Jarret Stoll awakens on top of his pile of a grounded up dollar bills next to a naked Erin Andrews. He burps, slams a left over mojito from the night before, and throws on his board shorts. He slips his butler a Benjamin on his way out of the bedroom.
"I think there's like twelve condoms I used in there, Winston," Stoll advises him.
"Sure thing Winston."
Stoll grabs one of his hundred identical grey American Eagle v-neck shirts, sandals, and sunglasses, and then takes off. He hops in his convertible and peels out, ignoring the school zone speed limit. The children cheer him. Stoll glances at the Pacific Ocean, glistening in the sun. He still resides in South Bay. It's a beautiful warm morning.
"Bitchin," mutters Stoll as he admires the coastline. He hawks a loogie out of his car, and the paparazzi descend on it to photograph the work of art.
Stoll realizes he is low on Malibu, so he plans his shopping trip. He struts up to the cashier at the liquor store after grabbing five bottles, an econo size pack of magnum rubbers, and a carton of orange juice.
"Cash or credit, sir?" asks the cashier.
"Check," replies Stoll.
"Sir, we don't take checks."
"Nah man," Stoll tells him. "Check these out."
Stoll pulls his shirt up revealing his perfect abs. The cashier's eyes melt out of his head. Stoll grabs his purchases and takes off again. He then remembers he has a game today. He calls his agent to find out which team he plays for again. He scoffs at the fact Minnesota is a real place before flooring his car up the 405 in the carpool lane.
He screeches to a halt in a loading zone at LAX. A police officer approaches him as Stoll hops out of his car without bothering to open the door.
"You can't park your car h-" starts the officer.
Stoll tosses him the keys.
"Try not to scratch it, buddy."
The cop stares at Jarret Stoll as he waltzes off. He clenches his hand around the car keys.
"I will not fail you," mutters the cop.
Stoll skips security as the TSA workers fan themselves at the sight of him. One asks for an autograph. Stoll makes his way to a plane, shoves the air marshal back down into his seat, and opens up the cockpit door. He demands the pilot heads towards Minnesota as he falls into the co-pilot's seat, leans back, and kicks his feet up.
A few hours later, Stoll arrives in Minnesota. It's already the first intermission. John Torchetti is irate.
"Where the hell have you been?!" slobbers the inferior man.
"Sick Bosley treatment, Yeo," Stoll compliments as he flicks a cigarette butt at him.
"Good one, Jarret!" laughs Zach Parise who goes for a high-five and gets whiffed as Stoll ignores him.
Torchetti can only look on, stifling his sobs and trying not to touch himself as Stoll changes into his gear. The Wild take to the ice for the second period. Stoll is still wearing his sunglasses.
"Alright boys!" commands an insecure Ryan Suter. "Keep the play to the outside, and go for the stretch pass to counter and-"
"Why the fuck are you trying so hard?" interrupts Stoll. "Christ, man. Just shut the fuck up."
Mikko Koivu is giving Stoll a back massage. Stoll hands him a cigarette for him to light. Jason Pominville pours him a highball. Torchetti never came out for the period.
"Seriously dude, you just keep squawking over there and it's just harshin everyone out. Chill it, you fuckin plebe."
Suter nervously averts his eyes to avoid making eye contact and can only stare downwards at his skates.
"Ha ha! Sick, bro!" Parise chimes in. Stoll continues to ignore him as he props his feet up on Thomas Vanek who is acting as a human ottoman.
Stoll returns to Los Angeles after leaving during the second intermission. The cop rushes up to him at the LAX loading zone and returns his car keys. Stoll slips him a five.
"Thank you Winston."
He pulls into his South Bay mansion, strips down, and returns to his pile of money bed. Erin Andrews hasn't moved and finally wakes up.
Stoll stares up at his ceiling mirror, admiring the reflection.
"Whatever," he mutters.
Prediction: Stoll hangs with his old Kings teammates during the second period laughing at the sad state of humanity known as "Minnesota fans".