up, Bach," Grace snapped. "We can beat them. We've done it before."
"The last time was two years ago," Yew said, getting off the ice and putting his stick in the rack. "And that was when half their team was injured. We played the B-team, that's why we won."
"And we can do it again," Grace said, blocking the tunnel and turning around, gathering the rest of the players in front of him. "Look, we'll be fine. They aren't invincible. I don't care that they're at the top of the standings. We can do this. It's just another game."
Nico was at a total loss. He hadn't checked the schedule yet, so he didn't know what team they'd be playing on Saturday, but the team clearly wasn't happy with it. Great, he'd have all odds against him on his first game as a starter.
"So, uh, who are we playing?"
Grace turned around and smiled. "Hope you're ready for your first road trip, dude. Come Saturday, we'll be in Pittsburgh, playing the Pegasi."
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