Hockey is a business of managed depreciation. We like to pretend it’s about "the crest on the front," but for the front office, it’s about protecting the hardware.

William Nylander is currently the most expensive piece of hardware in the Toronto Maple Leafs’ inventory. He’s a $92 million investment walking around on two very breakable ankles. So, when the chatter starts about the 2026 Winter Olympics in Milan, the analysts don't see a patriotic dream. They see a catastrophic insurance claim waiting to happen.

The latest "expert" consensus? The Leafs need to put their foot down. They need to play the role of the joyless corporate parent and tell their star winger that his Swedish jersey stays in the closet.

It’s a classic conflict of interest. On one side, you have the player’s desire to actually enjoy his life and represent his country. On the other, you have a corporate entity that just backed up a Brinks truck to his house and now feels it owns his literal ligaments. Nylander’s new contract pays him an average of $11.5 million per year. That’s a lot of subscription revenue to gamble on a mid-February tournament in Italy.

The logic is cold. If Nylander catches an edge or takes a slap shot to the foot while playing for Sweden, the Leafs’ season doesn't just stall—it goes into a ditch. And for what? For a gold medal that doesn't fit in the trophy case at Scotiabank Arena? To the suit-and-tie crowd, the Olympics are essentially an unpaid internship for billionaires. All of the risk, none of the direct revenue.

We’ve seen this movie before. Every time a major international tournament looms, the NHL ownership group starts sweating. They look at the "asset"—that’s you, William—and they see a depreciating vehicle they’d rather keep in the garage. They’ll talk about "organizational priority" and "commitment to the fanbase." It’s code for: We didn't pay you $92 million to get hurt in a different time zone.

The friction here isn't just about safety, though. It’s about the total lack of control. In the NHL, the team controls the narrative, the medical staff, and the workload. At the Olympics, they’re just spectators. They have to watch their $11.5 million-a-year investment get deployed by a different coaching staff with different priorities. It’s like lending your brand-new Porsche to a cousin who has a history of DUIs.

And let's be honest about the Leafs specifically. This is an organization that hasn't touched a Stanley Cup since the invention of the color television. They are desperate. They are twitchy. The thought of losing their most consistent offensive threat because of a game played 4,000 miles away is enough to give the board of directors an ulcer.

So the analysts are calling for a "firm stance." They want management to exert the kind of leverage that only comes with a massive paycheck. They want the "foot put down." It’s an ugly phrase. It implies a level of subservience that we usually reserve for Victorian-era labor disputes. But that’s the deal when you sign the paper. You aren't just a hockey player; you’re a capital expenditure.

The "put your foot down" crowd argues that the Leafs have a fiduciary responsibility to their shareholders—er, fans—to ensure the team is at full strength for the playoffs. They argue that the Olympics are a distraction. A glitch in the optimization of the 82-game schedule.

But here’s the problem with treating people like spreadsheets: spreadsheets don't have egos. They don't have lifelong dreams. If you tell a guy like Nylander he can’t go, you aren't just "protecting the asset." You’re poisoning the well. You’re telling him that the $92 million wasn't a reward for his talent, but a down payment on his autonomy.

Of course, the analysts don't care about the vibes in the locker room. They care about the actuarial tables. They see the $11.5 million AAV and they see a "Must Not Break" sticker. They’ll keep banging the drum for the Leafs to act like a bank and foreclose on Nylander’s Olympic dreams.

At some point, the team will have to decide if they’re running a sports franchise or a risk-mitigation firm. They might find that "putting your foot down" is a great way to make sure nobody wants to stand in your corner when the real games start.

If you bought a $92 million piece of art, would you let the artist take it back for a month just to show it off in a different gallery?