Hockey Mom Quotes

They say the difference between a hockey mom and a pitbull - lipstick.

I’m a hockey player, study art, and I have two moms. You think I’ve never had to hit someone before?

Her mom loves a man who loves a place that loves a game. This is a hockey town, and there are plenty of things you can say about those, but at least they’re predictable. You know what to expect if you live here. Day after day after day. Bang.

Maya’s story could easily have ended the same way as Ruth’s story. The things that took everything in a completely different direction were so small. A mom who fought, a dad who loved, a brother who was there, a best friend who took on the whole damn world. An old witch who owned a pub, who went into a meeting at the hockey club and spoke in Maya’s defense. And, last of all, a witness who had seen everything and eventually dared to say so out loud. That was all. No more than that.

Now that the hockey season is underway, life is hectic as fuck. Practice is brutal, and our schedule is exhausting. Jamie’s my rock, though. He comes to all my home games, and when I drag my tired self home from the airport after an away game, he’s waiting there to rub my shoulders, or shove food down my throat, or screw me until I can’t see straight. Our apartment is my safe place, my haven. I can’t even believe I considered trying to make it through my rookie season without him. It’s easy to figure out where he got that nurturing gene from, because his mom has been fussing over me all day.

high school started and she learned that girls were more than welcome to like sports in Beartown—just not the way that she did. Not that much. Not to the point where she would lecture the boys about rules and tactics. Teenage girls were primarily supposed to be interested in hockey players, not hockey. So she bowed her head and devoted herself to Beartown’s real traditional sports: shame and silence. They were what drove her mom mad. Ana very nearly went with her when she moved away, but changed her mind and stayed. For Maya’s sake, for

If you were to ask Filip’s mom why she doesn’t protest, she would say that you can love something without loving everything about it. You don’t have to feel embarrassed about not being proud. That applies to hockey, but it also applies to friends.

not if Shannon is over her illness.  Come, Dytyna.  We discuss your performance now." "When will we know if I'll be competing?" "We will not know until Monday when we check in at the Olympic arena.  Coach Taylor will know then." "I'm going back to the hotel to call your father, Kerri.  We plan on meeting for lunch then will head on over to the hockey arena.  Two kids in the Olympics!  Whoa.  I'll see you later."  She leaned down and gave Kerri a hug before she kissed her forehead.  "Stay out of trouble." "I can hardly get into any trouble in the Olympic village, Mom."  At almost seventeen, Kerri was still able to feel embarrassed at receiving her mother's counsel, and she thought that her mother's advice was unfounded.  The village was closed off, after all, from the rest of Turin and from the fray of the crowds that converged upon the venues.  She watched her mother walk away before she stood up and adjusted the strap

Fans like me don't watch hockey, we read it. The hockey nexus - the league, owners, teams, players, media and advertisers - under-reads hockey and overlooks those parts of the game women respond to, like scruffish players in sharp suits saying hi to Mom back home in Cranbrook.

Alisa Vitti gave me a great analogy for this. Imagine you have a hockey puck and a bicycle tire on a flat surface like a really big area of concrete. You give the hockey puck a push, and it goes for a while but eventually stops. You give the bicycle tire a push, and it keeps rolling for as long as it can stay upright and not run into an obstacle. In many cases, it actually gains speed as it goes. The hockey puck is flat, but the tire is a circle. The flat one stops. The circular one keeps going. This is the power of cyclical momentum. When we honor the distinct and uniquely useful phases of our bodies, the moon, and our creativity, we get further, faster, without having to push as hard. It’s like having spent your whole life furiously paddling against a really strong current and suddenly realizing that all you needed to do to cover more ground was turn your canoe downstream and use your paddle to steer every now and again.

I know where that distrust comes from." He grins. "When I was little, my mom gave me a cookie. The raisins were made to look like chocolate chips. That's when my trust issues started.

I don’t think I have ever been jealous of an eight-year-old before. How do I work out a shower with Mom?

You've gotta give up the nun routine sometime. You're a twenty-five-year-old mom. You're not dead. Think of how good it will be for Knox to see his mom happy.

I know that they do. It's been a hard year for them. But sometimes, you need to get out and do things for yourself. It makes you a better mom." If only she knew that getting out and doing a certain hockey player was going to make me a mom. Again.

Have you ever seen Cinderella?” “Uh-huh.” “Well, your mom is kinda like my Cinderella.” “My mom doesn’t drive a pumpkin. She drives a Corolla.

In this instance, she’d not heard him count. He’d not hit a wall, unless the brick-headed stubbornness of Dmitri’s face counted. Thwack! “Yay.” Yes, that was her cheering for her Pookie aloud. Since it seemed he hadn’t heard, she said it louder, yodeled it as a matter of fact. “You get him, Pookie. Show him who’s the biggest, baddest pussy around.” Leo turned his head at that, narrowing his blue gaze on her. Totally annoyed. Totally adrenalized. Totally hot. “Vex!” How sexy her nickname sounded when he growled it. She could tell he totally dug the encouragement. She waggled her fingers at him and meant to say, “You’re welcome,” but instead shouted, “Behind you!” During that moment of inattention— which really Leo should have known better than to indulge in— Dmitri threw a mighty hook. Had she mentioned just how sigh-worthy big her Pookie was? The perfectly aimed blow hit Leo in the jaw, and the force snapped his head to the side. But it certainly didn’t fell him. Not even close. On the contrary, the punch brought the predator in him alive. As he rotated his jaw, Leo’s gaze flicked her way, his eyes lit with a wildness, his lip quirked, almost in amusement, and then he acted. His fist retaliated then his elbow, snapping Dmitri in the nose. Any other man, even shifter, might have quickly succumbed, but the Russian Siberian tiger was more than a match for the hybrid lion/ tiger. Put them in a ring and they’d have brought in a fortune. They certainly put on a good show. Blood trailed from Dmitri’s lip from where Leo’s fist struck him. However, that didn’t stop the Russian from giving as good as he got. Size-wise, Leo held a slight edge, but what Dmitri lacked in girth, he made up for in skill. Even if Meena wasn’t interested in marrying him, it didn’t mean she couldn’t admire the grace of Dmitri’s movement and his uncanny intuition when it came to dodging blows. Leo wasn’t too shabby either. While he’d obviously not grown up on the mean streets of Russia, he knew how to throw a punch, wrestle a man, and look totally hot in defense of his woman. Sigh. A man coming to her rescue. Just like one of those romance novels Teena likes to read. Luna sidled up alongside her. “What did you do this time?” Why did everyone assume it was her fault? “I didn’t do anything.” Luna snorted. “Sure you didn’t. And it also wasn’t you who put Kool-Aid in Arik’s mom’s shampoo bottle and turned her hair pink at the family picnic a few years ago.” “I thought the short spikes she sported after she got it shaved looked awesome.” “Never said the outcome wasn’t worth it. Just like I’m totally intrigued about what’s happening here. That is Leo laying a smackdown on that Russian diplomat, right? Since I highly doubt they’re sparring over who makes the better vodka or who deserved the gold medal in hockey at the last winter Olympics, then that leaves only one other possibility.” Luna fixed her with a gaze. “This is your fault.” Meena’s shoulders hunched. “Okay, so maybe I’m a teensy tiny bit responsible. Like maybe I made sure my ex-fiancé and current fiancé got to meet.” “Duh. I already knew about that part. What I’m talking about is, how the hell did you get Leo to lose his shit? I mean when he gets his serious on, you couldn’t melt an ice cube in his mouth. Leo never loses control because to lose control is to lose one’s way, or some such bullshit. He’s always spouting these funny little sayings in the hopes of curbing our wild tendencies.” Pookie had the cutest personality. “What can I say?” Meena shrugged. “I guess he got jealous. Totally normal, given we’re soul mates.

Some of these kids are just plain trouble.” Grant glanced over at the boys sitting in the glass-walled box. Mac had been like that, all anger and confusion. He’d been in juvie too, arrested for possession after falling into a gang. Grant was gone. Mom was sick. Dad was a mess. Looking back, Grant wondered if dementia was beginning to take hold back then and no one recognized the symptoms. Lee had been the one who’d coped with Mac’s drug and delinquency problems, and Mom’s deathbed talk had snapped her youngest out of it. A program like this might have helped his brother. “Who knows what those boys have had to deal with in their lives.” Corey’s eyes turned somber. “We’re all sorry about Kate.” Reminded of Kate’s death, Grant’s chest deflated. “And thanks for the help,” Corey said. “These boys can be a handful.” “Is your son on the team?” “No.” Corey nodded toward the rink. A pretty blond teenager executed a spinning jump on the ice. Corey beamed. “That’s my daughter, Regan. She’s on the junior figure skating team with Josh’s daughter, the one in black. The hockey team has the next slot of ice time.” “The girls look very talented.” Even with an ex-skater for a sister-in-law, Grant knew next to nothing about figure skating. He should have paid attention. He should have known Kate better. Josh stood taller. “They are. The team went to the sectional championships last fall. Next year, they’ll make nationals, right, Victor?” Josh gestured toward the coach in the black parka, who had deposited the offenders in the penalty box and was walking back to them. “Victor coaches our daughters.” Joining them, Victor offered a hand. He was a head shorter than Grant, maybe fifty years old or so, with a fit body and salt-and-pepper hair cut as short and sharp as his black eyes. “Victor Church.

I’m sorry he couldn’t see the treasure before him. But I can’t say sorry you exist. I owe your mom a debt of gratitude for bringing you into this world so I could find you.

Mom, I know you’re up there watching. And if you sent him, thank you.

That wasn’t very polite, Bristol.” “Neither is ogling your daughter’s boyfriend, Mom.” She shrugged, completely unphased. “I’m forty-four, honey, not dead. And dead is what I’d have to be not to appreciate the athletic specimen you’ve brought home.

Why Hope?” “Because that’s what she represents. That you never gave up hope of one day becoming a mom. Even when we were apart, it remained your driving force until we reached this very moment, with our daughter held safely in my arms.

Surprisingly good-looking kids considering who their father is,” he teased, trying to lighten the mood. Without hesitation, I replied, “That’s because they look like their mom.

Dookie: At the end my mom couldn't even walk to the corner. Heffer: At the end my dad couldn't even make it up the stairs. They had to move the bedroom into the living room. Bitsy: My dad wouldn't come out of the basement. They had to put a chemical toilet in. Heffer: My dad had to be on oxygen to watch the hockey game. Bitsy: My mom can't stand at the sink to wash her own face. Dookie: Hips? Bitsy: Knees. Dookie: Those go fast. Boots: It's just a matter of time. Dookie: Yeah. Bitsy: Yeah. Heffer: Yup. Dookie: Yeah. Boots: Yeah. Bitsy: Yeah. Heffer: Yup.

And you’re cute when you get all flustered.” She narrowed her eyes at him and put one hand on her hip. “I have no idea how Louise allowed you to survive childhood.” “It’s because I’m younger and he was always bigger.” Louise came around the side of the truck. “We’re going to borrow your four-wheeler, if you don’t mind.” “Of course.” It wasn’t really hers. Not like she paid for it or anything. But Palmer always referred to it as hers, and so did Louise. And like just now, Louise asked before she hopped on it. “Hi, Tella,” Ames said when she saw Tella’s head poke around the pickup. Even though they were baling hay, Tella still wore the hockey jersey she loved. “Hi, Aunt Ames.” “Okay, Tella. Let’s run down to the house, so we can get back and work a little longer.” “Can I drive?” Louise looked back at Ames with raised brows. “Sure, if your mom says it’s okay.” Tella grinned. “It should be. She let me drive Uncle Palmer’s pickup out here.” “By yourself?” Tella nodded. “Wow. Make sure you wear your seatbelt just in case the wheels fall off.” “Hey.” Palmer put on a mock-hurt expression and wrapped an arm around Ames’s head like he was going to put her in a headlock. “That wasn’t nice. I don’t say mean things like that about your car.” The four-wheeler started, and the motor faded slowly into the distance. Palmer’s arm loosened and dropped to her shoulders. The weight of it there felt good and right. She straightened in his embrace. Maybe they’d never bale hay together again. She looked up into his clear, blue eyes. Eyes that held no guile. Just genuine honesty. And admiration. “You’re beautiful. With or without sunburned cheeks.” His arm tightened. What had simply been his arm around her shoulder became Palmer hugging her. Still maybe in line with friendship, but so close to more. She wanted more. But she wanted his friendship, too. Could she have both? Their kiss hadn’t made anything awkward. She tossed her head, moving closer until they were touching. “That

I’m a nudist!” I blurt. They both look confused. “I’m trying to recruit Seth into my cult. That’s why I’m naked.” Seth’s dad looks like he’s trying to swallow his lips. His mom is averting her gaze. Hmm, they don’t believe me. “I actually gave up my clothing for Lent.” “That starts in February,” Seth mutters. Oh shit. “Okay, truth. I have a mole. Somewhere not … normal. I asked Seth to look at it for me.” Seth finally breaks. “Oh my God, stop talking and go put clothes on.” “Okay.” I make a run for it.

For the tickets, for coming to my mom’s to get me, for helping Nadia, for teaching me how to let go of my past and embrace my confidence… well, for just being Reese Cain.  I press a kiss to his mouth. “For everything.

Oh, that's just what I need. To wait on all of my friends at Macy's." "So what? You guys need the money, right?" "There are jobs, and then there are jobs." "You're talking to a girl who is working at a farm stand so that she can chase her dream job." "That's different." "Oh, yeah? How? Last I checked, Libby wanted you to spend two thousand bucks on chairs. Where's that money coming from?" She sighs. "You and your father are all burned up about those chairs. Poor Libby." "Poor Libby?" Classic. My mom always takes Libby's side. When Libby got a bad grade on an exam or paper, my mom would claim the teacher was incompetent, even when I'd had the same teachers and had aced their classes. When Libby's field hockey tournament was the same weekend as my clarinet recital, my mom chose Libby's tournament because, she said, Libby needed her support more than I did. And when Libby and her girlfriends ate the chocolate mousse I made as part of a project for French class senior year, my mom said it was my fault for leaving it in our refrigerator without a note. How was Libby to know? "Mom, Libby lives in fantasyland. And anyway, if you cared so much about getting her damn chairs, you'd take a job at the gas station if you needed to." I catch myself. "I take that back. If Libby cares so much about the damn chairs, she should get a job at the gas station." She clicks her tongue. "Sydney." "What? Maybe it's time for Libby to grow up and realize she needs to take responsibility for things.

My parents knew dick-all about hockey and that was the way I liked it. I put enough pressure on myself without having extra. In fact, my mom never came to games at all. She said the skating sound put her to sleep. But my dad came whenever he could and especially on important days like today.

According to my friends, my dad was kind of good-looking and he always seemed to be surrounded by all the blonde hockey moms. I could not see it myself; he looked like my dad.

It’s amazing how even at twenty-seven years old, when your mom says your middle name it reduces you to feeling like an eleven-year-old kid who just broke the living room window with a baseball. Or in my case, a hockey puck.

Daniel isn’t some white knight who’s going to sweep me off my feet. He’s too busy spending every weekend with whatever floozy decides to blink her fake eyelashes at him. Sure, Daniel’s great at committment. He commits to the Falcons every game. He commits to cooking his mom dinner every night she works late. He just doesn’t commit when it comes to girls.

All I’ve ever wanted was to go pro ever since my dad first put me in hockey when I was 7. Some of the other kids go to fancy hockey camps in the summer and practice with the best coaches, but I never could. My folks are divorced and even working two jobs, my mom could barely keep up with the rent, so my hockey fees were partly subsidized and my dad paid the rest. There was no money available to help my performance. I had to earn my chops on the ice by myself.

My mom was always there for me and my sisters. Every day she was the perfect example for us, showing us how to appreciate everything we had and how to treat others with respect and compassion. These were important lessons for me because the hockey world wasn't always the kindest.

Brie passes me her half-used tissue. We're running low and rationing essentials at this point. She's still in the anger phase of the grief paradigm. Self-diagnosis: her mom is a psychiatrist.

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.

The Cambridge contingent got so loud that one Kitchener mother screamed over to us to be quieter because, in her words, 'the kids can't hear the (referee's) whistle.' After Kitchener scored late in the game to regain the lead, the mother who had yelled at us earlier suddenly bolted from her seat, grabbed a clapper from one of our moms and clapped it so aggressively in the Cambridge mother's face that she broke the Dollar Store item in the process. Tensions between both sets of parents escalated from strained to hostile in a matter of seconds.