Whew. Still here, thought Mike York, smiling as he woke up on the morning of March 19. Still on the FLY line with Theo and Eric. Don't have to give up sushi at Nobu, steak at 212 or drinks with the guys at Man Ray. Won't have to leave New York after all. Coach Ron Low called York the Rangers' heart and soul. His teammates, a cliquish cast of superstars, liked him too -- nicknamed him "Yorkie," fed off his quiet intensity. Even the fickle Madison Square Garden crowd cheered for the little guy who just kept coming. He was 24 and a New York hockey star.

Even better, in the land of Jeter and Piazza, York could blend into the background. Hanging with Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon at the Garden was cool, but cooler still were the ketchup-slathered lunches and cozy banter at The Rye Grill & Bar near the club's practice rink in Rye, N.Y. And York's love for his adopted hometown grew fiercer while he walked to work on the morning of Sept. 11 and watched smoke spew from the Twin Towers.

But as the March 19 trade deadline loomed, word was York would be bait for Pavel Bure, despite York's first All-Star berth. York never squawked, but the rumors stung. For three years -- his entire NHL career -- Yorkie bled for the Rangers. Yes, he'd seen close pals Adam Graves and Todd Harvey shipped out, but York hoped loyalty would breed loyalty. It always had for him: York spent his entire childhood in the same house in Waterford, Mich., with his parents, Robert and Deanna, who have been happily married for more than 25 years. He stayed at Michigan State for four years. And he and his girlfriend, Aimee Cousino, have been together for six.

Then, on March 18, the Rangers pulled the trigger on the Bure trade -- and York stayed put. "Thank god Yorkie's still here," said Fleury.

Now it's the 19th, and York is all grins when he joins Bure as his linemate in a pregame practice at the Garden. The 3 p.m. deadline is only hours away, and his private hell seems over. After the workout, York joins his fellow Blueshirts for a nap across the street at Southgate Tower. He dozes off with his phone on -- just in case. Meanwhile his agent, George Bazos, grabs lunch nearby with York's dad, Bob. "I'm gonna call your wife at 3 to tell her Mike got traded," Bazos jokes.

Eleven hours later, at what seems like the other end of earth, the heart and soul of the New York Rangers steps off a near-empty flight and shuffles down an airport ramp toward his new home in Alberta, Canada.

Mike York is now the property of the Edmonton Oilers.

***

It is midnight in his new time zone. An Oilers PR guy named Warren Suitor greets York at baggage claim. Outside, York's short sleeves and overcoat shrivel in the subarctic temperatures at Edmonton International: -33 C (-27 F). To his surprise, two camera crews trail him, capping off Tuesday's round-the-clock trade deadline coverage. York is big news here. Canadians spent all day discussing player moves as if the men were trading cards.

Turns out, they are. In this world, big-money men can be plucked off one roster and plugged into another with just a phone call. (Even Edmonton's favorite son, Wayne Gretzky, was traded three times.) No two-week notices, no farewell parties, no apologies. And, most upsetting of all, no say whatsoever. York is used to deciding his own fate. At age 16, he told the Thornhill Islanders that he'd play for them even before he told his parents he was leaving home for Toronto.

Yorkie has his sound bites ready: "Hockey is a business. This is part of the job. And I'm excited, because Edmonton's a great hockey city." But the cameras don't capture the utter strangeness of the four short hours York had to grab his equipment from the Garden, race to his Greenwich, Conn., town house to pack, and screech off to Newark Airport. And York censors the thoughts swirling around his brain: They tell you to put everything you have out there. You do, and they trade you anyway. This sucks.

On the 40-minute trip from the airport to the Westin hotel, York tries not to think about his final, watery-eyed meeting with Low, one that came just a week after the coach told York not to worry, that the team would be crazy to let him go. Or about his dad, waiting for him in the parking garage at the Garden ("Ha ha," Bob had said when Bazos broke the news of the trade -- for Tom Poti and Rem Murray -- to him at 3:09), his heart breaking as he saw the look on his son's face. Instead, York thanks Suitor for the ride, saying, "It's been a weird 12 hours," and settles into his new home: a king-size hotel room. Yorkie checks in with Aimee back home in Michigan, and tries to rest up.

Nice try. At 8 a.m., he fitfully bolts awake. Two hours later, York arrives, nervous and withdrawn, for practice at Skyreach Centre, where five Stanley Cup banners hang overhead. His No. 16 Oilers jersey feels weird. The unfamiliar drills unnerve him. Don't crash, the All-Star tells himself. Don't whack the goalie in the head. Don't screw up.

Back in Michigan, Aimee writes on the board for the third-grade class she teaches: "Mike got traded to Edmonton." Unfurling a map, she swallows hard. "It's much farther than I thought," she says. The kids chirp, "Twice as far as New York!"

Maybe even farther than that. Mike went from the capital of the Western world to a city whose claim to fame is -- apart from Gretzky and the five Cups -- the world's largest mall. Aside from more than 900 shops and a roller coaster, the West Edmonton Mall has an indoor lake complete with a Santa Maria replica and a public rink where the Oilers occasionally practice. On York's second day in town, the team charges around on the rutted ice, surrounded by stores like Family Vision Care and Payless ShoeSource, to the thrill of shoppers who cashed in sick days to be here.

The mall is such a cultural epicenter that the Oilers even party here, though they won't exactly admit it. "The entrance to Rum Jungle is outside, not in the mall," Anson Carter insists.

Looking to fit in, York dusts off an old standby: talking about the weather. He and Shawn Horcoff, an old Spartan pal, explain to center Mike Comrie and wing Josh Green that hot water thrown into the similarly frigid air of Fairbanks, Alaska, floats back down in powdery bits. "I've gone through three Chap Sticks already," York says. Carter, who stubbornly wore flip-flops and a Hawaiian shirt for months after landing in Edmonton direct from Santa Monica, empathizes: "When I first got here, my nose bled for two weeks straight."

Carter, also an ex-Spartan, and Horcoff try to ease York's transition, but replacing clubhouse favorites Poti and Murray is tricky. It helps that Horcoff is tight with the team scoring leader, Comrie. York and Comrie, a former Michigan Wolverine, used to despise one another. "We hated those guys in school," York admits. Now, Comrie's well past his rivalry with Horcoff, and he and York laugh off the old days. Comrie even gives York a lift to a car dealer for a loaner BMW X5 3.0i.

Of course, school rivalries never die completely, so the two, by now fast friends, meet up on Friday afternoon at Horcoff's place to catch their former teams in the NCAA men's hockey playoffs. Raiding the kitchen together, Comrie and York chomp on chicken fingers, pickles and a bag of Goldfish, before settling onto the crochet-covered couch. York sets the TV speakers to "stadium." "Welcome to the West Regional at Yost Arena, home of the Michigan Wolverines," booms the announcer's voice, while Comrie claps and York boos.

First up: Michigan State vs. Colorado College. The Spartans storm onto the ice. "You know I'm rooting for Colorado," says Comrie, grinning fiendishly. MSU shows absolutely no stick, and the Tigers blank the Spartans, 2-0. "They can't play in Yost," Comrie teases. Zambonis prep the ice for the Michigan-St. Cloud State game, and the guys rip into a bag of pistachios.

Then York spots a game on the TV menu: Atlanta Thrashers vs. New York Rangers.

York sits straight up in his chair. Horcoff flips to the MSG channel. It's an odd moment for everyone. The Rangers seem apathetic against the lowly Thrashers. Horcoff and Comrie blink, seeing Poti and Murray in enemy gear for the first time. "Oh, Potsie, look at him," Horcoff groans, as Poti leads a rush. "He plays just like Leetch," says Comrie.

York says nothing. His mind is elsewhere, about 2,000 miles elsewhere. "Richter -- good guy?" asks Horcoff. "Great guy," Yorkie replies, not moving. He just stares at the TV and thinks, That's not the same team I played with.

If the Rangers seem foreign now, the Oilers aren't yet familiar either. York still doesn't belong here, not in his gut anyway. But on Saturday night, in his second game, York begins to find his place. Just 1:35 into a game against the hated Flames, York swoops in on the left circle, firing a cross-ice tapper from Comrie at Roman Turek. The goalie winces helplessly as the puck ricochets off him and tumbles into the net. The siren wails. Skyreach erupts. And York thrusts his stick in the air, grinning like Dorothy back from Oz. Comrie rushes him. They hug like brothers. York's first goal for Edmonton feels like ... home. Almost.

Back in Rye, the Rangers miss him. "I had a great time playing with Yorkie," says Lindros, who's staying close by phoning and tracking York's stats. "He's the last of the Mohicans. He's unassuming and caring, both for the team and when guys have personal problems, helping out where he can." Fleury, who still has the FLY line's trading cards taped up on his practice locker, agrees. "It was sad to see him go," says Fleury, who's had more than his share of troubles in New York. "Yorkie was a shoulder I could always lean on."

York misses the Rangers too. But he's being paid to play in Edmonton -- $675,000 a year. "I fell in love with New York," he says. "It's a city you'd die to win in. But Edmonton grows on you. I'll find a new routine. I'll make friends. You have to get attached -- it'd be too hard to play the way I do if I didn't."

So York clings to Fleury's parting words: "You'll like it in Edmonton." Scoring hasn't come as easily since his goal against Calgary, but York's game is perfect for the Oilers, a speedy, attack-minded bunch of small, scrappy guys. The young, close-knit clubhouse will entertain him in this nowhere city. And, truth be told, York actually likes malls.

York thanks his stars that he doesn't have a family, like Rem Murray does, because he can't imagine uprooting kids' lives. (Bad enough that Mom says Mocha, his chocolate lab in Michigan, is upset.) And even as he learns to bleed for Edmonton, his life may be upended again. He bears that knowledge like a fresh scar. Sometimes, the rich young men who play our games are as powerless as trading cards scattered to the wind. And as his life continues flipping and tumbling, Mike York just hopes he'll land right-side up.

This article appears in the April 29 issue of ESPN The Magazine.