We'll have a Kakko fanfic thread before xmas at this pace. "As Coach Gerard was about to blow his whistle to end the drill, he saw Kaapo's solid shapes and thicc cheeks. He thought: 'this guy is going to be outstanding...' "
David Quinn just happened to be in the NY metropolitan area, wrapping up a photo shoot with a rambunctious litter of calico and black-and-white kittens for his planned America's Cutest Kittens 2022 calendar. The Beantown native, out of work as a hockey coach, had finally decided to act upon his childhood dream of being a world-famous cat photographer. Exhausted and famished by a whole day of wrangling uncooperative kittens, he got in his car and planned to head back to Boston when a text from an unknown caller popped up on his phone. "Urgent. One of your ex-players needs your help right away. Go to training center."
Who could it be, Quinn thought. He was tired, but curiosity got the better of him. If traffic cooperates, he could reach Tarrytown in an hour, he pondered. The drive to Tarrytown was uneventful. Quinn arrived at the MSG Training Center parking lot. It was more dimly lit than usual, he noticed. Walking up to the front door, a surge of anticipation rushed through his body, and with some surprise, he cracked the door open. "Hmmm, this door's usually locked," he thought. The training center inside was pitch black.
Quinn fumbled about and managed to reach rinkside purely by the memory of his almost three years of time spent at the facility. Suddenly, the overhead lights popped on. The instantaneous brightness, coupled with that unmistakable 60-Hz electrical hum, pierced both Quinn's eyes and ears like daggers. Shielding his eyes from the glare, Quinn could see the outline of someone familiar in the short distance. But who would have lured him here afterhours? There didn't seem to be anyone in trouble. "Hi, coach." Quinn immediately recognized the voice, its inflection, the mellow but stern intonation. "Kaapo?" Quinn whimpered. "Yes."
Kakko appeared from the shadows. He was dressed in full Rangers regalia, from his blue Benjamin Moore-emblazoned home-game helmet to his Blueshirt, with "24" gracefully adorned high on the upper parts of the sleeves, all the way down to his skates. Hanging by laces clutched in his left hand were a pair of skates. "Put these on," Kakko commanded. Kakko looked massive. Every inch of his six-foot-five frame pushed his uniform outward to its threaded limits. "He must be 230... 235, easy," Quinn muttered to himself. Even Kakko's voice seemed to ring an octave lower. "What do you want, Kaapo?"
After Quinn put on his skates, Kakko escorted him out onto the ice. "Let's practice." Without pads, without a stick, without even a coach's whistle, the former bench boss suddenly felt very vulnerable. Between trying to race back to the side boards and doing what Kakko barked out, he opted for the latter. There was no way he was going to outrace this thoroughbred to safety.
Kakko instructed Quinn to skate a lap, upon which the ex-coach did. "Too slow. Do it again." Nervous, and severely out of breath after having not even encountered a sheet of ice over the past five months, Quinn went once more. 201 by 86, owing to a long-time idiosyncrasy in the training rink's dimensions. "Again." 201 by 86, once more. "No. Again."
By now, mild nervousness had escalated to terror only to be overtaken by sheer panic. "Why are you doing this to me?" the Bostonian dared to question. "Is it because I limited your minutes? Because I liked Colin more? I was doing what I thought was right."
Kakko was utterly silent. He instead just pointed to the bench, his finger the size of a kielbasa. Quinn skated over. "You want me to climb over the wall and sit on the bench?" Kakko nodded. Then, he pointed his meaty index finger back onto the ice. "You want me to hop back on?" Kakko again just nodded, somewhat displeased. His face contorted. Those blue eyes pierced into and through those equally green, jeweled orbs of Quinn.
Quinn immediately recalled the first Ghostbusters movie, when the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man's bubbly smile turned into a livid frown that seemingly came out of the deepest and darkest depths of Gozer's hell. This Kakko was no longer that laid-back take-his-lumps kid he once knew. It was consumed by this unrecognizable man-monster, full of unbridled rage toward his former coach.
"TOO MANY MEN!" The scream reverberated out, bouncing off the walls and ceiling of the empty training facility like an unrequited banshee. "TOO MANY MEN!" "But it's just me and you, man!" Quinn pleaded. "TOO MANY MEN!" It was the sort of psychological onslaught not seen since Starfleet captain Jean-Luc Picard was broken down by his Cardassian captor into saying that he saw five lights when there were just four. "TOO MANY MEEEEEENNNNNNN!!!!!" "I can't do this, man! Please, let me go!"
Then, Kakko disappeared, just as quickly as he had materialized. Now it was pitch black again. Quinn could feel his pupils dilate. Slowly, the familiar Boston University knick knacks that adorned his living room walls appeared from the ether. Quinn sighed, bathed in his own perspiration. "It was just a dream. A bad dream."