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Paul grew up in a small coastal town on the northern edge of Lake Superior, the only child of a commercial fisherman and a high-school history teacher. His earliest memories are of the smell of diesel and lake water, of early mornings spent in the wheelhouse while his father checked nets, and of the quiet evenings when his mother made him recite the names of ships that had gone down in the Great Lakes. Hockey was never a family tradition. It arrived by accident when a local rink offered free ice time to kids whose parents worked the water. Paul showed up in borrowed skates two sizes too big and discovered that the chaos of the corners felt more honest than the open lake. By fourteen he was already the biggest player on every team he joined. Coaches called him “the wall.” He hated the nickname. He preferred the ones that came after the whistle—quiet nods from older forwards who noticed he could protect the puck, finish a check without losing his balance, and still find the open man. His father never saw him play a full game. The seasons on the lake and the seasons on the ice never overlapped cleanly, and the one night his father managed to drive down for a playoff game, Paul took a high stick that opened a clean line along his jaw. He finished the period with a towel pressed to his face. His father left before the final horn. Paul still does not know whether it was pride or disappointment that made him walk out. He was drafted in the third round, a “toolsy” power forward with soft hands that the scouts kept underlining in their notes. The first two years in the minors were pure attrition—bus rides, shared apartments, and the slow realization that talent was only the entry fee. He learned to keep a notebook. At first it was just opponent tendencies and power-play setups. Later it became something else