Hockey Puck Quotes

A good hockey player plays where the puck is. A great hockey player plays where the puck is going to be.

Let's make like a hockey player and get the puck out of here.

Buck is a mammoth, like a yeti. A huge perverted, hairy whore of a yeti. According to the sportscasters, Buck's an excellent hockey player. I'd agree, based on his yearly salary alone. No one gets much money for sucking, not even extremely skilled prostitutes.

Don’t you dare tell anyone about this,” she orders. “Why not? It’ll only boost your street cred.” “I don’t want to be another one of your puck bunnies, and I don’t want people thinking I am, understood?” Her use of the term makes me grin harder. I like that she’s picking up the hockey lingo. Maybe one of these days, I’ll even convince her to come to a game. I have a feeling Hannah would be a great heckler, which is always an advantage at home games. Though knowing her, she’d probably heckle us and give the other team the advantage.

The scrape of the skates on the ice. The smell of musty old equipment. The black puck stains on the boards. To the uninitiated they're nothing, but to a hockey player they're home.

I love the smell of the ice... And the cold. The sound the puck makes when it's sliding across the ice or when hits the net for a goal... as long as it's our goal. I love the sound of sticks crashing against one another. The sound my skates make when I come to a hard stop. The roar of the crowd. The way I feel when i'm playing. I can do things on this ice that I can't do anywhere else.

Buck is mammoth, like a yeti. A huge, perverted, hairy whore of a yeti. According to the sportscasters, Buck’s an excellent hockey player. I’d agree, based on his yearly salary alone. No one gets that much money for sucking, not even extremely skilled prostitutes.

Buck ambles out of the locker room with a towel draped across his bare shoulders and his hockey pants on, thank the Lord. The amount of fur he sports makes him resemble a matted yeti.

I’m so pucked. There’d better be a support group for hockey hookers.

My goalie is hurt. Mars is hurt. Rule number fucking one in hockey? Never touch the goalie.

Dessert was an over baked chocolate chip cookies the size of a hockey puck and just about as tasty.

And you know what to do next, toots—don’t you? Yes—the time had come to make like a hockey player and get the puck out of here, to make like a library and book.

I keep scrolling and come across a book titled “Mighty Pucks.” I read the first sentence of the description and discover it is a romance, but it’s about a professional hockey player… so how bad could it be?

You are really nuts, you know it? One a these days they're gonna come over and just lock you up! You aren't playing with a full deck, Eunice. I think somebody blew your pilot light out. There's more. You know what? You got splinters in the windmill of your mind. You're playin hockey with a warped puck! I think you dine sprung a leak in your dingey....

Hey, honey? See the net? Yeah, it would help if you shoot the puck inside of it. Outside doesn’t count, ’kay?” I smack his ass as I skate past him and get in the team box. “You’ll pay for that later,” he says as he takes his spot next to me. I’m counting on it.

We were hockey gypsies, heading down another gravel road every weekend, plowing into the heart of that magnificent northern landscape. We never gave a thought to being deprived as we travelled, to being shut out of the regular league system. We never gave a thought to being Indian. Different. We only thought of the game and the brotherhood that bound us together off the ice, in the van, on the plank floors of reservation houses, in the truck stop diners where if we'd won we had a little to splurge on a burger and soup before we hit the road again. Small joys. All of them tied together, entwined to form an experience we would not have traded for any other. We were a league of nomads, mad for the game, mad for the road, mad for ice and snow, an Arctic wind on our faces and a frozen puck on the blade of our sticks.

I love you, Jayden Mitchell Sinclair, I do. But right now , I want to kill you. So just hold my hand and tel l'me I'm pretty as I push your kid out.

Are you ready for this thing called life? 'Cause I can't do it without you.

I turn to the pretty voice and shut the fuck up because… She’s a vision.

Oh, you have a lot of pads?” “No, I just block pucks naked and hope for the best.

Pack them into a small round mold, or form a ball and flatten it to resemble a hockey puck (or a baby Brie if you’re not from Minnesota and into winter sports.)

Nigel went to Toronto on holiday and got his skull cracked by a hockey puck.

Yes – the time had come to make like a hockey player and get the puck out of here, to make like a library and book.

A good hockey player plays where the puck is. A great hockey player plays where the puck is going to be. —ATTRIBUTED TO WAYNE GRETZKY

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.

That’s the first time I’ve ever been scared on the ice,” he said. “Really? I guess having a puck flying at you is a little different when you’ve got a helmet on.” “No, it’s a little different when it’s flying at you.

he will never let any player in any of them wear number "16." He will always keep hoping that Benji is going to turn up one day and demand his jersey. There's a hockey puck on a gravestone in Beartown. The writing is small, so that all the words can fit. 'Still the bravest bastard I know.' Beside the puck lies a watch.

But, in all fairness, I’m pretty sure being told to eat yummy food and go to bed early is, in fact, one of my pre-existing kinks. It’s a life kink, if you will.

To all the girls who got glow ups, are getting them, or will get them. YOU deserve the best!

Mmm. Last night, you smelled like strawberries. Now, you smell like us,” he rumbles, and my knees weaken, then I ache when he rasps out, “Smell her, Weston.

I’m the epitome of that meme where everything’s on fire with the caption “Everything is fine.

I had hurt Max, and that made my heart hurt. I had seen anger and pain in him and it killed me that I had been the person to put that expression in his eyes.

And while society seems to support women being more assertive, it doesn’t seem to be supported beyond theory, in my opinion.

I’d dicked around long enough. I’d pretended to not feel what I was feeling for too fucking long. It was time to act.

Jayden cried out, "Shit, are you pissing on me?" With her eyes wide, she shook her head. "No, I think my water broke.

I love you too, now let's make this birth our bitch.

You’re earhole reading instead of eyeball reading,

3 SEX MEAT

Relationships suck. Romance is a lie. The human race is doomed. Case closed.

There’d better be a support group for hockey hookers. I’m

He looks like the toughest guy on a hockey team had sex with a Viking and made a super baby.

I am the star in my own Shakespearean farce, never managing to sleep with one woman without wanting the other. The gods of sex and irony are playing hockey, and I am their unwitting puck.

Growing up in Minnesota, the only two places I was allowed to go outside of school were the hockey rink and church. Learning to play guitar got me out of doing far less enjoyable activities.

For my number-one favorite kill, I almost went with Johnny Depp being eaten alive and then regurgitated by his own bed in A Nightmare on Elm Street, but the winner, by a finger blade’s width, has to be the death of that feisty Tina (Amanda Wyss), who put up such a fight while I thrashed her about on the ceiling of her bedroom. Freddy loves a worthy adversary, especially if it’s a nubile teenaged girl. A close second goes to my hearing-impaired victim Carlos (Ricky Dean Logan) in Nightmare 6. In these uber-politically-correct times, it’s refreshing to remember what an equal opportunity killer Freddy always was. Not only does he pump up the volume on the hearing aid from hell, but he also adds a nice Latino kid to his body count. Today they probably wouldn’t even let Freddy force-feed a fat kid junk food. Dream death number three is found in a sequence from Nightmare 3. Freddy plays puppet master with victim Phillip (Bradley Gregg), converting his arm and leg tendons into marionette strings, then cutting them in a Freddy meets Verigo moment. The kiss of death Profressor Freddy gives Sheila (Toy Newkirk) is great, but not as good as Al Pacino’s in The Godfather, so my fourth pick is Freddy turning Debbie (Brooke Theiss) into her worst nightmare, a cockroach, and crushing her in a Roach Motel. A classic Kafka/Krueger kill. For my final fave, you will have to check out Freddy vs. Jason playing at a Hell’s Octoplex near you. Here’s a hint: the hockey-puck guy and I double team a member of Destiny’s Child. Yummy! Now where’s that Beyonce…

It’s as hard to be the shadow as it is to be the light, Alex.” There’s some real insight in that. “When did you grow up?” She laughs again and hugs my arm. “While you were off playing hockey and getting famous.

Oh my GOD! He’s coming over to your house, isn’t he? I can smell it. I can smell the promise of sweaty, hot hockey sex in the air.” “What’s hockey sex?” Alex asks. “You know . . . the kind where he rips her clothes off, lifts her above his head, and eats her out while spinning around the room like he’s on the ice.” “That’s not fucking hockey sex. That’s figure-skating sex. Hockey sex is more like she holds pucks over her nipples while he fucks her on the bench in

And when you got to the Trestle or the Vacant Lot or the Pond there would already be six hundred kids there. There were always six hundred kids everywhere except where two or more neighbourhoods met – at the Park, for instance – where the numbers would grow into the thousands. I once took part in an ice hockey game at the lagoon in Greenwood Park that involved four thousand kids, all slashing away violently with sticks, and went on for at least three quarters of an hour before anyone realized that we didn’t have a puck.

A puck, two goals, hearts full of passion. Some people say hockey is like religion, but that’s wrong. Hockey is like faith. Religion is something between you and other people; it’s full of interpretations and theories and opinions. But faith . . . that’s just between you and God.

And yes, I like to crochet. Again, I’ll ask that you not fucking judge me, because it’s my birthday, because my charity, Hookers for the Homeless, has provided over two thousand caps, gloves, and scarves to people in need, and because my Instagram account—Hockey Hooker—has over a million followers.

As for those forwards who remain on the ice for too long, we’ll pass the mic to venerable blogger Tyler Dellow: “Being on the ice after a minute is sort of like being in a bar after 1:00 am—there’s no guarantee that something bad will happen, it’s possible that something good will happen, but the odds are slanted heavily in favor of something bad.

The hardest thing about writing a big poem? Has to be all the lines. A lot of poets would say the fans but I think the lines is what does it. That's why I only did the ones about Paradise, both losing it and regaining it and such. Just two many lines! [laughs] Anyway, I guess--sorry, going back to the hockey thing--for me, I'd want to be the net. Ice second, puck last, obviously.

Other children might have made drawings for him to stick on his fridge, but Alicia isn’t keen on drawing, so the puck marks in the plaster of his wall have become much the same thing: small marks in time that say someone you love grew up here. It started with Sune teaching her how to play hockey but it went on with him teaching her everything else you need to know in life: tying shoelaces and chanting times tables and listening to Elvis Presley.

Hockey is a sport that rewards repetition. The same exercises, the same movements, until a player’s responses become instinctive, branded into his marrow. The puck doesn’t just glide, it bounces as well, so acceleration is more important than maximum speed, hand-eye coordination more important than strength. The ice judges you by your ability to change direction and thought quicker than anyone else—that’s what separates the best players from the rest.

He was close. And I was babbling. About my nerdy planning hobby. He couldn’t possibly have the least bit of interest in my preference for letter-sized planners over A5 (my to-do list was long, and my writing was big, so I needed the extra room). He didn’t even know what washi tape was, and he certainly didn’t seem like the type of guy who’d like stickers. And…I shouldn’t care if he was or wasn’t. I just…didn’t want him to think I was dumb. That something I loved was dumb.

Hockey is a club that holds its members tightly, the bond forged by shared hardship and mutual passion, by every trip to the pond, where your feet hurt and your face is cold and you might get a stick in the ribs or a puck in the mouth, and you still can’t wait to get back out there because you are smitten with the sound of blades scraping against ice and pucks clacking off sticks, and with the game’s speed and ever-changing geometry. It has a way of becoming the center of your life even when you’re not on the ice.

Jon Rubinstein, who was in charge of hardware, adapted the microprocessor and guts of the PowerMac G3, Apple’s high-end professional computer, for use in the proposed new machine. It would have a hard drive and a tray for compact disks, but in a rather bold move, Jobs and Rubinstein decided not to include the usual floppy disk drive. Jobs quoted the hockey star Wayne Gretzky’s maxim, “Skate where the puck’s going, not where it’s been.” He was a bit ahead of his time, but eventually most computers eliminated floppy disks.

Brooks wanted to abandon the traditional, linear, dump-and-chase style of hockey that had held sway in North America forever. He wanted to attack the vaunted Russians with their own game, skating with them and weaving with them, stride for high-flying stride. He wanted to play physical, un-yielding hockey to be sure, but he also wanted fast, skilled players who would flourish on the Olympic ice sheet (which is 15 feet wider than NHL rinks) and be able to move and keep possession of the puck and be in such phenomenal condition that they would be the fresher team at the end.

I rest my elbows on my knees, watching Paco make a complete fool of himself. Paco takes a little white golf ball and places it on top of a rubber circle inserted into the fake grass. When he swings the golf club, I wince. The club misses the ball and connects with the fake grass instead. Paco swears. The guy next to Paco takes one look at him and moves to another section. Paco tries again. This time the club connects, but his ball only rolls along the grass in front of him. He keeps trying, but each time Paco swings, he makes a complete ass out of himself. Does he think he’s hitting a hockey puck? “You done?” I ask once he’s gone through half the basket. “Alex,” Paco says, leaning on the golf club like it’s a cane. “Do ya think I was meant to play golf?” Looking Paco straight in the eye, I answer, “No.” “I heard you talkin’ to Hector. I don’t think you were mean to deal, either.” “Is that why we’re here? You’re tryin’ to make a point?” “Hear me out,” Paco insists. “I’ve got the keys to the car in my pocket and I’m not goin’ nowhere until I finish hittin’ all of these bulls, so you might as well listen. I’m not smart like you. I don’t have choices in life, but you, you’re smart enough to go to college and be a doctor or computer geek or somethin’ like that. Just like I wasn’t meant to hit golf balls, you weren’t meant to deal drugs. Let me do the drop for you.” “No way, man. I appreciate you makin’ an ass out of yourself to prove a point, but I know what I need to do,” I tell him.

I know you’ve had some bad luck recently, but there’s this guy, he plays for New York, they’re looking at trading him—” “Buck, I don’t want to date another hockey player.” I set down my controller so I can shovel more of the sundae into my mouth, uncaring of the suffering that will follow this frozen dairy heaven. “Not all of us are dogs, Violet. Randall’s a great guy.” “His name is Randall. How awesome can he be?” Buck mows down a group of people playing road hockey. “He goes by Randy.” “Even better. His name is another word for horny. Sounds perfect for me.” I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry. It’s not Randall’s fault his parents named him in relation to horniness. I can’t even entertain the idea of dating anyone else right now. Besides, I could never get serious with a hockey player again, or a dude named Randy. I’d make thrusting motions every time I said his name. It’d be awkward. “Wait a minute. Didn’t Alex get suspended for kicking the shit out of some guy named Randy?” I’m almost positive this is the case. “That was Randolph Cockburn. This is Randy Balls.” “Are you serious?” What’s with these guys with terrible last names? “Yeah, why?” Buck, my perverted stepbrother, doesn’t connect the outlandishly pornographic last name with the first name. “Randy Balls?” I burst out laughing. “You want to set me up with a guy named Randy Balls? Can you even imagine what would happen if we got married? My last name would be Balls. Violet Balls!” “Huh.” He makes a scrunchy face. “That wouldn’t be so good, would it? ’Specially if you hyphenated. Hall-Balls.” I continue to laugh until I start crying, which turns into hysterical, desperate sobs. I don’t want to end up as Violet Balls. I wanted to be Violet Waters—it sounds so romantic—and Alex ruined it all. My life sucks Randy’s balls.

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.

Skate to where the puck is going, not where it has been. —WAYNE GRETZKY, NHL hockey player and Hall of Famer

People talk about a 'winners mentality' because a winner has something that others lack, a special brain that takes for granted that it was born to be heroic. When a game comes down to the last decisive seconds, the winner bangs his stick down on the ice and yells to his teammates to pass to him, because a winner doesn't ask for the puck, he demands it. When thousands of spectators stand up and roar, most people become uncertain and back away, but the winner steps up.

early forms of hockey were played with frozen cow dung for a puck!

like it is what it is.

Aubrey’s says: Hey, cheating ex. Mine reads: How do you like your hockey tickets now?

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.

Chase’s jaw drops. Ryker hisses. “How the fuck does that happen?” Chase asks. Um. I don’t know. I honestly have no idea. “Not sure.” Ryker breathes fire. “How does he live with himself?” “He should be ashamed,” Chase adds, then gestures to a nearby booth. “We need something strong for this kind of horror story.

Rule number two of hockey: keep your head in the game, and don’t think about how fucking hot the team captain is.

Rule number one of hockey: don’t fuck with the goalie. And it’s nice to know this new team has my back. I’m back on my skates when Alexi palms the back of my helmet with his gloved hand.

So, what’ll it be, Miss Book Babe?” I blink, surprised. “Did you just give me a pet name?” Chase’s grin is all kinds of cocky. “You gave us nicknames. Only fair. And it seems fitting,” he says. “Was Miss Bookalicious taken, Weston?” Ryker asks his friend dryly.

My train has left Friendship Station and it’s picking up speed as it rattles into Dirty Depot.

A cold McDonald's hamburger is halfway between a jelly doughnut and a hockey puck, but the nine-dollar bourbon helped.

Chase Weston is the golden guy center, all warm brown eyes and panty-melting smile, of the Sea Dogs. Ryker Samuels is the dark-haired, bearded, and broody-as-sin defenseman on the Avengers.

Mmm. I just can’t decide how I’m going to eat you. If I’m going to spread you out on the bed and bury my face between your legs.” A drag of my scruff. “Or push you against the wall and get down on my knees.” A rub of my chin against her cheek. “Draping one leg over your shoulder,” Chase adds, getting into the seductive rhythm of the image I’m painting. “Or get on my back and tell you to sit on my face,” I muse with one more brush of my stubble against her.

Girl, you’re about to be screwed senseless by two men. You have more kinks than you ever knew.

Chase whistles. “And I thought jerking off two dudes at once was your party trick.” A laugh bursts from me. “I guess I have two party tricks now.” “But keep the first one just between us,” Ryker says, without cracking a grin as he comes behind me, then slides a possessive hand up my back, curling it around my neck. Like he’s sending me a message. He doesn’t want any other men to share me.

And bear in mind I’ve read about five thousand romance novels so I’ve heard pretty much all the excuses.

With a wicked smile, I stuff them inside my bra and take off with everything that matters to me and the one thing that matters most to him.

I’m in love with you, Jasper Eckstein, and you’re just going to have to deal with that. Also, when we’re married, you can totally take my last name. No one will ever call you Fuckstain again.

I need you, Maddie. I can handle the business end of things, but I'm still learning hockey and player relations. The team thinks I'm a puff bunny. Madden's brows furrowed and then a deep laugh shook his shoulders. "Puck bunny. And jeez, what'd you do?" "Nothing! I didn't do anything. My first day, Coach Finley quit and I needed someone to run practices, so I went down to the rink and asked Carter where the assistant coach was." "Carter... Phlynn? And I bet you called him Carter in front of the whole team. Now I get it." Jacey swatted her brother's shoulder. He smirked, so she pinched him. "I don't see what the big deal is. What's wrong with first names?" "Nothing. If you're on the team or sleeping with them. Pro sports are about last names and nicknames, Jace.

Being a hockey coach and ex-NHL player, I have dealt with a lot of overgrown, testosterone-filled man children in my life. It takes some epic levels of assholism to piss me off.

Jasper Eckstein is sex wrapped up in the package of a Sunday school teacher.

I work out because it makes me feel safe. West looks like he’s the type of guy who works out for fun. Eww.

How is anyone supposed to buy fishing gear from me when I look all bruised?”“Tell them you got into a fight with a shark?” I supply helpfully.

I spin around. Nacho is puking up panty parts like a priest is conducting a lingerie exorcism of his esophagus.

A hot hockey player reading a romance book to me?

You can only trust a dog.

I want a kiss that lingers into the night. And then, this one does. For a few hot seconds, it’s real and delicious. I want so much more of it. Of him.

With her like this, in my arms, everything just feels right. Inevitable. Like we were always headed here.

This is how he calls it off? With his explorer d*ck as his new compass? And me as his...first mate?

This is my favorite thing. To make a woman feel like she's the center of the world.

This moment is mine, and if life is all about moments, if it's about squeezing joy out of the seconds that fall too quickly from our fingers, then I want all the filthy joy I can get from life right now.

Camden! You won the Stanley Cup!” That reminds me, Barrett’s shot was the winning goal. I drop her to her feet and kiss her cheek, then grab the winning puck off the bench. “Be right back.

Camden! You won the Stanley Cup!” That reminds me, Barrett’s shot was the winning goal. I drop her to her feet and kiss her cheek, then grab the winning puck off the bench. “Be right back.” I skate to Barrett and thrust it into his chest. “This one is yours.” It practically sends him into tears, which gets me choked up. Damn, he sure is going out with a bang. “Your last puck, and it won the Stanley Cup.

Tate. I've only had two loves in my life. Hockey and you. But I'd walk away from the game right now if it meant you were mine forever.

Just you wait. I’m gonna love you so fucking hard, Cay. And I’m gonna do it out loud…whether the hockey world likes it or not.

It’s too right having her in my arms like this, curled up with me.

We live in this world where one person is paid millions because he does one thing well, yet we can’t feed kids or look after our vets or put roofs over everyone’s heads. People will pay two hundred bucks to watch a hockey game, will read about the diet of a guy who bashes a puck around for a few minutes a night, but they’re fine with their fellow citizens dropping dead around them. Priorities are so fucked up.

If I knew you wanted to take me against a tree, I’d have fallen down so much earlier.” “Take you?” he echoes. “No, I need your undivided attention while I talk to you about hockey pucks.

I’ll get yours,” Panther says to Bailey. He flashes a rare smile. “If you’ll promise to not hit me with that stick.” She puffs her chest up and shoves the hockey stick at Zeus. He shakes his head. “Keep it.” And then the big old goober pulls a Sharpie from his back pocket and flips it to me. “Sign that for her, Fireball. If she says please.” And once again, Zeus Berger has managed to take me by surprise. Dammit.