Hockey Hate Quotes

Mary, you know I hate parties. My idea of hell is a very large party in a cold room where everybody has to play hockey properly.

GOD DOESN’T HATE FAGS OR ANYBODY ELSE FOR THAT MATTER. GOD SAVES! THEN, GOD PASSES IT TO GRETZKY - WHO ROOFS THAT SHIT, TOP-SHELF! THEN GOD AND GRETZKY HIGH FIVE & BELLY-BUMP, CELEBRATING THEIR HOCKEY PROWESS. AND NEVER ONCE DO THEY GIVE A SHIT IF ANYBODY’S GAY OR NOT.

David drives back to Björnstad. Sits in the car and cries in anger. He is ashamed. He is disgusted. With himself. For an entire hockey life he has trained a boy, loved him like a son, been loved back as a father. There is no player as loyal as Benji. No bigger heart than his. How many times has David hugged number sixteen after a game and told him that? "You are the bravest bastard I know, Benji." The bravest bastard I know. " And after all those hours in locker rooms, all those nights in the bus, all the conversations and blood, sweat and tears, the boy didn't dare tell his coach his greatest secret. It's a betrayal, David knows it's a terrible betrayal. There is no other way to explain how much a grown man must have failed for such a warrior of a boy to make him think his coach would be less proud of him if he was gay. David hates himself for not being better than his father. For that is a son's job.

Nate had been born and raised in British Columbia, and Canadians hate, above all things, to offend. It was part of the national consciousness. "Be polite" was an unwritten, unspoken rule, but ingrained into the psyche of an entire country. (Of course, as with any rule, there were exceptions: parts of Quebec, where people maintained the "dismissive to the point of confrontation, with subsequent surrender" mind-set of the French; and hockey, in which any Canadian may, with impunity, slam, pummel, elbow, smack, punch, body-check, and beat the shit out of, with sticks, any other human being, punctuated by profanities, name-calling, questioning parentage, and accusations of bestiality, usually-coincidentally- in French.)

You wanna be friends?" Click click. Was that so impossible? Was he so mad, suddenly disliked her so much again, that he didn't want to be in the same building? "Yes." "Friends like before or after we had sex on the floor?" Her thumb stopped. "Before." "Not interested." "Why?" "Because I don't want to be your friend." "Oh." She swallowed her disappointment. It might be for the best, but she suddenly didn't want what was for the best. She didn't want to hate Sam and have Sam hate her. What choice did she have? "Okay." "I want to be your lover. I can't pretend I don't want more. I want to be with you, Autumn. I want to get you naked and throw your legs over my shoulders" She dropped the pen. "I want to leave a mark on the inside of your thigh.

I’m just a simple guy. I love beer, sex, and hockey. I hate liars, Sting, and art that doesn’t have people in it. - Luke Almeida

I hate that being a ‘cat lady’ is used in a negative way, when in reality, they’re probably happier than most people who have partners.

The little kids by the water threw their hands in the air and squealed, chasing each other in circles. It was hard to believe that I’d ever been that small. That young. That happy and clueless. They had pain ahead. Heartbreak. Loss. They didn’t know and I didn’t want them to – but at the same time, I hated that I hadn’t known. I’d taken everything for granted – my mother, my friends in Alexandria, playing hockey. I dreamed about the future because that’s what people persuade you to do when you’re a kid, but that’s the biggest lie of all – that you can plan. Reality is, you have no fucking clue what’s coming and neither do they

For the first time in his whole life, Laurent played the game out of love instead of hate. But it wasn’t his love of hockey that kept him focused in net. Every time a puck came toward him and he made a save, he thought, “This is for Isaac.” Every time one of his dickhead former teammates snarled something insulting or called him names, he ignored them and thought about Isaac calling him Saint. He thought about Isaac’s dumb blue hair dye that had left a stain in Laurent’s shower and that lip ring that drove Laurent crazy. He thought about the lake and eating a Twinkie on Isaac’s floor. He thought about Isaac saying he loved him.

Well. Um. The thing is…” I inhale, then continue with rapid-fire speed. “Imnotahockeyfan.” A wrinkle appears in his forehead. “What?” I repeat myself, slowly this time, with actual pauses between each word. “I’m not a hockey fan.” Then I hold my breath and await his reaction. He blinks. Blinks again. And again. His expression is a mixture of shock and horror. “You don’t like hockey?” I regretfully shake my head. “Not even a little bit?” Now I shrug. “I don’t mind it as background noise—” “Background noise?” “—but I won’t pay attention to it if it’s on.” I bite my lip. I’m already in this deep—might as well deliver the final blow. “I come from a football family.” “Football,” he says dully. “Yeah, my dad and I are huge Pats fans. And my grandfather was an offensive lineman for the Bears back in the day.” “Football.” He grabs his water and takes a deep swig, as if he needs to rehydrate after that bombshell. I smother a laugh. “I think it’s awesome that you’re so good at it, though. And congrats on the Frozen Four win.” Logan stares at me. “You couldn’t have told me this before I asked you out? What are we even doing here, Grace? I can never marry you now—it would be blasphemous.” His twitching lips make it clear that he’s joking, and the laughter I’ve been fighting spills over. “Hey, don’t go canceling the wedding just yet. The success rate for inter-sport marriages is a lot higher than you think. We could be a Pats-Bruins family.” I pause. “But no Celtics. I hate basketball.” “Well, at least we have that in common.” He shuffles closer and presses a kiss to my cheek. “It’s all right. We’ll work through this, gorgeous. Might need couples counseling at some point, but once I teach you to love hockey, it’ll be smooth sailing for us.” “You won’t succeed,” I warn him. “Ramona spent years trying to force me to like it. Didn’t work.” “She gave up too easily then. I, on the other hand, never give up

Sometimes I hate how good it feels to be out here. I wish I could just say screw it and walk away from it all, but I can’t. I need this as much as I need to breathe.

I’m trying to decide whether you put a hockey stick in bed between us or if you’re really happy to be waking up beside me.” He rubbed himself against my ass, groaning next to the shell of my hair. He’s a vocal guy and it does something to me. It’s like he flicks a switch somewhere and suddenly it’s Niagara Falls between my legs. “If I say it’s a hockey stick, will you play with it?” “Oh my God. You are so cringe. I hate hockey, would you believe?” “I could make you fall in love with hockey, Anastasia,” he whispered, sending goose bumps across my entire body. “With the right educational tools, of course, and the appropriate amount of practice.

I like to live dangerously.” She laughed. “Okay, not so much. The truth is that I hate going to gas stations.” “Why?” A shrug. “It just always seems like such a waste of time. The cheap places always have long lines, and then it takes forever to fill up your tank, but not long enough to be able to do anything productive like reading.

There's an old saying in Hed: "Tell a stranger you hate Beartown and you'll have a friend for life." The smallest child in Hed is quick to learn that it's important for Hed Hockey to do well, but that it's even more important that things go really badly for Beartown. Partly in jest, obviously. The stands are full of screamed threats about "hating" and "killing" each other, but of course they aren't serious. Until all of a sudden they are.

The death notice was still hanging on the wall in the bar, between match jerseys and scarves from Holger’s beloved, hated, worthless, wonderful Beartown Hockey when the fire took the building. It almost took Ramona too, and sometimes she wishes it had. People can bury so many of their loved ones during a lifetime and still get up the morning after, but something inside gets a bit heavier each time. She’s had more than a few mornings when she’s woken up and wondered if she can be bothered to get up once more.

Do you think I would want to live under a government that you ran or set up? It’s all very nice to say you’re an anarchist, but you only want anarchy for yourself. For the rest of us, you want to make sure we do what you say, think how you think, and remember you’re the boss. You ask me why you wear that jacket or give away that piece of crap on the street, even though you know that when people take it they just throw it in the next trash can, or why you wear those glasses right out of Doctor Zhivago? You just want to get laid, like every guy. My brother, Dean, thinks playing hockey is going to get him laid. You think pretending you are some Russian is going to get you laid—big fucking difference.” She tossed her head. “You wouldn’t mind running General Motors. You hate big business just because you’re not the boss. If, by some magic trick, you got to be the president of…of…of Dow, you’d do it, and you would be happy to make napalm, too, because if you don’t care about one person getting killed, then you don’t care about any person getting killed. You’re just a heartless asshole.

It is a painful irony that silent movies were driven out of existence just as they were reaching a kind of glorious summit of creativity and imagination, so that some of the best silent movies were also some of the last ones. Of no film was that more true than Wings, which opened on August 12 at the Criterion Theatre in New York, with a dedication to Charles Lindbergh. The film was the conception of John Monk Saunders, a bright young man from Minnesota who was also a Rhodes scholar, a gifted writer, a handsome philanderer, and a drinker, not necessarily in that order. In the early 1920s, Saunders met and became friends with the film producer Jesse Lasky and Lasky’s wife, Bessie. Saunders was an uncommonly charming fellow, and he persuaded Lasky to buy a half-finished novel he had written about aerial combat in the First World War. Fired with excitement, Lasky gave Saunders a record $39,000 for the idea and put him to work on a script. Had Lasky known that Saunders was sleeping with his wife, he might not have been quite so generous. Lasky’s choice for director was unexpected but inspired. William Wellman was thirty years old and had no experience of making big movies—and at $2 million Wings was the biggest movie Paramount had ever undertaken. At a time when top-rank directors like Ernst Lubitsch were paid $175,000 a picture, Wellman was given a salary of $250 a week. But he had one advantage over every other director in Hollywood: he was a World War I flying ace and intimately understood the beauty and enchantment of flight as well as the fearful mayhem of aerial combat. No other filmmaker has ever used technical proficiency to better advantage. Wellman had had a busy life already. Born into a well-to-do family in Brookline, Massachusetts, he had been a high school dropout, a professional ice hockey player, a volunteer in the French Foreign Legion, and a member of the celebrated Lafayette Escadrille flying squad. Both France and the United States had decorated him for gallantry. After the war he became friends with Douglas Fairbanks, who got him a job at the Goldwyn studios as an actor. Wellman hated acting and switched to directing. He became what was known as a contract director, churning out low-budget westerns and other B movies. Always temperamental, he was frequently fired from jobs, once for slapping an actress. He was a startling choice to be put in charge of such a challenging epic. To the astonishment of everyone, he now made one of the most intelligent, moving, and thrilling pictures ever made. Nothing was faked. Whatever the pilot saw in real life the audiences saw on the screen. When clouds or exploding dirigibles were seen outside airplane windows they were real objects filmed in real time. Wellman mounted cameras inside the cockpits looking out, so that the audiences had the sensation of sitting at the pilots’ shoulders, and outside the cockpit looking in, allowing close-up views of the pilots’ reactions. Richard Arlen and Buddy Rogers, the two male stars of the picture, had to be their own cameramen, activating cameras with a remote-control button.

Everyone will remember the chanting from the Hed fans’ standing area: “Queers! Sluts! Rapists!” A Lot of people will believe that that whole part of the stand was chanting, because it felt like it, and from a distance it’s hard to differentiate among people. So everyone in the standing area will be criticized, even though by no means all of them were chanting, because we’ll want scapegoats, and it’ll be easy for anyone wanting to moralize to say that “ culture isn’t just what we encourage but what we allow to happen.” But when everyone is shouting, it can be hard to hear the opposition, and once an avalanche of hate has started to roll, it can be hard to tell who is responsible for stopping it. So when a young woman in a red shirt bearing a picture of a bull on the front leaves her place in the standing area, no one notices at first. But the woman loves Hed Hockey as much as the people shouting, she’s supported the team all her life, this part of the rink belongs to her, too. Going to stand among the seated fans, the hot dog brigade she’s always mocked, is her silent protest. A man in a green shirt sitting a short distance away sees her and stands up. He goes to the cafeteria, buys two paper cups of coffee, then walks down and gives one of them to her. They stand there next to each other, one red, one green, and drink in silence. A cup of coffee is no big thing. But sometimes it actually is. Within a few minutes, more red shirts have walked out of the standing area. Soon the steps of the seated part of the rink are full. The chant of “Queers! Sluts! Rapists!” is still echoing loudly, but the people chanting are exposed now. So everyone can see that there aren’t as many of them as we think. There never are.

him. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. I hate this. I don't want to sell my soul to win." Steve placed a hand on her shoulder. "You're not selling your soul. Maybe you're just . . . lending it out for a while." She closed her eyes and gritted her jaw. Could she do this? Could she truly make a deal with the devil? Even if they survived, how would she then live with herself? Steve hugged her from behind, and Addy held his hands, silent, eyes closed. They made love—silent but hard, eager yet so weary. When she climaxed, she shouted into his palm, and she fell asleep in his arms. She never wanted to leave his embrace. In the morning, she walked through the military base. She wore no uniform, just jeans and a hockey jersey. She carried her rifle across her back, a bandoleer of bullets hung around her waist, and a cigarette dangled from her lips. Her helmet hung askew, scrawled with the words Hell Patrol. Her people walked behind her, just as ragged. She looked like a haggard survivor, bruised, scratched, her eyes sunken. But the fire burned

Frankly, I don’t know. I think this business is getting the best of me. Plus I was reading a book one of the bridesmaids recommended to me about a hockey player and a ten-year age gap. **Whispers** He fucks her in her dorm. I’ve never been more turned on.

Again, I say…I hate football. I’m banning it from my vocabulary. I won’t even read about it anymore. From now on, I’m only reading hockey romance.

I hate my skin. The scars that mar my body. Proof of my fuck-ups and the twisted mind of my father. There’s never a time I can just pull my shirt off. I’m always aware of the way my shirts fit, preferring to tuck them in most of the time to keep my body covered.

Say you hate me again as you’re about to come, little brother. Let your body talk to me, say the words you refuse to let out.

Now, Ronan. Come undone for me. Remind me again how much you hate me.

I couldn’t understand how we went from ready to kill each other to turned on in a matter of minutes. I guess it was true what they said about there being a thin line between love and hate.

I didn’t think you noticed.” Unable to help myself, I shift closer as my gaze stays pinned to hers. “I noticed everything.

I hated how much infertility had stolen from me.

I hate that you thought for even one second that I didn’t want you.

She was thirty-two years old; it was a Friday night; and she was in a hoodie, eating popcorn and cereal, reading about brain trauma, and hate-watching hockey.

Maybe you bought this book because you love Sarah Palin and you want to find reasons to hate me. We’ve got that! I use all kinds of elitist words like “impervious” and “torpor,” and I think gay people are just as good at watching their kids play hockey as straight people. Maybe

Tomorrow I would be his bride, but tonight I wanted to be his slut. I wanted him to pull my hair and fuck me like he hated me.

I hated Hannah Moreau. I hated how I couldn’t take my eyes off her ass. I hated how every contrary word out of her mouth made me want to bend her over my knee and spank that delectable ass. I hated that I wanted her. I hated that I could never have her. I hated that she was the only woman on Earth who didn’t want me.

Seems like he’s changed since high school, but if he’s not willing to fight for you, he’s not worth it. You’re worth fighting for. I’d fight for you. Literally. If you want me to fight him, I will. He might be a big tough hockey bro, but I’ve got a black belt.” She jumps away, punctuating her words with a spin kick. “Don’t fight him. I’d hate to hurt Lakeview’s chances at a championship. But you’re right, I deserve someone who will fight for me, or at least feed me grapes. Bare minimum.

You know who I saw checking you out a while back?” Hannah’s eyes lit up. “Who?” “Cal.” “Gag me.” Her face transformed from one of delight to one of pure disgust. “Why not?” I asked. “You can cross it off your bucket list. The way he was staring at your ass at the club, he’s interested.” Hannah scoffed. “I don’t know what you think you saw, but Cal hates me and always has. He’s the single most annoying person I’ve ever met, acting like he knows more about hockey than I do.

Don’t become one of those couples who think they can read the other one’s mind. It never ends well.” Humor filled her voice. “And people hate a miscommunication trope. Believe me.

So, as much as I hated him, I had to thank Nix for shoving me aside. Because without that push to branch out on my own and find myself, I would never have discovered Maddox. I wouldn’t know what it felt like to be at the center of his universe, where he worshiped and cared for me like I was the most precious thing ever to walk this earth. And this was only the start. The best was yet to come.

Maybe I should tie you up more often.” “Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Once was enough for me to learn I hate being out of control.” A smirk tugged at her lips. “So much fun.

I’m trying to decide whether you put a hockey stick in between us or if you’re really happy to be waking up beside me.” “If I say it’s a hockey stick, will you play with it?” “Oh my God. You are so cringe. I hate hockey, would you believe?” “I could make you fall in love with hockey, Anastasia.

HERE LIES GAGE ARLINGTON: BELOVED TEAMMATE, TALENTED HOCKEY PLAYER, SELFLESS SON SIMPED TOO CLOSE TO THE SUN AND WENT UP IN FLAMES LIKE ICARUS

I hate myself, so how can anyone want to be around me, much less love me?

UTIs are a real bitch. I’m sure the bunnies you’ve been with like to pretend that’s not a reality. Or maybe, they wear it as a badge of honor—a little memento of the time they fucked the Cal Berg. I hate to break it to you, but there isn’t an orgasm great enough to risk the burning sensation when I pee for the next three days.

And to think she hated the idea of Knox and I to begin with, and now here she is happier than a pig in shit at our engagement party.

I lean in close to Jacobs. “If you sink this next one, I’ll let you sink one in me later.” I wink. He groans. “Sometimes I hate you. I can’t be thinking about that right now.” “Good. Hold on to that and take it out on me after the game.” He snorts.

I swear on all that is holy, if you don’t fuck me right now, I will hurt you.” He slaps my ass. “You’re forgetting I like that.” “I hate you,” I chant. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.” “No, you don’t. You never did.” He finally puts me out of my misery, lining up his cock.

The scruff around his mouth is rough against my skin, a sensation I’ve never experienced before. I can’t say I hate it. Fuck, I think I like it. Oh shit. I might like it too much. My dick twitches and hardens in my jeans. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Think of things to deflate my dick. Dead puppies. Professor Morley. Jacobs legit groans, and it’s the most erotic sound I’ve ever heard. Kissing has never been like this. Kissing is supposed to be anticipation. It’s a teaser. A taste. It’s supposed to build and grow, becoming hotter and needier over time. It doesn’t start with explosions. At least, not in my experience. Now I’m fully hard, and what the actual fuck?

From a friendly exhibition hockey series, it became a war on ice! I found myself hating the Russians despite the fact I'd never met one.

So-called activists on the extreme left have moved from their safe spaces and the basements of their parents’ houses out into the streets, usually clad in black hockey pads and carrying weapons. Sometimes they call themselves antifascists, or Antifa, but most of the time, they don’t know why they’re there or what they even believe. All they know is hate and anger. Time and again, these people try to shut down speakers with whom they don’t agree. They attack journalists in the streets and threaten anyone who doesn’t go along with their twisted sense of social justice and equality.

So that girl you told us about at the will reading... She's real?" "Very real. Her name's Daisy. She's the sister of an old friend. She knows what it's all about and she's okay with it because the arrangements benefits her, too." "I thought she hated you." Joe leaned against the faded white picket fence that surrounded the visitor center. "I think we may have worked that out." He wasn't sure how Daisy felt about him, but after the other night, he was pretty sure hate wasn't at the top of her list. "Well, good for you. I won't say anything. As far as I'm concerned, you've known her forever." "I have known her forever, but we've gone on dates to make it seem more real." He pulled out his phone to show Joe the pictures of him and Daisy at the clothing store, the restaurant, the hockey game, and the one he'd taken when he'd declared her the winner of their Guitar Hero marathon. Joe gave him a quizzical look. "You sure it's fake? Looks like you two are having fun." Liam stared at the picture they'd taken at the hockey game. She'd kissed him, not the other way around. And it hadn't been for show. He'd seen something in her face---something soft and raw and real. And then, just when he'd thought it was all over, when his past had come back to haunt him, she'd shown him just how strong she really was, and made him want her even more.

And I both love and hate the fact that she seems completely determined to resist my charms.

Opening my door, I look at Preston’s bed and hate that he’s not there. Even if he wasn’t with his dad, he would be at the game right now. Needing comfort, I crawl into his bed, hold his pillow against my chest, and pull his blanket over me.

Opening my door, I look at Preston’s bed and hate that he’s not there. Even if he wasn’t with his dad, he would be at the game right now. Needing comfort, I crawl into his bed, hold his pillow against my chest, and pull his blanket over me. His warm, clean, masculine scent lulls me right to sleep.

Please, he gets enough of that from the puck bunnies that stalk his every movement. Did you see the groupie at the other game that wore his jersey and then flashed her tits?” She wrinkles her pert little nose. “Show a little self-respect, for fuck’s sake.

The way he slept next to me … took care of me … my chest warms, and I know I should hate that feeling, but I strangely don’t.

I hate you.” “Keep telling yourself that.

We had a one-night stand. I got pregnant, tried to contact him. He tried to contact me. We lost contact for five years. I thought he’d abandoned me, I hated him. But he didn’t even know he had a child because I raised Arthur, that’s our son, by myself, until he showed up at one of my work events and wouldn’t leave me alone until . . .” She wiggles her ring finger and clicks her tongue. “Now we’re finally back on track and getting our happy ending.

You could never be my nightmare, Lachlan Duke.” I stand straight and wait until he’s fully paying attention. “I love you more than I hate anything.

Fine.” I sigh. “I’ll go, but know I’m going to hate every second of it.

Everyone leaves, and she will too. She’ll figure out that I’m not worth the drama, that her life will be better off without me. She’ll find a nice guy and settle down in the suburbs where they’ll raise Noah and drink pina coladas and have a labradoodle. And I freaking hate that guy. I hate him with every fiber of my being, whoever he is. As much as I love punching people, there’s no one I’ve ever wanted to punch more than this imaginary man who’s going to marry the love of my life.

I said I was giving you space. not that I was giving up." "I don't like space," I whisper. "I fucking hate it.

I spend a lot of time in the penalty box and I get yelled at a lot by angry hockey fans. I expected Saskatoon fans to hate me.

Ray leans over and slowly closes my laptop. “You’re giving me anxiety. Go away.” “This is a public place. You can’t banish me.” “And you can’t watch porn here.” She pauses and looks me over. “Unless being arrested is your kink.” My cheeks blaze. “Do you know what an inside voice is?” She talks louder. “Everyone watches porn. It’s perfectly natural.” “I hate you.” I stuff my laptop into my bag and hurry to get away from her. “That could be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said.

Cameron and Millie hadn’t hated each other at all. They’d actually been best friends. Heck, they were practically siblings. They’d grown up together just as their parents had before them, and because of this, they knew exactly what to say to push each other’s buttons. It made the daily battle for the pond super intense. Like, more intense than a shootout, even.

A lot of people hate the almost year-round cold weather, but I completely love it. I embrace it with wide open arms. Long winters mean more time for me on my little iced lake rink and more time for ice hockey. More time for me to clear my head from the reality of my life, more time to escape.

2 Big Trouble “That’s the last straw, A.J.,” my teacher, Miss Daisy, told me. “I want you to go to the principal’s office!” “I didn’t do anything!” I protested. My name is A.J. and I hate school. Why do we have to learn so much stuff? If you ask me, by the time you get to second grade you already know enough stuff to last you a lifetime. School is way overrated. My mom says that all eight-year-old boys have to go to school, so I guess there’s nothing I can do about it. But when I grow up, I’m going to be a professional hockey player. You don’t have to know how to read or write or do math to shoot a puck into a net.

Plus I was reading a book one of the bridesmaids recommended to me about a hockey player and a ten-year age gap. **Whispers** He fucks her in her dorm. I’ve never been more turned on.

First one to come wins?” I ask. Jacobs rolls on top of me. “Isn’t it usually fastest on the trigger loses?” “Yeah, but we don’t have time for that. Flip around.” “Fuck, I love you.” I grin. “Turns out there’s a fine line between love and hate, and that line is blowjobs.” “Duh.” Jacobs positions himself on his hands and knees, facing my feet.

Do you want kids?” Carter asks me suddenly. “Or no kids? Do you hate kids? You probably hate them, working with them all day and whatnot. No, that’s stupid. You love them; you coach your niece’s hockey team on your own time.” Nothing is more adorable than an anxious, rambling Carter who doesn’t know what to say.

no glove, no love.

Why would a string wedged up the crack of my ass make me feel sexy?

Ever since we met freshman year, your nose has been buried in a book. And not the fun kind where you learn a new sexual position or how to give a better blowie.

because Juliette has gorgeous hair.

Exactly how many abs does this dude have? There’s no damn way this image isn’t photoshopped.

Thank fuck she claimed me right back.