Shaybu!

The big goon man, who was apparently called Charlie, dragged the fighting Bruin centre from the vehicle.

It was midnight black outside, as Patrice was forced into a tiny run-down, abandoned farmhouse-like building and into the first floor living room.

Before the door was closed, he saw the lights for the Olympic village of Sochi in the close distance. He saw the lights of the Shayba Arena glowing in the evening air and the big dome of the Bolshoy Arena behind it. The flame on the torch was still flickering about, in the center of the Olympic village.

He noticed that the house was a few couple yards from the adjacent homes in the residential area. A rusty, old shutter-style fence encompassed the neighborhood, keeping out the Olympians and outsiders.

Patrice felt like the house resembled a Russian version of the haunted house in American television shows. It was separated from the other houses by a few yards, old, and had a creepy feeling to it.

He was shoved down into a wooden chair that creaked and groaned under him. He put up a valiant effort, but was still overpowered as Charlie wound ropes upon ropes around the Quebec native. Charlie knotted the last rough material tightly around his wrist, restraining him to the chair.

"What are you doing?" the Bruin alternate captain queried, his voice a pitch higher in tone, than he had intended.

Charlie stomped off, ignoring him. The hockey player pulled at his bonds, which only felt like they clasped tighter and tighter, squeezing and suffocating his pulse.

"Hey man, can't we work this out?" Patrice suggested, grasping a hold on his senses and forcing himself to relax.

There was no reply.

"If Sid wants me dead, he should be a man and do his own wicked work! He should kill me himself or is he such a precious little baby that he's scared I might be too awesome!" (Patrice has learned and picked up a little bit of chirping from Marchy, aye?)

"Shut up naive!" A low growl came in response.

Patrice spat on the ground, like he was sitting on the bench and had devoured some ice. (You know how when the players come to the bench after a shift and the camera pans over and zooms in on a chosen player and you can see them do a little spit take...it happens with NBC coverage all the time. Take a look the next time you watch a game. NBC’s angle shows disgusting hockey moments.)

A few minutes later a figure strutted into his view. He had a hood on to disguise his look, but his mannerisms were ever so familiar.

"Oh, so you have come to finish me off, Sid!?" Patrice scowled, rolling his eyes.

The figure slowly lifted the hood from his head. It wasn't Sidney Crosby.

"I'm not Sidney Crosby!"

Oh my god, it was a chick!? A female Sidney Crosby. His sister, perhaps??

"I don't have time to explain, but basically my name is Taylor Crosby and I'm Sidney's sister!" The girl replied, whispering. She glanced around nervously, like she was keeping an eye out for any trouble.

"What?? Sidney has a sister?" Patrice hissed.

She immediately stepped forward and launched her hand up to cover his mouth, gently. "Shush! Keep it down! You're going to attract attention! I want to help you! I'm, believe it or not, the girlfriend of your ex-linemate."

She dropped her hand, feeling that the point had gotten across. "Tyler?"

"Yeah, I'm Tyler Seguin's girlfriend and his lead Seguinista (fan girl)!"

"But you're related to the arrogant ass of your brother?"

She winked to him. "I know, but he doesn't have to know about my secret relationship!"

"Okay?"

"Listen, Bergy, I overheard my brother’s plan and I'm here to help you out, I swear. You are one of a kind and I can't have my brother foolishly kill you off!"

"Uh, thanks..."

“It’s no problem, Patrice. I’ll be back later to set you free. But you must play along and act like I was never here!”

“Okay! I can do that.”

“Great. I will see you soon!” The girl put her hood back on and vanished once more.

Patrice was utterly flummoxed, but he felt a tiny bit better. His heart rate had slowed down considerably. Thank you, Tyler Seguin! he thought.

Notes