Hub City Horrors (Diary of the 2020 Stanley Cup Playoffs)

Elias Pettersson's Diary: Wednesday, July 29, 2020

Edmonton, Canada

Western Conference, Sutton Place

We form a circle in the center of the ice, Jets standing proudly with the Canucks. I'm next to Patrik Laine. He's already got the full beard going on. I couldn't get that, even if I really tried. But as the moment happens, paying tribute to standing as one, my mind is racing. Thankfully there haven't been anymore cases in the hotel with Tkachuk and his Flame posse. It also helps that I've stuck close to Zuccs and the Hawk trio.

Actually, yesterday, the Hawks and I pranked Fiala really good. (Fiala's got a bad rap with the Hawks and I can only guess his Preds crap has carried into the Wild and this year and made him a key target.) When Fiala left for lunch with a few of his friends, we snuck into his room and changed his pre-game day breakfast list.

Instead of getting what he wanted: eggs, sausage, some kind of toast and orange juice, he's getting Stromer's used jock strap, part of Brinksy's mustache and one of Kirby's used, old shoes he is about to throw out. I chose not to add anything, for fear of it coming back in my face. It's just entertaining to watch them prank someone that isn't me.

And boy, Fiala was pissed the hell off this morning.

The pregame ceremony wraps up and it is game time!

When I take to the ice for my first shift into the period, I have two golden opportunities and take the shot. It's always best to apply pressure right off the bat, get under the Jets' skin and into their minds.

There is some good back and forth play.

My next shift out, I start behind Markstrom and tear down the ice, leaving others behind me with my quick speed and dash over the blue line. I am sandwiched finally behind the Jets' net by Pionk and Kulikov.

Kulikov finishes through, shoving me down to the ice with a snort. Pionk remains behind. He bends over and offers me a hand. I take it and get back up to my skates.

"You okay?" the Jets' defenseman inquires.

I nod at him, unsure how to respond. He doesn't really either.

"Thank you," I squeak out.

"You can call me Pisy, if you want to," the young man states, flashing a half-smile, full of strangeness like it's odd for him to be here talking to me.

We exchange awkward looks and then skate to our benches. Not all Jets players are douchebags, I guess.

The play has continued on the ice, Jets are pushing pressure into the Canucks' end. The clock ticks down overhead on the JumboTron as I get into the bench for the next person to come on.

I glance at the Winnipeg bench to see Kulikov snapping at Pisy for his actions. Part of me feels bad for him. But I can't let my emotions get the best of me. I have to focus on my game.

I return to the ice for another shift, taking the puck away from a Jets' player. There is a fierce collison behind me as I fly around the goal and let a shot sail on the goal. But Hellebuyck saves the shot and the play is blown dead.

Not long after that, Poolman for the Jets takes an elbowing penalty on Tyler Motte and we head to the powerplay. I am on the unit and we take the zone with ease. We pass the puck nicely around, until it finally reaches the blade of my stick.

I send a wicked slapshot at the net, but it fails to go in. Snared by Hellebuyck. I get to my skates and throw my head back in frustration. When I look back down, Millsy and another Canuck are looking my way. I blink a few times, crack my head and pout my lips at Millsy as he comes toward me.