Title: The Iced Deal
Just now—yes, literally minutes ago—the world of hockey shuddered not from a crushing body check or a game-winning goal, but from something far more bizarre. In the heart of Denver, at Ball Arena, the Colorado Avalanche’s best player, Nikolai “Blades” Sokolov, was officially declared unavailable for tonight’s playoff game. The cause? Captivity.
No, not injury. Not illness. Not even suspension.
Captivity.
The Avalanche front office issued a vague statement: “Due to unforeseen personal circumstances involving a contractual misunderstanding, Mr. Sokolov will not be participating tonight.”
But I was there. I saw it.
I’m a janitor, okay? I sweep the halls, mop up spilled Gatorade, and yeah—I’ve scrubbed blood off the penalty box glass more times than I can count. So trust me when I say this: Blades didn’t miss the game because of paperwork. He was taken.
It started right after morning skate. Blades had just netted a clean hat trick on Georgiev during warm-ups and was laughing that wild Russian laugh of his, echoing through the rafters. He was untouchable on the ice, a beast in skates, and everyone knew it. The Cup was ours if Blades stayed hot.
But in the far corner of the arena, behind the Zamboni entrance, a door opened where no door should’ve been.
Two men walked out. Suits. Sunglasses. The type of people who didn’t belong near a rink unless they were trying to buy it. One of them held a black briefcase, the kind you only see in movies when something really, really bad is about to go down.
I don’t know what they said to Coach Bednar, but within five minutes, Blades was gone.
Vanished.
Not injured. Not sick. Just… gone.
Rumors flew. A betting scandal. A secret clause in his international transfer. Some whispered espionage. It all sounded ridiculous—until you saw the footage.
The security cam I managed to sneak a peek at—because yes, janitors do have access to the back hallways—showed Blades being led through the tunnel with a black hood over his head. Like he was a hostage. No fight. No struggle. Just… silence.
And here’s the kicker—when I followed them (yes, I followed them), I saw where they took him.
Down to sublevel 3. That’s an area of the arena no one talks about. It was supposed to be storage. Cold, dusty, disused.
Except it wasn’t.
There were guards. Armed. Silent. A scanner on the door, the kind used at military installations. They scanned the briefcase, not his face. And then the door hissed open, and they pulled Blades inside.
No one’s seen him since.
But that’s not even the weirdest part.
This whole thing—his “captivity”—has something to do with the deal.
You see, back in 2022, when the Avalanche were on their Cup run, there were whispers. Strange ones. About how the team’s sudden resurgence came after a shadowy meeting involving the ownership group and… something else.
Not someone.
Something.
I didn’t believe it at first. But the deeper I dig, the more it lines up. The Avalanche made a deal—a pact, really—with a group calling themselves “The Frozen Order.” No one knew who they were, but they promised results. A Cup win. A dynasty.
In return? A player.
Not just any player. The player. One whose talent wasn’t simply “natural.” One who, according to whispers, didn’t technically exist before the 2022 season.
Blades.
Created. Engineered. Maybe even summoned.
He had no junior league history. No youth highlights. His stats just appeared one day on EliteProspects.com, and a month later, he was lacing up for Colorado, dropping jaws with no look backhands and slapshots like thunderclaps.
And now?
Now the bill had come due.
The Frozen Order wanted their asset back. And tonight’s game—Game 7 of the Western Conference Final—was the deadline.
Coach knew. GM Sakic definitely knew. That’s why they didn’t resist when the suits came. That’s why no press was allowed in the tunnel. That’s why the Avalanche media team started hyping up their “team effort” mantra all of a sudden.
They knew Blades wouldn’t be on the ice.
They knew he’d be below it. Locked away in some frost-lined chamber three stories beneath the penalty box, surrounded by the humming of old machines and the hum of ancient contracts.
I don’t know what happens next. Maybe the team pulls off a miracle without him. Maybe the suits vanish and Blades is back in Game 1 of the Finals like nothing happened. Or maybe—just maybe—we all forget he existed. That’s the way these things usually go, right?
Already, the NHL’s official site scrubbed his bio. No stats. No photos. Like he never played a single shift.
But I remember.
I was there.
And somewhere down below, I think he’s still lacing up his skates. Still waiting. Because even if the Order thinks they’ve won, they forgot one thing:
You can’t lock up a storm forever.
Not in Colorado.
Not when the Av
alanche are rolling.
Want to keep going and turn this into a series or short novella?