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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.)

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.

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

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

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?

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

You’re earhole reading instead of eyeball reading,

3 SEX MEAT

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Just about every kid in America wished they could be Kyle Keeley. Especially when he zoomed across their TV screens as a flaming squirrel in a holiday commercial for Squirrel Squad Six, the hysterically crazy new Lemoncello video game. Kyle’s friends Akimi Hughes and Sierra Russell were also in that commercial. They thumbed controllers and tried to blast Kyle out of the sky. He dodged every rubber band, coconut custard pie, mud clod, and wadded-up sock ball they flung his way. It was awesome. In the commercial for Mr. Lemoncello’s See Ya, Wouldn’t Want to Be Ya board game, Kyle starred as the yellow pawn. His head became the bubble tip at the top of the playing piece. Kyle’s buddy Miguel Fernandez was the green pawn. Kyle and Miguel slid around the life-size game like hockey pucks. When Miguel landed on the same square as Kyle, that meant Kyle’s pawn had to be bumped back to the starting line. “See ya!” shouted Miguel. “Wouldn’t want to be ya!” Kyle was yanked up off the ground by a hidden cable and hurled backward, soaring above the board. It was also awesome. But Kyle’s absolute favorite starring role was in the commercial for Mr. Lemoncello’s You Seriously Can’t Say That game, where the object was to get your teammates to guess the word on your card without using any of the forbidden words listed on the same card. Akimi, Sierra, Miguel, and the perpetually perky Haley Daley sat on a circular couch and played the guessers. Kyle stood in front of them as the clue giver. “Salsa,” said Kyle. “Nachos!” said Akimi. A buzzer sounded. Akimi’s guess was wrong. Kyle tried again. “Horseradish sauce!” “Something nobody ever eats,” said Haley. Another buzzer. Kyle goofed up and said one of the forbidden words: “Ketchup!

Just about every kid in America wished they could be Kyle Keeley. Especially when he zoomed across their TV screens as a flaming squirrel in a holiday commercial for Squirrel Squad Six, the hysterically crazy new Lemoncello video game. Kyle’s friends Akimi Hughes and Sierra Russell were also in that commercial. They thumbed controllers and tried to blast Kyle out of the sky. He dodged every rubber band, coconut custard pie, mud clod, and wadded-up sock ball they flung his way. It was awesome. In the commercial for Mr. Lemoncello’s See Ya, Wouldn’t Want to Be Ya board game, Kyle starred as the yellow pawn. His head became the bubble tip at the top of the playing piece. Kyle’s buddy Miguel Fernandez was the green pawn. Kyle and Miguel slid around the life-size game like hockey pucks. When Miguel landed on the same square as Kyle, that meant Kyle’s pawn had to be bumped back to the starting line. “See ya!” shouted Miguel. “Wouldn’t want to be ya!” Kyle was yanked up off the ground by a hidden cable and hurled backward, soaring above the board. It was also awesome. But Kyle’s absolute favorite starring role was in the commercial for Mr. Lemoncello’s You Seriously Can’t Say That game, where the object was to get your teammates to guess the word on your card without using any of the forbidden words listed on the same card. Akimi, Sierra, Miguel, and the perpetually perky Haley Daley sat on a circular couch and played the guessers. Kyle stood in front of them as the clue giver. “Salsa,” said Kyle. “Nachos!” said Akimi. A buzzer sounded. Akimi’s guess was wrong. Kyle tried again. “Horseradish sauce!” “Something nobody ever eats,” said Haley. Another buzzer. Kyle goofed up and said one of the forbidden words: “Ketchup!” SPLAT! Fifty gallons of syrupy, goopy tomato sauce slimed him from above. It oozed down his face and dribbled off his ears. Everybody laughed. So Kyle, who loved being the class clown almost as much as he loved playing (and winning) Mr. Lemoncello’s wacky games, went ahead and read the whole list of banned words as quickly as he could. “Mustard-mayonnaise-pickle-relish.” SQUOOSH! He was drenched by buckets of yellow glop, white sludge, and chunky green gunk. The slop slid along his sleeves, trickled into his pants, and puddled on the floor. His four friends busted a gut laughing at Kyle, who was soaked in more “condiments” (the word on his card) than a mile-

So I did what any hot-blooded Canadian woman would when a hot man—hockey player or not—threatened extreme violence on her behalf: I grabbed his face and stuck my tongue in his mouth.

What does a playoff team look like?.., It looks like this... A playoff team is tired. They're in pain from a long season. They're frustrated about losses. But they're full of passion. Passion that will let them overcome the fatigue and the pain... A playoff team has to have energy. They have to be prepared to do whatever it takes. to battle one-on-one late in the 3rd period. To block shots. To play 2 or 3 overtime periods, i that's what it takes to win. They have to be the 1st to the puck, Clear the net. For the next 2 months, a playoff team has to bring that energy to the arena every night... It's not just the passion and the energy. It's not just physical conditioning. It's mental conditioning too. You have to stick to the game plan. You can't let fatigue or distractions get in the way of how you play. Some of you men have never been in a playoff game. Everyone will tell you it's a whole new season. Everyone will tell you it's intense. You have no. Fucking. Idea... All of you have trained yourself to leave everything behind when you step on the ice. And that's what you have to do now... You have to make the mind shift that this is a new season. The only that matters now is what we can control -- being ready for the next game... You have to have confidence in yourself. And n your teammates... Some of you guys haven't been playing together that long. But I've seen the teamwork you all bring. The work ethic. I've seen the relationships and the chemistry develop. You have to have trust in each other... and that means being trustworthy. Being there for each other. For the team... coaching staff. Trust in the game plan. Trust in the preparation... I ave trust in you. We can do this.

You think you’re impossible to live with? Blanche used to say,“What time do you want dinner?” And I’d say, “I don’t know, I’m not hungry.” Then at three o’clock in the morning, I’d wake her up and say “Now!” I’ve been one of the highest paid sports writers in the East for the past fourteen years—and we saved eight and a half dollars—in pennies! I’m never home, I gamble, I burn cigar holes in the furniture, drink like a fish and lie to her every chance I get and for our tenth wedding anniversary, I took her to the New York Rangers–Detroit Red Wings hockey game, where she got hit with a puck. And I still can’t understand why she left me. That’s how impossible I am.

The aforementioned “active stick”—besides being an essential achievement in the Eddie Olczyk NBC broadcaster drinking game—describes what the defenseman needs to do with his twig when taking on an attacker. It should always be on the ice, always in motion, always seeking to be as close to the shooter’s blade as possible.

Defensive coverage is about anticipation, and offensive effectiveness is essentially the art of surprise.

The essential task for a defenseman in his own end is to not allow an offensive player room to create, and to force that player into doing things he doesn’t want to do with the puck.

There’s one school that has proactively considered arming their classrooms. At Oakland University in Michigan, teachers and students have been armed with . . . hockey pucks. “According to the university’s police chief, the program stemmed from an idea raised during an active shooter training session, in which ‘one attendee asked what staff and students could bring to prepare themselves for a fight.’ The chief recalled once being struck in the head with a puck and said it ‘caused a fair amount of damage to me.’”210

This approach extended to the raucous all-employee street hockey games in the parking lot (“No one held back when fighting the founders for the puck,” recalled one player) and to the all-company Friday forums, where anyone could challenge the founders with any question under the sun, no matter how controversial—and vice versa. Like the hockey games, the Friday forums often turned into collision-filled affairs.

smiled at the food on my bed. The Baby Men used to bring over handmade pasta, homemade appetizers and gourmet pastries from the finest bakeries, but this gesture meant the most to me. “This looks amazing.

I’m a bi guy who grew up in a masculinity-driven environment, so I say a lot of dude-bro things because it’s reflex, and I often forget not everyone finds all body shapes attractive like I do.

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.

There’s stuff happening on the ice.

Did I just discover I’m a thighs woman?

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 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.

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

A coach will set up the next three lines after the one that’s on the ice. But then, seeing what the other team puts out on the fly, he’ll tell players at the very last second that it’s their turn to hit the ice, even if they’re not the next line in the rotation. That’s because the opposing coach has done something—put out his top line, put out his bruising fourth line—to influence the line match. For some coaches, this is the perfect system through which to defeat an opponent. For most observers, it’s a handy way to unbalance your players’ ice time to their detriment.

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.

There is no position in sport as noble as goaltending.” —Vladislav Tretiak, goaltender “The only job worse is a javelin catcher at a track-and-field meet.” —Lorne “Gump” Worsley, goaltender

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

I like Steele. He’s lovely and funny, and he gets how weird I am. Plus, he’s hot.” “And a famous hockey player and a giant. Bet his ding-a-ling is as big as his hockey stick.” “Doubtful, but I bet it’s close.

Are you sure we don't need at least a cup out here, man?" I asked Jaxon, who stood beside me. "These kids don't have the skills to control where their shot goes. I don't need to take a puck to the balls and be out of commission all summer.

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

Hockey is to them what books are to me—part of my soul.

No, you idiot. You have to live,” I cry, fisting his jersey with both hands. “You may look like a hockey Thor, but you’re not a god, Ilmari. You’re flesh and blood and you’re grinding yourself into that ice. And I won’t allow it.

„Du willst nicht mit mir Schluss machen, oder? Sonst wäre das, was ich jetzt sage, echt ungünstig.“ Und nun ist er es, der vielsagend die Brauen hebt. „Ganz bestimmt nicht. Bevor ich das mache, hänge ich mein Trikot an den Nagel.“ Ich muss ihn so schockiert ansehen, wie sich mein Magen anfühlt, denn da blinzelt er schon und zuckt zurückhaltend mit den Schultern. „Das ... ja, das wollte ich jetzt zwar nicht so drastisch sagen, aber ich meine es ernst, Connor. Ich habe in Boston gemerkt, wie es ist, meinen vermeintlichen Hockeytraum zu leben und ich weiß, wie es mit dir ist. Am liebsten hätte ich natürlich beides, so wie es jetzt ist, dich und Hockey, aber im Zweifel würde ich, ohne zu zögern, dich wählen.

HIPAA.

Wir sind an unser Budgetlimit gegangen, um den Jungen zu bekommen. Aber gestern waren einige Scouts da - sie werden sich gegenseitig übertrumpfen, nur um dafür zu sorgen, dass Ashford eben nicht mit dir in einem Team spielt. Jeder, der nur ein bisschen Ahnung von Hockey hat, hat die Harmonie gestern zwischen euch gesehen. So ein Duo wie euch will man nicht in der gegnerischen Mannschaft. -S. 79

Everyone was excited for the matchup since Ari Lancaster, one of the league’s star defenseman, had just joined the team.

Mich stört es nicht, wenn du auf Kerle stehst, und ich werde dir auch nicht die Anwälte meines Vaters auf den Hals hetzten, wenn du mich berührst. […] Hockey ist ein echt touchy Sport. Ich kann einiges ab. -S. 45

Never underestimate the raw, brute power of a pissed-off hockey coach. Hell hath no fury like Coach on a rampage.

Your only “security” is knowing what you do well. Knowing your areas of competence will give you freedom amid corporate politics and unexpected layoffs. Wayne Gretzky was once asked why he was such a great hockey player. He responded with an eloquent morsel of wisdom: “I simply went to where the puck was going to be.” An average player would go where the puck was or is.

A long time ago inside a local ice rink, 15 year olds went to battle to win a game of hockey.  They played for themselves, for their teams, for their coaches, for their towns, and for their families. It was a 0-0 tie in the 2nd period.     Both goalies were outstanding.  But one appeared to be somewhere else. Thinking.  The shot came.    The antagonist wasn’t aiming to break the scoreless tie.  He was living up to his agreement with the other team’s coach.  A coach who wanted his son to be the team's goalie.     He didn’t want a new goalie that could take his team where they have never been.  The playoffs.  A goalie that could secure his team at the top.  The coach watched the shot he bought.      The goalie could have shifted, dodged out of the way, but he was paralyzed.  He dropped to the ice when the puck struck his unprotected neck.     The player skated over to examine the goalie. He had accomplished his task.    And with the money he earned, he can buy the bicycle he always wanted.     The goalie’s father was standing amongst the other parents.  He was enraged that his son didn’t make the save.     He felt the hard work he put into his boy slowly fade, and quickly die out.  He knew how good his son was, and would be.  He knew the puck struck because the goalie let it.  He did not know why.   I groaned as the puck hit me in the arm.  I had pads, but pads can only soften the blow. I squeezed my arm.     My father stood and watched.     My friend fired another shot that whacked me in the throat, knocking me down.  I felt dizzy.      It was frigid on the pond in winter.     This is where I learned to play hockey.  This is also where I learned it was painful to be a goaltender.  I got up slowly, glowering at him.  My friend was perplexed at my tenacity.     “This time, stay down!” And then he took the hardest slap shot I have ever encountered.     The puck tore through the icy air at incredible speed right into my face.     My glove rapidly came up and snatched it right before it would shatter my jaw.  I took my glove off and reached for the puck inside.     I swung my arm and pitched it as fiercely as I could at my friend.     Next time we play, I should wear my mask and he should wear a little more cover than a hat.  I turned towards my father.  He was smiling.  That was rare.     I was relieved to know that I was getting better and he knew it.  The ice cracked open and I dropped through…      The goalie was alone at the hospital.  He got up and opened the curtains the nurse keeps closing at night so he could see through the clear wall.     He eyed out the window and there was nothing interesting except a lonely little tree.  He noticed the way the moonlight shined off the grass and radiated everything else.  But not the tree.  The tree was as colourless as the sky.     But the sky had lots of bright little glowing stars.  What did the tree have?  He went back to his bed and dozed off before he could answer his own question.   Nobody came to visit him at the hospital but his mother.     His father was at home and upset that his son is no longer on the team.  The goalie spot was seized by the team’s original goalie, the coach’s son.     The goalie’s entire life had been hockey.  He played every day as his father observed.  He really wanted a regular father, whatever that was.  A father that cares about him and not about hockey.  The goalie did like hockey, but it was a game.         A sport just like other sports, only there’s an ice surface to play on.  But he did not love hockey.     It was just something he became very good at, with plenty of practice and bruises.     He was silent in his new team’s locker room, so he didn’t assume anyone would come and see how he was doing.

Firing pucks at your garage door is probably something that young hockey players have always done.