Hockey Sayings And Quotes

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

Leo cried, "Hold on! Let's have some manners here. Can I at least find out who has the honor of destroying me?" "I am Cal!" the ox grunted. He looked very proud of himself, like he'd taken a long time to memorize that sentence. "That's short for Calais," the love god said. "Sadly, my brother cannot say words with more than two syllables--" "Pizza! Hockey! Destroy!" Cal offered. "--which includes his own name," the love god finished. "I am Cal," Cal repeated. "And this is Zethes! My brother!" "Wow," Leo said. "That was almost three sentences, man! Way to go." Cal grunted, obviously pleased with himself. "Stupid buffoon," his brother grumbled. "They make fun of you. But no matter. I am Zethes, which is short for Zethes. And the lady there--" He winked at piper, but the wink was more like a facial seizure. "She can call me anything she likes. Perhaps she would like to have dinner with a famous demigod before we must destroy you?

Chelsea, I knew when you showed up on my porch that you were going to be trouble. You were bossy and annoying and you brought sunshine into a very dark time in my life. You saved me when I didn’t even know I needed saving. I love you for that. I will always love you for that.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the backs of her knuckles. “Please say you’ll stay in my life and make trouble with me forever.” -Mark Bressler

You should quit hockey," Ilya murmured. "Send them a text. Say you quit. Stay here with me." "I'm not ending my career via text." "Email, then.

What can I say?” I slowly turned and smiled up at Reed. “I guess I’ve finally found the kind of hockey player whose jersey I want to wear.

I swear on all that is holy—if one of you doesn’t tell me what the hell just went down here, I’m going to lose my shit.” I chuckle. “My girl wanted me to send her a boudoir shot of me on a red velvet chaise lounge, but you have no idea how hard it is to find a goddamn red velvet chaise lounge.” “You say this as if it’s an explanation. It is not.” Justin sighs like the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. “You hockey players are fucked up.

You mean more to me than hockey,” he says simply, and damned if that doesn’t make my heart expand. “Get it through your stubborn head.

But,” Shane said. He had to say this next part. It had been eating away at him for too long. “You want to get married, right? To a woman, I mean. You’re not...like me. You like women. And I’m sure...Svetlana is gorgeous and fun and...all that stuff. Right?” “Yes,” Ilya said. “I do. She is. But.” “But?” Ilya shrugged, and he looked like he was possibly blushing. “I have this problem,” he mumbled. Shane waited. “I like women. I always was thinking that to get married would be nice. Kids. All of that. Someday. But...this problem will not go away.” Shane bit his lip. “Tell me about this problem.” “Is so annoying.” Ilya sighed, and Shane could see him fighting a grin. “Always I am with beautiful women. Wonderful women. Everywhere.” “Sounds rough.” “Yes. Listen. These women, they are so sexy and fun, but is no matter. I cannot stop thinking about this short fucking hockey player with these stupid freckles and a weak backhand.” “A weak backhand?” Shane couldn’t stop smiling. “Yes. And he is just so boring and he drives a terrible car and...that is my problem. All of these beautiful women and I am always wishing they were him.” Ilya bent to take his third shot. “Is terrible problem.” Fuck. Shane was going start crying right here in his games room. He swallowed and steadied himself. “Do you want the problem to go away?” “No,” Ilya said seriously, looking Shane dead in the eye. “I do not want the problem to ever go away.

Ana feels like pushing her neighbour up against the wall and telling him that the locker room where those boys sit telling their stupid jokes end up preserving them like a tin can. It makes them mature more slowly, while some even go rotten inside. And they don’t have any female friends, and there are no women’s teams here, so they learn that hockey only belongs to them, and their coaches teach them that girls only exist for fucking. She wants to point out how all the old men in this town praise them for “fighting” and “not backing down,” but not one single person tells them that when a girl says no, it means NO. And the problem with this town is not only that a boy raped a girl, but that everyone is pretending that he DIDN’T do it. So now all the other boys will think that what he did was okay. Because no one cares.

I could not say any of the things I wanted to say. I said you were a great hockey player. A nice guy. Very competitive. All of the shit that any of your teammates could have said.” Ilya sighed loudly, then continued in a quieter tone. “When you watch it, this is what you will see. Me saying nothing. I wanted to say you were fucking everything to me. Everything, okay?

You know, when you think about it, that’s kind of a weird thing. I mean it’s meant to be sympathetic, right? But it’s kind of not. Like you’re telling the person there’s nothing unique about what they’re saying I considered this as a couple of kids on Rollerblades whizzed past, hockey sticks over their shoulders. “Yeah,” I said, finally, “but you could also look at it the other way. Like no matter how bad things are for you, I can still relate.

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. It's what you feel in your chest when the referee glides out to the center circle between two players, when you hear the sticks strike each other and see the black disk fall between them. Then it's just between you and hockey. Because cherry trees always smell of cherry trees, whereas money smells of nothing

The idiots won’t say it was Kevin who killed Beartown Ice Hockey; they’ll say that “the scandal” killed the club. Because their real problem isn’t that Kevin raped someone but that Maya got raped. If she hadn’t existed, it wouldn’t have happened. Women are always the problem in the men’s world.

I don’t want either of us losing focus or shifting priorities.” “Priorities change.” “What are you saying?” That I’m falling for you. “That I can focus on hockey and you.

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.

Culture” is an odd word to use about hockey; everyone says it, but no one can explain what it means. All organizations like to boast that they’re building a culture, but when it comes down to it everyone really only cares about one sort: the culture of winning.

Don’t let society’s labels hold you back. If you have a true passion for something whether its sports, art, science, etc…don’t believe anyone who says you can’t do it because you’re a girl. If you want to play baseball, hockey, or football, don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t. If you want to play with Hot Wheel cars and Legos, then do it. Only you are the boss of you

She wants to scream so loud that all the other neighbors here in the Heights can hear it too. Scream that she loves hockey. LOVES hockey! But she's a girl, so what happens if she says that to a boy? He says: 'Really? You're a girl and you like hockey? Okay! Who won the Stanley Cup in 1983, then? Well? And who came seventh in the league in 1994? Well? If you like hockey you ought to be able to answer that.

They say parenting is only hard for good parents.

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.

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.

On the first day of November last year, sacred to many religious calendars but especially the Celtic, I went for a walk among bare oaks and birch. Nothing much was going on. Scarlet sumac had passed and the bees were dead. The pond had slicked overnight into that shiny and deceptive glaze of delusion, first ice. It made me remember sakes and conjure a vision of myself skimming backward on one foot, the other extended; the arms become wings. Minnesota girls know that this is not a difficult maneuver if one's limber and practices even a little after school before the boys claim the rink for hockey. I think I can still do it - one thinks many foolish things when November's bright sun skips over the entrancing first freeze. A flock of sparrows reels through the air looking more like a flying net than seventy conscious birds, a black veil thrown on the wind. When one sparrow dodges, the whole net swerves, dips: one mind. Am I part of anything like that? Maybe not. The last few years of my life have been characterized by stripping away, one by one, loves and communities that sustain the soul. A young colleague, new to my English department, recently asked me who I hang around with at school. "Nobody," I had to say, feeling briefly ashamed. This solitude is one of the surprises of middle age, especially if one's youth has been rich in love and friendship and children. If you do your job right, children leave home; few communities can stand an individual's most pitiful, amateur truth telling. So the soul must stand in her own meager feathers and learn to fly - or simply take hopeful jumps into the wind. In the Christian calendar, November 1 is the Feast of All Saints, a day honoring not only those who are known and recognized as enlightened souls, but more especially the unknowns, saints who walk beside us unrecognized down the millennia. In Buddhism, we honor the bodhisattvas - saints - who refuse enlightenment and return willingly to the wheel of karma to help other beings. Similarly, in Judaism, anonymous holy men pray the world from its well-merited destruction. We never know who is walking beside us, who is our spiritual teacher. That one - who annoys you so - pretends for a day that he's the one, your personal Obi Wan Kenobi. The first of November is a splendid, subversive holiday. Imagine a hectic procession of revelers - the half-mad bag lady; a mumbling, scarred janitor whose ravaged face made the children turn away; the austere, unsmiling mother superior who seemed with great focus and clarity to do harm; a haunted music teacher, survivor of Auschwitz. I bring them before my mind's eye, these old firends of my soul, awakening to dance their day. Crazy saints; but who knows what was home in the heart? This is the feast of those who tried to take the path, so clumsily that no one knew or notice, the feast, indeed, of most of us. It's an ugly woods, I was saying to myself, padding along a trail where other walkers had broken ground before me. And then I found an extraordinary bouquet. Someone had bound an offering of dry seed pods, yew, lyme grass, red berries, and brown fern and laid it on the path: "nothing special," as Buddhists say, meaning "everything." Gathered to formality, each dry stalk proclaimed a slant, an attitude, infinite shades of neutral. All contemplative acts, silences, poems, honor the world this way. Brought together by the eye of love, a milkweed pod, a twig, allow us to see how things have been all along. A feast of being.

don’t want to fuck with your head.” he whispers. “I wish I hadn’t ever done that.” But it’s not my head that needs fucking. “Come over here,” I say. “Please.” “No fucking way.” he replies “I can make you.” He laughs. “Did you smoke some pot while I was our, Canning?” I laugh too, and it’s such a relief. Because it means I haven’t wrecked everything. But I lift my hips, peel off my briefs, and throw them at his head. He bats them away, smiling in the dark. Kicking the sheet off, I put my hand on my dick. And he stops laughing.

Our eyes met and his grin stretched another quarter-inch. Another schoolgirl flip--followed by a very un-schoolgirl wave of heat. He leaned even farther over the boards, lips parting to say something. "Hey, Kris!" someone yelled behind him. "If you want to flirt with Eve, tell her to meet you in the penalty box. You'll be back there soon enough.

So there are pics of Tucker’s mighty wang on the internet?” “I haven’t been tagged on Instagram yet, so I’m hopeful they aren’t out there. But thanks for calling my dick mighty. We appreciate that.” Amusement colors his words. “We? As in you and your penis?” “Yup,” he says cheerfully. I snuggle deeper under the covers. “You have a name for your penis?” “Doesn’t everyone? Guys put a name on everything that’s important to them—cars, dicks. One of my teammates in junior hockey named his stick, which was dumb because sticks break all the time. He’d gone through twelve of them by the end of the season.” “What were the names?” “That’s the thing. He just kept adding a number to the end, like iPhone 6, iPhone 7, except in his case it was Henrietta 1, Henrietta 2, et cetera.” I snicker. “He should’ve used the hurricane naming convention.” “Darlin’, he wasn’t smart enough to come up with two names, let alone twelve.

Are you guys watching men’s basketball?” In fact, start calling all sports “men’s” sports. Baseball, football, hockey, boxing, whatever.

I don’t know, I just…he felt right, is all.” I blush as I say this, the tips of my ears burning. There’s no better way to explain it, though. Carter was inevitable.

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.

I don’t want to fuck with your head.” he whispers. “I wish I hadn’t ever done that.” But it’s not my head that needs fucking. “Come over here,” I say. “Please.” “No fucking way.” he replies “I can make you.” He laughs. “Did you smoke some pie while I was our, Canning?” I laugh too, and it’s such a relief. Because it means I haven’t wrecked everything. But I lift my hips, peel off my briefs, and throw them at his head. He bats them away, smiling in the dark. Kicking the sheet off, I put my hand on my dick. And he stops laughing.

It was clear to everyone that day, and in the months that followed, that Patty’s greatest warming influence was on Walter himself. Now, instead of speeding by his neighbors in his angry Prius, he stopped to lower his window and say hello. On weekends, he brought Patty over to the patch of clear ice that the neighborhood kids maintained for hockey and instructed her in skating, which, in a remarkably short time, she became rather good at.

Bart Palacio doesn’t have anything better to do than yap on Twitter?” “He says: Actually, we won that game. With better referees, and no bad penalty calls, it was 1-0 in our favor.” She groans. “He’s the Donald Trump of hockey.

Wes gives him a shy smile and then takes a deep breath. He looks nervous, the poor sweetie. Wes doesn’t enjoy attention unless he has a hockey stick in his hand. “I’ll be fine,” he says, his voice gravelly. “Can’t wait to be married to you.” “Tomorrow we’ll be on our way to the beach,” Jamie whispers. “Can’t wait for that either,” Wes agrees.

I want to knee myself in the nuts for even thinking that perhaps the reason for my crappy play is because I haven’t had my dad riding me these last several weeks, but to hell with it…I’m going there. I need to know what he would say.

Father had stretched out his long legs and was tilting back in his chair. Mother sat with her knees crossed, in blue slacks, smoking a Chesterfield. The dessert dishes were still on the table. My sisters were nowhere in evidence. It was a warm evening; the big dining-room windows gave onto blooming rhododendrons. Mother regarded me warmly. She gave me to understand that she was glad I had found what I had been looking for, but that she and father were happy to sit with their coffee, and would not be coming down. She did not say, but I understood at once, that they had their pursuits (coffee?) and I had mine. She did not say, but I began to understand then, that you do what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself. I had essentially been handed my own life. In subsequent years my parents would praise my drawings and poems, and supply me with books, art supplies, and sports equipment, and listen to my troubles and enthusiasms, and supervise my hours, and discuss and inform, but they would not get involved with my detective work, nor hear about my reading, nor inquire about my homework or term papers or exams, nor visit the salamanders I caught, nor listen to me play the piano, nor attend my field hockey games, nor fuss over my insect collection with me, or my poetry collection or stamp collection or rock collection. My days and nights were my own to plan and fill.

Well, the way I see it, you’ve got two options. You can step back while me and the guys embarrass the fuck out of this bitch and make her crawl back into whatever hole she crawled out of. Or… we could go with option B.” I’m trembling from head to toe. “Which is?” His lips just barely touch my ear when he answers. “Option B is you let us worry about the aftermath and you handle this shit yourself,” he says. “And when I say handle it, I mean I want you to completely… fuck… her… up.

I will love you forever,” he says against my lips. “Forever,” I promise. No matter the circumstances, we would always find each other. This love existed before I forgot, before I remembered, and before we came to be what we are in this moment.

I don’t want to fuck with your head.” he whispers. “I wish I hadn’t ever done that.” But it’s not my head that needs fucking. “Come over here,” I say. “Please.” “No fucking way.” he replies “I can make you.” He laughs. “Did you smoke some pot while I was out, Canning?” I laugh too, and it’s such a relief. Because it means I haven’t wrecked everything. But I lift my hips, peel off my briefs, and throw them at his head. He bats them away, smiling in the dark. Kicking the sheet off, I put my hand on my dick. And he stops laughing.

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

Maybe I need to lighten the burden. Cut something out. Cutting the game out wasn’t possible, because after all, that is the one thing I can pretty much say is my best chance at success. And I can’t cut out my father. Not now…not after he’s trying to get sober and trying to make amends. So, that leaves Sutton,

Jamie - “Shame the Bruins got punished by the Ducks last month.” I see the flash of arrogance return at lightning speed. Wes - “That was a fluke. And a terrible call in the third. Your wing tripped over his own duck feet.” Jamie - “With a little help from your D-man.” Wes - “Oh fuck that. Twenty bucks says the Ducks don’t make it past the first round this year.” Jamie - “Twenty is all you’re willing to bet? Sounds like you’re afraid. Twenty and a YouTube video proclaiming my greatness.” Wes - “ Done, but when you lose, you make that video in a Bruins T-shirt.” Jamie - “Sure.” I shrug. And just like that, the night gets easier.

Sune stands there with the floral wreath in his hands and loss on his cheeks and doesn’t know what to say. But if anyone can understand the unbridled, unreasonable love you can feel for an animal, it’s probably men who have been told all their lives that they love something more than they should: “But it’s only hockey.

But that's the thing," I say. My voice shakes. "Nothing makes me happy. Not really. It's not even that I don't like hockey, it's just... I don't like anything. Not enough to matter. All I ever wanted with hockey was a choice. I wanted to come with you when you moved. I didn’t care about the best opportunities. I was ten. I wanted my family. You could've retired in Buffalo, but you chose to come here and keep playing. You chose to leave me. And when you did finaly retire, instead of coming back, you stayed here.

Allie,” I say, pulling back to meet her eyes. So soft and blue. So trusting, when she shouldn’t have trusted me at all. “Baby, I’m sorry, but I’m not letting you go.

I don’t think I’d like being crushed by a hockey player, funnily enough.” “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” I say quietly without thinking.

You never responded to the photo I sent,” he says. “I was too busy getting myself off to it.

They say it’s not an addiction until you suck dick for it. Well…

I cock my head to the side and say, “We all have days when our monsters come out, Alex. You’re not going to scare me off if I see yours.

Ooh, the scowly one is cute. Who’s that?” the second blonde says. I look over and smile because that one’s coming home with me.

Unsure of what to say, I blurted hurriedly, “Do you want to be my friend? If you don‘t, it‘s okay. I don‘t want to waste any time, so you should tell me right away.

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.

They say Im to little to play. Become good player any way!

This is a hockey town and they 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.

Despite what everyone says, I’m not some player. There’s only one girl I care about, and she’s standing right in front of me

Aunt Claire, I apologize to you too, since you probably had to pretend you weren't my aunt." "Apology accepted." Aunt Claire smiled, which did much to lighten Skye's heart. "I must say your mad charge at Melissa was impressive. Perhaps you should switch to ice hockey or professional wrestling." "Claire, please be serious," said Mr. Penderwick. "I am being serious.

Going through old papers I came across the transcript of a university debate on Rublyov. God, what a level. Abysmal, pathetic. But there is one remarkable contribution by a maths professor called Manin, Lenin Prize winner, who can hardly be more than thirty. I share his views. Not that one should say that about oneself. But it's exactly what I felt when I was making Andrey. And I'm grateful to Manin for that. "Almost every speaker has asked why they have to be made to suffer all through the three hours of the film. I'll try to reply to that question. It is because the twentieth century has seen the rise of a kind of emotional inflation. When we read in a newspaper that two million people have been butchered in Indonesia, it makes as much impression on us as an account of our hockey team winning a match. The same degree of impression! We fail to notice the monstrous discrpancy between these two events. The channels of our perception have been smoothed out to the point where we are no longer aware. However, I don't want to preach about this. It may be that without it life would be impossible. Only the point is that there are some artists who do make us feel the true measure of things. It is a burden which they carry throughout their lives, and we must be thankful to them.

Whoa,” Cohen says. I didn’t even hear him come back in. “What?” I snap at him. “I think we’re all a little gay after that. That was hot.” Rossi slaps Cohen’s shoulder. “Still only you, dude.

the locker room,” Alex counters. “No way, it has to be on the ice. He’s going to take her to the rink tonight, flip on the scoreboard and play porn while he fucks her over the goal. They’re both wearing skates of course, porn everywhere, blaring through the speakers, there’s a hockey stick involved somehow, and he’s all veiny and sweaty and says things like my semen are scoring tonight.

the six of us are supposed to drive to the diner in Hastings for lunch. But the moment we enter the cavernous auditorium where the girls told us to meet them, my jaw drops and our plans change. “Holy shit—is that a red velvet chaise lounge?” The guys exchange a WTF look. “Um…sure?” Justin says. “Why—” I’m already sprinting toward the stage. The girls aren’t here yet, which means I have to act fast. “For fuck’s sake, get over here,” I call over my shoulder. Their footsteps echo behind me, and by the time they climb on the stage, I’ve already whipped my shirt off and am reaching for my belt buckle. I stop to fish my phone from my back pocket and toss it at Garrett, who catches it without missing a beat. “What is happening right now?” Justin bursts out. I drop trou, kick my jeans away, and dive onto the plush chair wearing nothing but my black boxer-briefs. “Quick. Take a picture.” Justin doesn’t stop shaking his head. Over and over again, and he’s blinking like an owl, as if he can’t fathom what he’s seeing. Garrett, on the other hand, knows better than to ask questions. Hell, he and Hannah spent two hours constructing origami hearts with me the other day. His lips twitch uncontrollably as he gets the phone in position. “Wait.” I pause in thought. “What do you think? Double guns, or double thumbs up?” “What is happening?” We both ignore Justin’s baffled exclamation. “Show me the thumbs up,” Garrett says. I give the camera a wolfish grin and stick up my thumbs. My best friend’s snort bounces off the auditorium walls. “Veto. Do the guns. Definitely the guns.” He takes two shots—one with flash, one without—and just like that, another romantic gesture is in the bag. As I hastily put my clothes back on, Justin rubs his temples with so much vigor it’s as if his brain has imploded. He gapes as I tug my jeans up to my hips. Gapes harder when I walk over to Garrett so I can study the pictures. I nod in approval. “Damn. I should go into modeling.” “You photograph really well,” Garrett agrees in a serious voice. “And dude, your package looks huge.” Fuck, it totally does. Justin drags both hands through his dark hair. “I swear on all that is holy—if one of you doesn’t tell me what the hell just went down here, I’m going to lose my shit.” I chuckle. “My girl wanted me to send her a boudoir shot of me on a red velvet chaise lounge, but you have no idea how hard it is to find a goddamn red velvet chaise lounge.” “You say this as if it’s an explanation. It is not.” Justin sighs like the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. “You hockey players are fucked up.” “Naah, we’re just not pussies like you and your football crowd,” Garrett says sweetly. “We own our sex appeal, dude.” “Sex appeal? That was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever—no, you know what? I’m not gonna engage,” Justin grumbles. “Let’s find the girls and grab some lunch

Chelsea, I knew when you showed up on my porch that you were going to be trouble. You were bossy and annoying and you brought sunshine into a very dark time in my life. You saved me when I didn’t even know I needed saving. I love you for that. I will always love you for that.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the backs of her knuckles. “Please say you’ll stay in my life and make trouble with me forever.

People driving through say that Beartown doesn’t live for anything but hockey, and some days they may be right. Sometimes people have to be allowed to have something to live for in order to survive everything else.

She offers me a slight smile through the mirror. “Do you think I look like the guys I grew up playing hockey with in Indiana? Fuck no, I don’t. And now, in the league, my peers don’t look like me. But look at us together.” I nod towards our reflection. “You can’t look at us and say we don’t fit in. We go together perfectly.” Her blue-green eyes gloss over in the reflection. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Zee.

I want her to know that she belongs to me. That no man will ever touch her or hurt her again. I want to say these things, but that’s not who we are outside of this house. But inside? Now? I’m going to claim her as my own.

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.

I’m just saying that this whole process of getting a child’s outerwear on in the morning is a bit like trying to put an angry monkey who has just been dipped in soap and fed jalapeños into a complete ice hockey goalkeeper’s uniform.

You know,” a low voice drawls as a warm hand squeezes my shoulder. “There’s time to feed the kitty before we get dressed for the big day.” He’s so near that parts of me tingle even in my outrage. “Blake,” I say, my voice almost a whisper. “Yes,” he breathes beside my ear. “I don’t have a cat.” He lets out a sexy rumble, his thumb trailing down my arm. And it’s then that I realize feed the kitty means… “We aren’t feeding the kitty or hiding the salami or anything else you can think of to call it. We’re just not. There will be no repeats this weekend.” He reaches beneath my wet hair and cups the back of my head, his long fingers trailing across my skull. Goosebumps break out all over my body. “Never say never, J-Babe.

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.

Presenters in strategy meetings often seem to not seek a conversation at all. Instead, they appear to deflect as many questions as they can, saying they are “trying to get through the materials.” They want to move to the last page of the presentation as smoothly as possible and then get that all-important “yes” to the plan, that “yes” to the resource request, that “yes” to have a shot at the next promotion. A successful meeting is deemed to be one with little friction and maximum good feelings.

We are Nasvillians now. We have to be classy Southern bitches." Kacey glared as she swigged her tea. "Classy girls don't say classy bitches." "This one does," Lacey said as she took a sip of her tea with her pinky up just to show she meant what she said.

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.

In 10 years’ time, when Amit is playing hockey professionally, he won’t have forgotten this. Some of the guys here will have died of overdoses, others will have died violently, some will be in prison, and some will just have made a mess of their lives. But some will have lives—big, proud lives. And they will all know that here, for just one summer, they were running for something. Amit will be interviewed on television, in English, and the reporter will ask where he grew up and he will say, 'I’m from The Hollow.' And every single bastard here will know that he remembers them. He had no team, so they gave him an army.

John, you don’t like me.” “I’ve never said I didn’t like you.” “You don’t have to say it. You just look at me and I know it’s true.” His brows drew together. “How do I look at you?” She sat back. “You scowl and frown at me as if I’d done something tacky, like scratch myself in public.” He smiled. “That bad, huh?” “Yes.” “What if I promise not to scowl at you?” “I don’t think that’s a promise you can keep. You are a very moody person.” He removed one hand from his pocket and placed it over the even pleats of his shirt. “I’m very easygoing.” Georgeanne rolled her eyes. “And Elvis is alive and raising minks somewhere in Nebraska.

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.

In the year 2000, boys and girls did not consider fellatio to be a truely sexual act, any more than tonsil hockey. It was just “fooling around.” The President of the United States at the time used to have a twenty-two-year-old girl, an unpaid volunteer in the presidential palace, the White House, come around to his office for fellatio. He later testified under oath that he had never “had sex” with her. Older Americans tended to be shocked, but junior-high-school, high-school, and college students understood completely what he was saying and wondered what on earth all the fuss was about. The two of them had merely been on second base, hooking up.

That voice that talks badly to you is a demon voice. This very patient and determined demon shows up in your bedroom one day and refuses to leave. You are six or twelve or fifteen and you look in the mirror and you hear a voice so awful and mean that it takes your breath away. It tells you that you are fat and ugly and you don’t deserve love. And the scary part is the demon is your own voice. But it doesn’t sound like you. It sounds like a strangled and seductive version of you. Think Darth Vader or an angry Lauren Bacall. The good news is there are ways to make it stop talking. The bad news is it never goes away. If you are lucky, you can live a life where the demon is generally forgotten, relegated to a back shelf in a closet next to your old field hockey equipment. You may even have days or years when you think the demon is gone. But it is not. It is sitting very quietly, waiting for you. This motherfucker is patient. It says, “Take your time.” It says, “Go fall in love and exercise and surround yourself with people who make you feel beautiful.” It says, “Don’t worry, I’ll wait.” And then one day, you go through a breakup or you can’t lose your baby weight or you look at your reflection in a soup spoon and that slimy bugger is back. It moves its sour mouth up to your ear and reminds you that you are fat and ugly and don’t deserve love. This demon is some Stephen King from-the-sewer devil-level shit.

Whatever the details of the entitlement rules, the mob wanted contrition, something alien to Bishop. She submitted herself to a jaded unapologetic media conference in which she even took aim at Hockey, because the treasurer had the temerity to say that she had questions to answer. It was sheer petulance and the polls came crashing down again for the government.

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.

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.

I won’t say I’ll be quick because that’s not a good look.” She giggled, and that sound released a coil of tension inside him. He turned and kissed her because to not do so would be a missed opportunity for joy. He found himself craving it all. Craving her. “What was that for?” she whispered when he let her up for air. “I’m glad you’re here.” She blinked in surprise. “Oh. I’m glad I’m here, too.

It's amazing how people define roles for themselves and put handcuffs on their experience and are constantly surprised by the things a roulette universe spins at them. Here am I, they say, a mere wholesale fishmonger, at the controls of a giant airliner because as it turns out all the crew had the Coronation Chicken. Who'd have thought it? Here am I, a housewife who merely went out this morning to bank the proceeds of the Playgroup Association's Car Boot Sale, on the run with one million in stolen cash and a rather handsome man from the Battery Chickens' Liberation Organization. Amazing! Here am I, a perfectly ordinary hockey player, suddenly realizing I'm the Son of God with five hundred devoted followers in a nice little commune in Empowerment, Southern California. Who'd have thought it?

Towels need to be used in the locker room, guys,” I say to everyone, but I’m only holding a towel out for Leslie. His face screws up in consternation, processing my words, and when he figures me out, his face lights up with mischief. “Sure thing, Coach,” he says, accepting the towel. He wraps it around his shoulders like a cape. It only hangs to mid-torso, leaving his ass and dick on proud display

Mike should say no, should tell him to go fool around with boys his own age, his own size, should tell him to knock it the fuck off and find someone who doesn't play hockey, who doesn't care if he does like every other closet case in the league. But Fitzgerald's flashing his big blues and his hands are shaking, just enough for Mike to notice and Mike isn't a saint. He isn't even a particularly good person.

In other words, the biblical writers were speaking to those who shared a rich cultural context, which shaped the way they communicated. I grew up in Detroit and share a rich cultural context with other Detroiters. When I say words like lions, tigers, and wings, I don’t have to specify that I mean the professional football, baseball, and hockey teams. Fellow Detroiters get it because we share a rich cultural context.

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.

Needless to say, I personally don’t believe fighting should be banned. I don't understand why a relatively small segment of the hockey world feels obligated to ban extracurricular combat when it's so popular elsewhere in American sports. Additionally, the league shouldn’t be trying to ban fighting to save the enforcers from hurting themselves. Fighters realize the risks associated with what they do, and they are bound to accept these risks.

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.

Everything we have learned in Outliers says that success follows a predictable course. It is not the brightest who succeed. If it were, Chris Langan would be up there with Einstein. Nor is success simply the sum of the decisions and efforts we make on our own behalf. It is, rather, a gift. Outliers are those who have been given opportunities—and who have had the strength and presence of mind to seize them. For hockey and soccer players born in January, it’s a better shot at making the all-star team. For the Beatles, it was Hamburg. For Bill Gates, the lucky break was being born at the right time and getting the gift of a computer terminal in junior high. Joe Flom and the founders of Wachtell, Lipton, Rosen and Katz got multiple breaks. They were born at the right time with the right parents and the right ethnicity, which allowed them to practice takeover law for twenty years before the rest of the legal world caught on.

Smirking, I pull her close to me and hold her wrist up so I can read the page she’s on. She tugs back, but I keep it steady. I thought romance novels had poetic language like stalks, petals, and other floral-genital comparisons. Not these books . . . Damn, this is explicit. There’s no mistaking what stuffing a cunt and fisting a cock are. “What the hell are you reading?” “It’s a romance,” she says, laughing. “No, sweetheart, it’s porn. Give it here. I want to read.” “Fine, but then you read it out loud.

always loved school. I played varsity lacrosse and field hockey. I could be friends with the cool kids and the smart kids and the sporty kids and even the stoner kids although I didn’t like to get stoned. I could cross social lines seamlessly and be whoever people needed me to be. I’d like to say it was a gift born of my curiosity about people, but in truth it was more of a response to trauma. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to feel safe. So I needed every single person I met to like me, and if I could make them love and need me, even better.

But it was only a dog." Of course no one actually says that, but it feels to Sune as if all his neighbors are thinking it. Everyday life just carries on out in the street while he sits in a million pieces in his kitchen. When he collects the mail someone goes past and says "sorry for your loss," but that isn't what he wants them to feel sorry about. He wants them to feel sorry about his life, and the fact that he's going to have to see it out now without that ill-disciplined, unruly little monster. Without paws on the edge of the bed and bite marks on his wrists. How's that going to work? Who's going to eat all the liver pate in the fridge? He receives a few text messages and phone calls from the committee of the hockey club and a couple of coaches of the youth teams, all very sorry, but not as if it had been a person. They're sad that Sune is sad, of course, but they don't really understand his loss. Because of course it was only a dog. It's so hard to explain that it's more than an animal when you're that animal's human. Perhaps it takes more empathy than most people are capable of. Or more imagination.

Culture" is an odd word to use about hockey; everyone says it, but no one can explain what it means. All organizations like to boast that they 're building a culture, but when it comes down to it everyone really only cares about one sort: the culture of winning. Sune is well aware that the same thing applies the world over, but perhaps it's more noticeable in a small community. We love winners, even though they're rarely particularly likeable people. They're almost always obsessive and selfish and inconsiderate. That doesn't matter. We forgive them. We like them while they're winning.

Oh. My. God,” Jess squeaks. “I’m a grown-up! And older than you! I was having dirty, filthy sex when you were still trading hockey cards.” “Ahhh!” Wes tries to cover his ears, even while holding a mug in one hand, but I hear Jamie snort. Honest to God, I’m offended right now. “What’s the big deal, anyway? You like me.” Shit. I thought they did. “Your track record,” Wes says, dropping his hands. “It’s not good.” “It is now. Cheezus. This isn’t just a hook-up, Wesley. We care about each other. A lot. Tell him, Jess.” I look over my shoulder and see my girlfriend’s eyes pop wide. And my heart plummets.

And they don’t have any female friends, and there are no women’s teams here, so they learn that hockey only belongs to them, and their coaches teach them that girls are a “distraction.” So they learn that girls only exist for fucking. She wants to point out how all the old men in this town praise them for “fighting” and “not backing down,” but not one single person tells them that when a girl says no, it means NO. And the problem with this town is not only that a boy raped a girl, but that everyone is pretending that he DIDN’T do it. So now all the other boys will think that what he did was okay. Because no one cares.

Can you spare me the veteran hockey player wisdom?" Lane leaned in again. "Sure. But let me tell you something, pipsqueak." At Lane's angry glare, Jared kissed him again. "You weren't on my team, and you weren't my captain, but you taught me how to love this game again. You showed me it was ok to think more of myself than I did and believe I could do more than throw my fists around. You gave me back something I didn't even realize that I'd lost." "You're saying it's my fault you made a sick glove save on me?" "It was pretty sick. Wasn't it?" Jared agreed, unable to help himself. But he smiled at Lane and kissed him.

Giving up, I admire the rose gold chain in my hand, letting it slip through my fingers like running water. It’s not a necklace, but a lanyard for my school ID badge. The delicate chain breaks every few inches with small diamond-encrusted hoops, a matching rose gold whistle hanging off a clip. My thumb rubs methodically over the words etched into the circular pendant connecting the chain to the clip. Miss Parker it says on one side. Turning it over in my palm, I smile through my quickly blurring vision at the words on the back: World’s hottest teacher. But my favorite part? The tiny hockey skate charm that dangles next to the whistle

Right? Love those kids. There’s one hitch, though. Bill wants me to volunteer to talk to the staff about my experiences with homophobia. You know—because I’m such an expert.” I laugh just picturing it. “It’s going to be the shortest meeting ever.” “You want help?” I almost say no out of sheer habit. There’s that h-word again. But I stop myself just in time. “What do you mean?” I ask instead. “I could talk to them about what it was like being a gay hockey player when nobody knew. I spent my freshman year of college shitting bricks over what they might do to me if they knew. If it helps you and your boss, I’d show up and tell that story.

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?

Ah, the trainer with the hands," one of them said. She was very pretty, thick dark hair and even darker eyes. She had a nice body, but it was easy to see she had been having babies. "Lucas talks about you fondly." Kacey smiled. "Yeah, his shoulder's been giving him shit lately," she said, figuring this must be Fallon, Lucas's wife. "Yeah, and if you didn't keep him from birching about it, I might have to try and kick your ass. But seeing that he is happy, and you are also a good six inches taller than me and have abs and arms that could squash small children, I'm gonna just say, hey! It's nice to meet you!" she said and everyone laughed as they shook hands.

While poutine is a dish unique to Eastern Canada (Montreal and Ottawa), the concoction of French fries covered in cheese curds and (for no apparent reason) gravy, clearly deciphers Canadian culture. First, heart-blocking poutine is the easiest explanation for Canada’s adoption of universal health care coverage. I’m pretty sure I’m still digesting the poutine I had in May 2006. Poutine also serves as a sedative, making you so drowsy and serene you find yourself saying “a-boot” instead of “about.” The extra pounds you immediately gain help shield you against the bitter climate. The irrational love of hockey still remains a mystery to me, but I’m convinced it has something to do with poutine.

Beck breaks the kiss and pulls me into a tight hug. “You could have given a guy some warning,” he tries to joke, but his voice is all thick. “Like you can talk.” “I fucking knew it!” I miss whose voice it is, but before I can turn, someone slams into my back. I immediately brace for a fight, but then … arms close around us. And another set from Beck’s side. Then another, and another. Are … are they hugging us? “The fuck?” I breathe. Beck turns his face into my neck as I feel the ghost of a laugh against my skin. “This is—” “Ridiculous?” He nods, but neither of us make a move to end it. “Okay, assholes, sucking up to the captains isn’t going to get you out of a nasty practice next week,” Beck says. “And I don’t share, so get your hands off my man.

Peter is sitting in his office staring at a black computer screen. He’s thinking about “the right sort of guy.” He’s said those words hundreds of times in hundreds of different rooms, and hundreds of men have nodded in agreement, even though he is certain that no one can explain exactly what they mean. It’s a pointless term to use in hockey, because it suggests that who you are off the ice says something about who you are on it. And that’s a difficult thing to acknowledge. Because if you love hockey, if you love anything, really, you’d really prefer it to exist inside a bubble, unaffected by anything happening outside. You want there to be one place, one single place, which will always be exactly the same, no matter how much the world outside might change.

Maybe we’ll get a skate in at the pond down the street,” Gigi pipes up. “I want to see a shootout between you two—” She flicks her finger between Wyatt and me. He scowls at her. “Please don’t force me to play hockey.” “You’re good at it.” She sounds exasperated. “Yeah. Do you know how exhausting it is to be good at something you don’t want to do?” Garrett snickers. “Ungrateful little shit. I give you all my talent, and what do you do with it? You sing songs.” “Hey, that’s my talent,” Hannah says. He’s quickly shamefaced. “Sorry, Wellsy. Your talent is way better than mine. Hands down.” I think he truly means that. And the sheer love in his eyes almost has me feeling like a voyeur. I never saw my parents look at each other like that. I’ve never seen anyone look at each other like that.

Regardless, his crankiness had hit a level not previously documented in the history of the universe. That was saying something, considering I’d grown up with three older sisters who all had periods at the same time. Because of them, most things—most people—didn’t bother me. I knew what it was like to be bullied, and Aiden never crossed the line into being unnecessarily mean. He was just a jackass sometimes. He was lucky I had a tiny, itty, bitty crush on him; otherwise, he would have gotten the shank years ago. Then again, just about everyone with eyes who happened to also like men, had some kind of a thing for Aiden Graves. When he raised his eyebrows and looked at me from beneath those curly black eyelashes, flashing me rich-brown eyes set deep into a face that I’d only seen smile in the presence of dogs, I swallowed and shook my head slowly as I gritted my teeth and took him in. The size of a small building, he should have had these big, uneven features that made him look like a caveman, but of course he didn’t. Apparently, he liked to defy every stereotype he’d ever been assigned in his life. He was smart, fast, coordinated, and—as far as I knew—had never seen a game of hockey. He had only said ‘eh’ in front of me twice, and he didn’t consume animal protein. The man didn’t eat bacon. He was the last person I would ever consider polite, and he never apologized. Ever. Basically, he was an anomaly; a Canadian football-playing, plant-based lifestyle—he didn’t like calling himself a vegan—anomaly that was strangely proportional all over and so handsome I might have thanked God for giving me eyes on a couple of occasions.

At home, in Russia, when I’m little kid—no father, Mama work always, home late, always. So, after school, I’m go, uh, house by house?” “Next door?” Eli supplies faintly. “Yes. After school, I’m go next door. Two men live next door. Old men. Funny. They listen to the radio and yell. Not angry yell, just—loud. Happy. They take good care for me and always have food for me and little things for play— toys…” He says a word in Russian, shrugs, and moves on. “They help with school. Help buy hockey gear. Good men. People say they’re…family, but not brothers?” “Cousins?” “Yes, cousins. But they’re not cousins. I’m see, sometimes, they hold hands in the house, on the couch— where no window. Touch hip. Touch neck. Soft. Like normal thing. Sleep in the same room. I’m not see kiss, ever, but I know what love looks like when it have to be secret.” Eli feels like he might cry.

Okay, you’re at the club, right? There’s, like, a sick R&B song playing or whatever. You’re vibing.” I start bopping my head to nonexistent music. He stares at me in dismay. “Oh no. I’m not approaching you if that’s how you’re dancing.” I stare back. “Do you want me to play your game, or can I go find Ryder and be on my way⁠—” “Fine, let’s continue. You ready?” “I guess so?” I don’t know what it is about hockey players, but I find that all of them are insane. Sexy but insane. Shane moves to the doorway, cracks his knuckles, and then fully commits to his character by striding toward me exuding sheer confidence. He casts that smile again. Tucks one hand in his pocket, all cool-like. “Hey,” he says. “Hey,” I play along. “I’m Shane.” “Gigi.” “Tell me something, Gigi.” He slants his head. “Are you an organ harvester? Because you’ve stolen my heart.” Dead silence crashes over the room. Then I keel over with laughter.

Back in the twentieth century, American girls had used baseball terminology. “First base” referred to embracing and kissing; “second base” referred to groping and fondling and deep, or “French,” kissing, commonly known as “heavy petting”; “third base” referred to fellatio, usually known in polite conversation by the ambiguous term “oral sex”; and “home plate” meant conception-mode intercourse, known familiarly as “going all the way.” In the year 2000, in the era of hooking up, “first base” meant deep kissing (“tonsil hockey”), groping, and fondling; “second base” meant oral sex; “third base” meant going all the way; and “home plate” meant learning each other’s names. Getting to home plate was relatively rare, however. The typical Filofax entry in the year 2000 by a girl who had hooked up the night before would be: “Boy with black Wu-Tang T-shirt and cargo pants: O, A, 6.” Or “Stupid cock diesel”—slang for a boy who was muscular from lifting weights—“who kept saying, ‘This is a cool deal’: TTC, 3.” The letters referred to the sexual acts performed (e.g., TTC for “that thing with the cup”), and the Arabic number indicated the degree of satisfaction on a scale of 1 to 10. In the year 2000, girls used “score” as an active verb indicating sexual conquest, as in: “The whole thing was like very sketchy, but I scored that diesel who said he was gonna go home and caff up [drink coffee in order to stay awake and study] for the psych test.” In the twentieth century, only boys had used “score” in that fashion, as in: “I finally scored with Susan last night.” That girls were using such a locution points up one of the ironies of the relations between the sexes in the year 2000. The continuing vogue of feminism had made sexual life easier, even insouciant, for men. Women had been persuaded that they should be just as active as men when it came to sexual advances. Men were only too happy to accede to the new order, since it absolved them of all sense of responsibility

the locker room where those boys sit telling their stupid jokes ends up preserving them like a tin can. It makes them mature more slowly, while some even go rotten inside. And they don’t have any female friends, and there are no women’s teams here, so they learn that hockey only belongs to them, and their coaches teach them that girls are a “distraction.” So they learn that girls only exist for fucking. She wants to point out how all the old men in this town praise them for “fighting” and “not backing down,” but not one single person tells them that when a girl says no, it means NO. And the problem with this town is not only that a boy raped a girl, but that everyone is pretending that he DIDN’T do it. So now all the other boys will think that what he did was okay. Because no one cares. Ana wants to stand on the rooftop and scream: “You don’t give a shit about Maya! And you don’t really give a shit about Kevin either! Because they’re not people to you, they’re just objects of value. And his value is far greater than hers!

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.

We’re really going to do this, aren’t we?” The statement was vague, but Ilya understood. “Yes. If you want to try this, I will do what I need to do.” “I will too. Anything. I want this. I want us.” Ilya brushed Shane’s hair out of his eyes. “Then I am moving to Ottawa, I think.” “And we’re starting a charity.” “And we will become friends.” “And we’ll see each other all the time. As much as possible. And spend the summers together. Here.” “Yes.” They kissed again. Ilya couldn’t believe they had solved this impossible problem. Maybe it wouldn’t go as smoothly as they imagined, but it was a plan. “And when I retire,” Ilya said, “after I have won twelve Stanley Cups and thirteen MVP awards—” “The hell you will.” “And you have been retired for, like, eight years already because you got very bad at hockey...” Shane laughed. “Okay.” “Then I will bring you to that dock out there. I will have hundreds of candles all over it...” “That sounds like a fire hazard.” “Is on the water, Hollander. Fucking relax. Will be beautiful, you will love it. The candles. The lake. The full moon.” “Oh, is it a clear night?” “Yes. Of course. And I will get on one knee—” “Ilya—” “And I will say, ‘Shane Hollander, will you please marry me so I can become Canadian citizen faster?’” Shane burst out laughing, and shoved him. “You’re such an asshole.” “And you will say yes, because you are a nice, helpful guy.” “No,” Shane said, taking his hands. “I will say yes because I will still be madly in love with you. And I’ll want to spend the rest of my life with you.

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.

I should say goodbye to him in the lounge, perhaps, before we left. A furtive, scrambled farewell, because of her, and there would be a pause, and a smile, and words like 'Yes, of course, do write', and 'I've never thanked you properly for being so kind', and 'You must forward those snapshots', 'What about your address?' 'Well, I'll have to let you know". And he would light a cigarette casually, asking a passing waiter for a light, while I thought, 'Four and a half more minutes to go. I shall never see him again.' Because I was going, because it was over, there would suddenly be nothing more to say, we would be strangers, meeting for the last and only time, while my mind clamoured painfully, crying 'I love you so much. I'm terribly unhappy. This has never come to me before, and never will again.' My face would be set in a prim, conventional smile, my voice would be saying, 'Look at that funny old man over there; I wonder who he is; he must be new here.' And we would waste the last moments laughing at a stranger, because we were already strangers to one another. 'I hope the snapshots come out well,' repeating oneself in desperation, and he 'Yes, that one of the square ought to be good; the light was just right.' Having both of us gone into all that at the time, having agreed upon it, and anyway I would not care if the result was fogged and black, because this was the last moment, the final goodbye had been attained. 'Well,' my dreadful smile stretching across my face, 'thanks most awfully once again, it's been so ripping..." using words I had never used before. Ripping: what did it mean? - God knows, I did not care; it was the sort of word that schoolgirls had for hockey, wildly inappropriate to those past weeks of misery and exultation. Then the doors of the lift would open upon Mrs Van Hopper and I would cross the lounge to meet her, and he would stroll back again to his corner and pick up a paper.

Blood pressure check!” The doorknob rattled, as if the nurse were intending just to walk in, but the lock held, thank God. The nurse knocked again. “Oh, shit,” Gina breathed, laughing as she scrambled off of him. She reached to remove the condom they’d just used, encountered . . . him, and met his eyes. But then she scooped her clothes off the floor and ran into the bathroom. “Mr. Bhagat?” The nurse knocked on the door again. Even louder this time. “Are you all right?” Oh, shit, indeed. “Come in,” Max called as he pulled up the blanket and leaned on the button that put his bed back up into a sitting position. The same control device had a “call nurse” button as well as the clearly marked one that would unlock the door. “It’s locked,” the nurse called back, as well he knew. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, as he wiped off his face with the edge of the sheet. Sweat much in bed, all alone, Mr. Bhagat? “I must’ve . . . Here, let me figure out how to . . .” He took an extra second to smooth his hair, his pajama top, and then, praying that the nurse had a cold and couldn’t smell the scent of sex that lingered in the air, he hit the release. “Please don’t lock your door during the day,” the woman scolded him as she came into the room, around to the side of his bed. It was Debra Forsythe, a woman around his age, whom Max had met briefly at his check-in. She had been on her way home to deal with some crisis with her kids, and hadn’t been happy then, either. “And not at night either,” she added, “until you’ve been here a few days.” “Sorry.” He gave her an apologetic smile, hanging on to it as the woman gazed at him through narrowed eyes. She didn’t say anything, she just wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm, and pumped it a little too full of air—ow—as Gina opened the bathroom door. “Did I hear someone at the door?” she asked brightly. “Oh, hi. Debbie, right?” “Debra.” She glanced at Gina, and then back, her disgust for Max apparent in the tightness of her lips. But then she focused on the gauge, stethoscope to his arm. Gina came out into the room, crossing around behind the nurse, making a face at him that meant . . .? Max sent her a questioning look, and she flashed him. She just lifted her skirt and gave him a quick but total eyeful. Which meant . . . Ah, Christ. The nurse turned to glare at Gina, who quickly straightened up from searching the floor. What was it with him and missing underwear? Gina smiled sweetly. “His blood pressure should be nice and low. He’s very relaxed—he just had a massage.” “You know, I didn’t peg you for a troublemaker when you checked in yesterday,” Debra said to Max, as she wrote his numbers on the chart. Gina was back to scanning the floor, but again, she straightened up innocently when the nurse turned toward her. “I think you’re probably looking for this.” Debra leaned over and . . . Gina’s panties dangled off the edge of her pen. They’d been on the floor, right at the woman’s sensibly clad feet. “Oops,” Gina said. Max could tell that she was mortified, but only because he knew her so well. She forced an even sunnier smile, and attempted to explain. “It was just . . . he was in the hospital for so long and . . .” “And men have needs,” Debra droned, clearly unmoved. “Believe me, I’ve heard it all before.” “No, actually,” Gina said, still trying to turn this into something they could all laugh about, “I have needs.” But it was obvious that this nurse hadn’t laughed since 1985. “Then maybe you should find someone your own age to play with. A professional hockey player just arrived. He’s in the east wing. Second floor.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Lots of money. Just your type, I’m sure.” “Excuse me?” Gina wasn’t going to let one go past. She may not have been wearing any panties, but her Long Island attitude now waved around her like a superhero’s cape. She even assumed the battle position, hands on her hips.

De Villiers was shortlisted for the South African national hockey squad,’ the article says. True or false? False. In truth, I played hockey for one year at high school and was a member of the Afrikaanse Hoër Seunskool Under-16A team that beat our near neighbours and rivals at Pretoria Boys’ High for the first time, but I was never shortlisted for the national hockey squad, or ever came remotely close to that level. ‘De Villiers was shortlisted for the South African national football squad,’ the article says. True or false? False. I have never played any organised football (soccer). We used to kick a ball around during break at school and the game has become part of the Proteas’ warm-up routine. That is all. ‘De Villiers was the captain of South Africa junior rugby,’ the article says. True or false? False. I played rugby at primary school and high school, and enjoyed every minute, but I never represented South Africa at any level, either at SA Schools or SA Under-20, and was never captain. ‘De Villiers is still the holder of six national school swimming records,’ the article says. True or false? False. As far as I recall, I did set an Under-9 breaststroke record at Warmbaths Primary School but I have never held any national school swimming records, not even for a day. ‘De Villiers has the record fastest 100 metres time among South African junior sprinters,’ the article says. True or false? False. I did not sprint at all at school. Elsewhere on the Internet, to my embarrassment, there are articles in which the great sprinter Usain Bolt is asked which cricketer could beat him in a sprint and he replies ‘AB de Villiers’. Maybe, just maybe, I would beat him if I were riding a motorbike. ‘De Villiers was a member of the national junior Davis Cup tennis team,’ the article says. True or false? Almost true. As far as I know, there was no such entity as the national junior Davis Cup team, but I did play tennis as a youngster, loved the game and was occasionally ranked as the national No. 1 in my age group. ‘De Villiers was a national Under-19 badminton

Apparently someone spotted it inside the game area near the table hockey - is that a goldfish? Mark held up his plastic bag. Inside it, a small orange fish swam around in a circle. "This is the best patrol we've ever done," he said. "I've never been awarded a fish before." Emma sighed inwardly. Mark had spent the past few years of his life with the Wild Hunt, the most anarchic and feral of all faeries. They rose across the sky on all manner of enchanted beings - motorcycles, horses, deer, massive snarling dogs - and scavenged battlefields, taking valuables from the bodies of the dead and giving them in tribute to the Faerie Courts. He was adjusting well to being back among his Shadowhunter family, but there were still times when ordinary life seemed to take him by surprise. HE noticed now that everyone was looking at him with raised eyebrows. He looked alarmed and placed a tentative arm around Emma's shoulders, holding the bag in the other hand. "I have won for you a fish, my fair one," he said, and kissed her on the cheek. It was a sweet kiss, gentle and soft, and Mark smelled like he always did: like cold outside air and green growing things. And it made absolute sense, Emma thought, for Mark to assume that everyone was startled because they were waiting for him to give her his prize. She was, after all, his girlfriend. She exchanged a worried glance with Cristina, whose dark eyes had gotten very large. Julian looked as if he were about to throw up blood. It was only a brief look before he schooled his features back into indifference, but Emma drew away from Mark, smiling at him apologetically. "I couldn't keep a fish alive," she said. "I kill plants just by looking at them." "I suspect I would have the same problem," Mark said, eyeing the fish. "It is too bad - I was going to name it Magnus, because it has sparkly scales." At that, Christina giggled. Magnus Bane was the High Warlock of Brookly, and he had a penchant for glitter. "I suppose I had better let him go free," Mark said. Before anyone could say anything, he made his way to the railing of the pier and emptied the bag, fish and all, into the sea. "Does anyone want to tell him that goldfish are freshwater fish and can't survive in the ocean?" said Julian quietly. "Not really," said Christina. "Did he just kill Magnus?" Emma asked, but before Julian could answer, Mark whirled around.

SCENE 24 “Tiens, Ti Jean, donne ce plat la a Shammy,” my father is saying to me, turning from the open storage room door with a white tin pan. “Here, Ti Jean, give this pan to Shammy.” My father is standing with a peculiar French Canadian bowleggedness half up from a crouch with the pan outheld, waiting for me to take it, anxious till I do so, almost saying with his big frowning amazed face “Well my little son what are we doing in the penigillar, this strange abode, this house of life without roof be-hung on a Friday evening with a tin pan in my hand in the gloom and you in your raincoats—” “II commence a tombez de la neige” someone is shouting in the background, coming in from the door (“Snow’s startin to fall”)—my father and I stand in that immobile instant communicating telepathic thought-paralysis, suspended in the void together, understanding something that’s always already happened, wondering where we were now, joint reveries in a dumb stun in the cellar of men and smoke … as profound as Hell … as red as Hell.—I take the pan; behind him, the clutter and tragedy of old cellars and storage with its dank message of despair–mops, dolorous mops, clattering tear-stricken pails, fancy sprawfs to suck soap suds from a glass, garden drip cans–rakes leaning on meaty rock–and piles of paper and official Club equipments– It now occurs to me my father spent most of his time when I was 13 the winter of 1936, thinking about a hundred details to be done in the Club alone not to mention home and business shop–the energy of our fathers, they raised us to sit on nails– While I sat around all the time with my little diary, my Turf, my hockey games, Sunday afternoon tragic football games on the toy pooltable white chalkmarked … father and son on separate toys, the toys get less friendly when you grow up–my football games occupied me with the same seriousness of the angels–we had little time to talk to each other. In the fall of 1934 we took a grim voyage south in the rain to Rhode Island to see Time Supply win the Narragansett Special–with Old Daslin we was … a grim voyage, through exciting cities of great neons, Providence, the mist at the dim walls of great hotels, no Turkeys in the raw fog, no Roger Williams, just a trolley track gleaming in the gray rain– We drove, auguring solemnly over past performance charts, past deserted shell-like Ice Cream Dutchland Farms stands in the dank of rainy Nov.—bloop, it was the time on the road, black tar glisten-road of thirties, over foggy trees and distances, suddenly a crossroads, or just a side-in road, a house, or bam, a vista gray tearful mists over some half-in cornfield with distances of Rhode Island in the marshy ways across and the secret scent of oysters from the sea–but something dark and rog-like.— J had seen it before … Ah weary flesh, burdened with a light … that gray dark Inn on the Narragansett Road … this is the vision in my brain as I take the pan from my father and take it to Shammy, moving out of the way for LeNoire and Leo Martin to pass on the way to the office to see the book my father had (a health book with syphilitic backs)— SCENE 25 Someone ripped the pooltable cloth that night, tore it with a cue, I ran back and got my mother and she lay on it half-on-floor like a great poolshark about to take a shot under a hundred eyes only she’s got a thread in her mouth and’s sewing with the same sweet grave face you first saw in the window over my shoulder in that rain of a late Lowell afternoon. God bless the children of this picture, this bookmovie. I’m going on into the Shade.

SCENE 24 “Tiens, Ti Jean, donne ce plat la a Shammy,” my father is saying to me, turning from the open storage room door with a white tin pan. “Here, Ti Jean, give this pan to Shammy.” My father is standing with a peculiar French Canadian bowleggedness half up from a crouch with the pan outheld, waiting for me to take it, anxious till I do so, almost saying with his big frowning amazed face “Well my little son what are we doing in the penigillar, this strange abode, this house of life without roof be-hung on a Friday evening with a tin pan in my hand in the gloom and you in your raincoats—” “II commence a tombez de la neige” someone is shouting in the background, coming in from the door (“Snow’s startin to fall”)—my father and I stand in that immobile instant communicating telepathic thought-paralysis, suspended in the void together, understanding something that’s always already happened, wondering where we were now, joint reveries in a dumb stun in the cellar of men and smoke … as profound as Hell … as red as Hell.—I take the pan; behind him, the clutter and tragedy of old cellars and storage with its dank message of despair–mops, dolorous mops, clattering tear-stricken pails, fancy sprawfs to suck soap suds from a glass, garden drip cans–rakes leaning on meaty rock–and piles of paper and official Club equipments– It now occurs to me my father spent most of his time when I was 13 the winter of 1936, thinking about a hundred details to be done in the Club alone not to mention home and business shop–the energy of our fathers, they raised us to sit on nails– While I sat around all the time with my little diary, my Turf, my hockey games, Sunday afternoon tragic football games on the toy pooltable white chalkmarked … father and son on separate toys, the toys get less friendly when you grow up–my football games occupied me with the same seriousness of the angels–we had little time to talk to each other. In the fall of 1934 we took a grim voyage south in the rain to Rhode Island to see Time Supply win the Narragansett Special–with Old Daslin we was … a grim voyage, through exciting cities of great neons, Providence, the mist at the dim walls of great hotels, no Turkeys in the raw fog, no Roger Williams, just a trolley track gleaming in the gray rain– We drove, auguring solemnly over past performance charts, past deserted shell-like Ice Cream Dutchland Farms stands in the dank of rainy Nov.—bloop, it was the time on the road, black tar glisten-road of thirties, over foggy trees and distances, suddenly a crossroads, or just a side-in road, a house, or bam, a vista gray tearful mists over some half-in cornfield with distances of Rhode Island in the marshy ways across and the secret scent of oysters from the sea–but something dark and rog-like.— J had seen it before … Ah weary flesh, burdened with a light … that gray dark Inn on the Narragansett Road … this is the vision in my brain as I take the pan from my father and take it to Shammy, moving out of the way for LeNoire and Leo Martin to pass on the way to the office to see the book my father had (a health book with syphilitic backs)— SCENE 25 Someone ripped the pooltable cloth that night, tore it with a cue, I ran back and got my mother and she lay on it half-on-floor like a great poolshark about to take a shot under a hundred eyes only she’s got a thread in her mouth and’s sewing with the same sweet grave face you first saw in the window over my shoulder in that rain of a late Lowell afternoon. God bless the children of this picture, this bookmovie. I’m going on into the Shade.

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.

Do you want to see where this goes?” he says, his voice deep and hoarse. I nod enthusiastically. “Yes, let’s go here first.” I place his hand on my breast and lean in for a kiss.

If mutual decimation of the McLaughlins and the McLeans marked the end of Charlestown’s “gangster era,” a host of gangs endured in the Town. These were less criminal bands than expressions of territorial allegiance. Every street and alley, every park and pier had its own ragged troop which hung on the corner, played football, baseball, and street hockey, and defended its turf against all comers. The Wildcats hung at the corner of Frothingham and Lincoln streets, the Bearcats at Walker and Russell streets, the Falcons outside the Edwards School, the Cobras on Elm Street, the Jokers in Hayes Square, the Highlanders on High Street, the Crusaders at the Training Field. Each had its distinctive football jersey (on which members wore their street addresses), its own legends and traditions. The Highlanders, for example, took their identity from the Bunker Hill Monument, which towered over their hangout at the top of Monument Avenue. On weekends and summer afternoons, they gathered there to wait for out-of-town tourists visiting the revolutionary battleground. When one approached, an eager boy would step forward and launch his spiel, learned by rote from other Highlanders: “The Monument is 221 feet high, has 294 winding stairs and no elevators. They say the quickest way up is to walk, the quickest way down is to fall. The Monument is fifteen feet square. Its cornerstone was laid in 1825 by Daniel Webster. The statue you see in the foreground is that of Colonel William Prescott standing in the same position as when he gave that brave and famous command, ‘Don’t fire till you see the whites of their eyes.’ The British made three attempts to gain the hill …” And so forth. An engaging raconteur could parlay this patter into a fifty-cent tip.

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

I never said I didn’t like dancing,” he says, arching an eyebrow. “Yes, you did!” He shakes his head, the smallest of smiles lifting one corner of his mouth. “I said I came here to play hockey, not dance. And I told you I don’t like the spotlight. I never said I don’t like dancing.” I think back to our conversations, realizing he’s right. “Well, you certainly gave me the impression you don’t like dancing.” “It just takes the right partner.” (Page 177, Just Don't Fall)

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.

Hey, TG,” Reid says, holding up a piece of toast. “You watch that new documentary on Dahmer?” “Dude, you know the rule,” Kirby says. “No talking about cannibalism while we eat.

I love you and you don’t have to say it back, but it’s been on my mind to say since I realized you were the most kick-ass girl I’ve ever met, and I don’t want to ever let you go.

Has anyone ever told you that you’re impossible to like?” “Daily, actually. I’ve been waiting for you to catch on.” “It’s lucky for you I don’t scare easily.” “Lucky, you say. You’re a pain in my ass.” “I will be.

You really are such a charmer. I will never understand why you’re still single.” There’s a slight pause before he says, “I’ve been wondering the same thing about you.” Something in the way he drops the snark from his tone makes me fluttery inside.

...The ever-blossoming additional clauses are most often the Narrator's idea of written language stapled awkwardly onto his knowledge of spoken language: 'Well, besides black hair, this doll has a complexion like I do not know what, and little feet and ankles, and a way of walking that is very pleasant to behold. Personally, I always take a gander at a doll’s feet and ankles before I start handicapping her, because the way I look at it, the feet and ankles are the big tell in the matter of class, although I wish to state that I see some dolls in my time who have large feet and big ankles, but who are by no means bad. But this doll I am speaking of is 100 per cent in every respect, and as she passes, The Humming Bird looks at her, and she looks at The Humming Bird, and it is just the same as if they hold a two hours’ conversation on the telephone, for they are both young, and it is spring, and the way language can pass between young guys and young dolls in the spring without them saying a word is really most surprising, and, in fact, it is practically uncanny.' The naturally exuberant street language (“I always take a gander at a doll’s feet and ankles before I start handicapping her”) always gets topped off by self-conscious writerly gestures (“although I wish to state”; “by no means bad”; “is really most surprising”). The Narrator’s half-conscious knowledge that there are rules out there that you’ve got to respect leads him to overcompensate by respecting the wrong rules; that is, using formal diction where there ought to be vernacular idioms and vernacular idioms where there ought to be formal diction. So Runyon’s key insight into American slang is double: first, that street speech tends to be more, not less, complicated grammatically than “standard” speech; but, second, that slang speakers, when they’re cornered to write, write not just fancy but stiff. In prime Runyon, the two sounds—street ornate and fountain-pen formal—run together into a single argot and beautiful endless sentences: “This Meyer Marmalade is really a most superior character, who is called Meyer Marmalade because nobody can ever think of his last name, which is something like Marmalodowski, and he is known far and wide for the way he likes to make bets on any sporting proposition, such as baseball, or horse races, or ice hockey, or contests of skill and science, and especially contests of skill and science.” When Abe Burrows brilliantly recast Runyonese for Guys & Dolls, what he did instinctively was to scrub off the second, writerly patina and keep in the elaborate speech. This approach worked wonderfully onstage, where we easily accept a stylized dialogue, as we do with David Mamet now.

Tory is so beautiful that it violently smacks you in the face every single time you look at him. The kind of beautiful that makes people squirm with discomfort.

Looking at Tory is like looking at the sun. Life-giving, yet utterly destructive.

But he is mine. Not mine in the true, real sense of the word. Mine in the purely delusional sense.

She thinks she's not the prettiest girl in school. I think that's pretty stupid.

Watching Tory is like watching poetry on ice. He moves with graceful precision that maintains a certain level of brutality.

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.

Every night at dinner, one kid had to bring a new vocabulary word to the table. We had to say it, spell it, define it and use it in a sentence. As a result, we all have great vocabularies.

But there's a rare-spoken-of-rule players must adapt from our very first pickup game as freshman: never out play a senior. Never. No matter what tricks we've got up our sleeves, not matter how much gas we have left at the end of a game to breakaway and head for the goal, we're all taught to hold back. Wait for our turn or as my dad likes to say, "Otter hockey is a highly productive, fine tuned-machine. Everyone has to play their part or the machine breaks down and nothing gets made or sold.

Well Juliet, I'm just saying. You're twenty-two years old, and now you're working for a retired hockey player. You need a man. A hot one who has lots of money and a nice butt. Have you seen their butts?" "Can we not talk about my new boss’butt? Like, can this not be a thing?

Oh, my gosh,” Andie says to Bruce. “Slow down. You’re not starving.” “Yes. I am,” he mumbles back with food in his mouth. She takes a lady-like bite of her food as if to show him how to eat like a human. Remy laughs. “Andie, I’ve been trying to turn these Neanderthals into gentlemen for years. Good luck.” He takes a normal sized bite of his burger, always more mature than the rest of us.

You did great,” Hannah declared. Forcing my eyes open, I glared at her, saying through gritted teeth, “You’re not my favorite person right now. Throwing a hand to her chest, she let out an exaggerated gasp. “You wound me. And here I thought we could invite you into our girl gang.

Just know that I will be wherever you are.” “Are you seriously blackmailing me into attending Thanksgiving at your brother’s house?” “Blackmail is such an ugly word,” I said in mock disdain. “I prefer to view it as strategic coercion.” “Call it what you will,” Dakota shot back. “But it means the same thing. Don’t forget who you’re dealing with. I make a living on finding ways to express equivalent ideas with different words.” Puffing my chest, I grinned. “So… What you’re saying is you’re impressed with my linguistic skills. Dare I say they’re author-worthy?

Pardon me.” She slowed to a stop beside me. “What happened to the Braxton I met months ago? The woe-is-me-hockey-is-just-my-job Braxton?” Placing both hands on her hips, I leaned in for a kiss, savoring the taste of her lips before pulling back. “He fell in love, and the work took on new meaning.” “I think you’re full of shit. Willing to say anything to get the girl. Saw a wounded bird and figured the key to landing her was a relatable story. Shameful, Braxton. Really.” I arched an eyebrow before throwing one arm straight in the air. “That’s it. To the penalty box, you go!” “What?” Her laughter floated behind me as I dragged her to the box and unlatched the door. “What was my offense?” “Two minutes for being a smartass.” She huffed, but I could hear the smile in her voice. “Bullshit call, Stripes.” Fuck. I love this woman.

What’s so funny?” I asked under my breath. Before she could reply, Lucy shouted, “She wants to know if you’ve ever fucked on a boat before!” “That would be a no.” I declared as the laughter began to settle. Dakota squeezed my hand, pulling me inside, but not before throwing over her shoulder, “Don’t worry guys, I’ll make sure to ease in nice and slow! Lots of lube!” There were cheers behind us, and I could have sworn I heard Benji say, “I definitely like her.

I would be the first to say I rolled my eyes when an author wrote about a man growling. Like, who does that? But that man fucking growled.

What do I say? How and do I respond to that? Who is this man, and what has he done with sweet Braxton, who was too nice to take my virginity?

Oh, shit. Are you worried you can’t live up to the book boyfriends she writes?” “Book boyfriends?” “You know… the male main characters. The hero. Usually over six feet tall, jacked, has a massive cock, and knows how to make a woman orgasm simply by looking at them,” he explained. “Uhhhh.” I couldn’t help but gawk at the words coming out of my brother’s mouth. “I get it.” He nodded. “But what some might view as unrealistic standards created for men by women can be used to your advantage. Think of them as instruction manuals.” Jaxon snapped his fingers. “Or inspiration! Ask her if there’s a scene she wants to re-enact. Should fix it.” I waved my hand in a circular motion in front of his face. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say any of that, okay?” He shrugged. “I’m only trying to help.” “That much is clear,” I muttered.

What could I say? There was something primal about seeing a girl you liked wearing your name and number. It was my subtle way of staking a claim on her.

Let’s get one thing straight here, Dakota. If this is going to work between us, I need your total honesty. And you can damn well expect the same from me. No games, no hidden agendas. If we say something, we mean it. Understood?” Wide-eyed, I could only manage a nod. “Uh-huh.” “So, when I say the taste of your pussy is going to haunt my dreams tonight, and I’ll likely wake up hard tomorrow morning thinking about it, I mean it.

What do you say, baby?” Braxton’s breathing grew labored in my ear. “I get you off while you watch them get off?

She drove in with some of her book friends, and let her boyfriend deal with all the hockey bros. I don’t blame her. The crowded van was noisy as fuck. I’m not saying fifty per cent of it was coming from me, but I’m not saying it wasn’t either.

it. It was difficult to say something when you thought nobody was listening.

You don’t have to say that. Jaxon made me look good.” Hands gripping my face, she forced my head back. “Honesty, right?” Releasing a heavy breath, I confirmed, “Yeah.” “Then believe me when I say it was you I was watching all night. Not your brother. It was your name I was screaming in the stands. And it’s your name and number I’m wearing on my back. How many times have you told me it’s a team game? Would you be downplaying your role if you were the one giving the assists to Jaxon?” She arched an eyebrow. “No,” I grumbled.

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.

I want more. Please,” she begged. And I want everything. I was taking a risk, I knew that, but what better time to shoot my shot? “Be mine, Dakota,” I demanded more than asked. “Yours?” “I don’t want to be a regret you have in the morning.” She raised a brow at the implication, and I laughed. “Not like that. I want more with you than just ‘hanging out’. I want our time spent together to mean something, to hopefully lead somewhere. I want to hold you in public, to say you’re my girl. And maybe have you be proud to call me yours as well.” “You’re sure you want me? When you can have your pick of any woman out there?

You must not be fucking the right girls, then. Because the ones I’ve been with? They’re into some nasty shit. I hear they pick a lot of it up from books. And you won’t hear me complaining.” Staring at him, I asked, Books? What kind of books?” Brown eyes darkening, he leaned in to whisper, “Dirty books. Good girls read their porn instead of watching it.” I eyed him skeptically. “You’re telling me college chicks are wild in bed because of something they read in a romance novel?” “Fucking right, I am,” Levi confirmed. “Spanking, anal, toy play, bondage, hand necklaces. They beg for it. And who am I to say no?” “Hand necklaces?” “Get it? A necklace with my hands. They come so hard they choke the life out of my dick. Fucking insane.

Give me a minute to pretend to be indignant that the big bad hockey player offended you by calling you a good girl.” “Who does that? Sure fictional guys say it all the time, but flesh-and-blood men? Not a chance.” Bristol cocked her head. “Sure they do.” She paused, thoughtful for a moment. “I mean, Nix does, but probably because he’s willing to try anything I read in a book.” I grimaced at her admission. “Oh, Bristol. Please tell me you two aren’t re-enacting scenes from my books.” Averting her gaze, she stood. “Fine. I won’t tell you that.” “Gross. I may never be able to write another sex scene again if I have to picture you two in the act.

Rhys: What did I say about behaving?

I know you’re just trying to mock me right now, but let me say, you’re really fucking cute when you pout at me like that. But I’m going to need you to confirm for me that you know that there isn’t a ball in hockey. I mean, I’m the goalie, so I don’t technically chase anyone, but if we could start with the ball thing first that’d be great.

Love can be icy. Love can be a warm whisper. Sometimes it is both simultaneously.

Your glasses are sexy as fuck.” “The face underneath them wasn’t.” I gently push him off me so I can look him in the eye when I say, “I don’t believe it. You’re all …” I screw up my face. “I was going to say beautiful, but—” “Eww, gag.” I laugh. “Right? But I mean, you’re drop-dead gorgeous.

So, who’s part of our threesome?” “Dean Winchester.” At least she didn’t say Big Bird or some shit.

I tried to look at it through his eyes. Like, maybe that was his way of saying he loved me a lot? It sounds stupid when I say it aloud. The diamond was expensive, but his words cheapened it. I’d rather be proposed to with a Ring Pop than have a dollar sign in front of my worth.

Draining my drink, I noted how flushed her cheeks were in her anger. She was pissing me off, but I still thought she was hot. I wouldn’t say no if she wanted to bring that anger to the bedroom.

You’re off-limits, and that’s enough to tempt me, but goddamn that mouth of yours. It deserves to be punished for half the shit it says. Maybe my cock shoved down your throat will be enough to shut you up for five minutes.

So, what you’re saying is, my life rests in the hands of a bunch of women?” “You’re not any worse off than the rest of the men. They’ve all been at our mercy at one point or another. Now, it’s your turn. They all came out the other side, and you will too.

Who was this man, and what had he done with my Cal? This felt—dare I say it—romantic.

Who do you belong to?" I gasped, trying to form a coherent thought with the painful pleasure he wrought between my thighs with every pass. "Say it!" He gritted out, his control slipping. "You!" I cried. "That's right. You're my little whore, and you will be for the rest of your life. You'll only be allowed to come around my fingers, my tongue, my cock, for so long as we both shall live.

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.

I remove my pads and skates in the locker room. Under the shower spray, I play out my argument, anticipating what he will say. I enjoy my shower fights; they always go in my favor.

This would be a cute dress,” she says. “You don’t even like hockey?

Because with Alec.” I leaned forward and winked at Imani. “He’s like a walking hockey god.” “Who’s a walking hockey god?” Jace said, arching a brow and plopping his ass next to me. I cursed myself for actually saying that aloud, knowing that Jace would pester me about it if I didn’t tell him more and admit that I had eyes for no one else but him. “Alec, captain of the Redwood hockey team.” “You think he’s hot?” Caught between telling the truth to my boyfriend and helping my best friend get back at the most ruthless gang at school, I gnawed on the inside of my cheek, furrowed my brows in a confused expression, and gave my best awkward laugh. “Um, yes?” “The fuck you like him for?” João asked, scowling at Imani. “He can’t even hold up a fight in any of his hockey games. He fuckin’ sucks.” Imani flared her nostrils. “He doesn’t suck.” João laughed lifelessly. “He sucks better than you do.” “If you want him to suck you off so bad, why don’t you go ask him to?” Imani snapped, taunting him. “Or maybe I could ask him to show me how a real man eats pussy. Either way is fine by me.” Imani stormed out of the cafeteria with all three Poison boys following behind her. I curled my lips into a smirk and turned back to Jace. I patted his knee and winked. “Don’t worry about Alec. I only date guys who are one thousand percent more asshole-y than he is.” Jace arched his brow and grasped my jaw. “Well, this asshole”—he pointed to himself—“expects you to be at Senior Night tonight. And you’d better not be late,” Jace mumbled against my lips. “Or I’ll excuse myself from the field to come find your ass.

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.

Figure it out. Work through it. You’ll find your answer. What’s my plan? I don’t have one, except to do what I do every day. Keep moving forward. “Get through today? Get through practice, and our games this week, and then I’m going to get through HockeyFest. Probably spend a little extra time on the lake. It’s kind of my happy place.” She nods. “One day at a time, one game at a time. I like that plan. My happy place has always been the weight room. I figure, if I can tackle that, I can tackle anything. You want to know my personal motto? ‘I can do hard things.’ I’ve proven that I can get through a challenge, so I can do it again. I’d say the same for you.

When I provoke him, he smiles at me and walks away. What the hell? This is not how things are supposed to go. I want to get under his skin. “Hey, kid,” I say to one of the high schoolers I’m mentoring. “Tamm.” Right. Whatever. “Yeah, I need you to do me a favor. Can you start calling that guy”—I point to Jacobs—“Topher? Oh, and if you get all the other guys to do it, there’s a six-pack of beer in it for you.” “R-really?” “Yup.” Light beer. To share with the other guys. But I’m not pointing that out. “Deal.” Now to wait.

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.

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

It might be true I still haven’t found another guy attractive, but Grant’s pansexual explanation made me do a little research. Which made me fall into the world of Schitt’s Creek. All I can say is, David’s phrase “I like the wine and not the label” definitely appeals to me.

The elevator stops at my floor, and as I’m getting out, Beck grabs my arm. He yanks me to face him, and I forget everything I was going to say. Too close. Too fucking close.

That captain spot is as good as mine.” “If you say so,” I growl. Beck boops me on the nose, and I jerk back out of his hold and get the hell away. He waits until the elevator doors are closing before he gets in the final word. Like usual. “May the best captain win.

Rachel’s my girl,” I say on a breath, chest heaving like I’ve just run a marathon. “I want her to love me and marry me and have my huge hockey babies. But I think you might be my guy, Cay. And I never thought I’d be the kind of guy to have a guy, you know what I mean? But you’re here, and you’re you, and you know me better than anyone,” I say with a surprised shake of my head. “You might know me better than Amy at this point.

As it stood, I’d just given her the first orgasm of her life not by her own hand. If I had anything to say about it, it would be the first of many.

Almost as bad as the guys who are afraid their dick is gonna poke their baby in the head when they fuck. I swear it's something they say to make other women thing they're hung. Most guys I've slept with wouldn't even come close.

Benji: Something came up, guys. Jaxon: *Groans* Is this one of those juvenile jokes where I ask what, and you say, your dick? Benji: Shut up. This is serious. Jaxon: Look, man, I don't know what to tell you. Just follow the instructions on the box. If the erection lasts more than four hours, seek medial care.

You know, I have to say it. You are brave for taking her out." "Excuse me?" Dave tilted his head. I leaned in conspiratorially. "Olivia doesn't like to talk about it, but Knox's dad is in prison." Gesturing with my hands, I added, "Big dude with anger issues. I wouldn't want to be the guy found horning in on his family when he gets out." The color drained from Dave's face. Strike Three: Gullible as fuck.

It's summer," I argued. "Let him live a little." Narrowing her eyes, she scoffed. "Live a little. Says the man who won't have to deal with the aftermath of a grumpy child tomorrow.

Well… When he put it like that. Let’s just say it had been pointless putting on panties because they were already ruined.

No, I wanted you to say ‘Hi, Harlow,’ and keep walking.” His exhale is exasperated. “Fine. The next time I see you out with him, I’ll say ‘Hi, Harlow,’ and keep walking. Okay?” “I’m not going out with him again.” “Why not?” “I’m just not. I’ll see you later.” I turn to head back into the hall—to leave—but Conor’s reflexes are way faster than mine. He grabs my arm, holding me in place. “I want to help you, Harlow. And it’s not pity, but especially now that I know…” He swallows. “Let me help you train. Please.” “It’s a bad idea.” Conor is still holding my arm, which I don’t think he’s aware of but I certainly am. I can feel his touch, even through the layers of down. “What’s a bad idea?” “Us spending time together.” “Why? Because of the Garrisons?” I shake my head, although it’s certainly a complication. Landon would lose his shit if he knew I was standing in Conor Hart’s kitchen right now. “Then what?” “Because…” I like you. I like you more than I’ve ever liked a guy, and that’s terrifying. “Because I want to have sex with you.” Once it’s out, I can’t take it back. And I’m not sure if it’s better or worse than admitting my crush. Conor’s shocked reaction is almost worth the mortifying realization I said that to him.

I can carry the bag,” he says. “Sure you can. But you have a big, strong hockey player now. No need to carry heavy things.” I bend to kiss him on my way by. “Let me do all the heavy lifting, sunshine,” I murmur. “I’ll carry you to Saturn.

We weren’t sneaking around. I was giving her a tour.” “A tour of all the places you want to fuck her,” Blake says as a chuckle emerges from his mouth.

I want you—” I sop mid sentence, losing my train of thought. “Want me to what, Sunshine?” “I want you to fuck me.” I say and he doesn’t say anything back. I look over my shoulder and meet his gaze. “I want you to fuck me hard and deep. I want you to make me orgasm so hard that your neighbors hear my screams.” “Jesus, fuck Kennedy.

Spill the tea, sis,” Danny says from beside me. We all turn to look at him. “Dude, what the fuck?” Blake asks, a worried expression written across his face. “Did you hit your head or something?” “What? I have 4 sisters, and isn’t that what people say?” Danny asks.

Fuck, she’s going to make me rock hard in the damn parking lot. I may not be off limits, but never ever going to happen. Only in your dreams, Walker.” Avery says back to him. “Only every single night, Princess.

I may not be off limits, but never ever going to happen. Only in your dreams, Walker.” Avery says back to him. “Only every single night, Princess.

Now, does anyone have questions about the schedule?” I see Danny raise his hand in the front of the bus. Stella lets out a loud huff. “Yes, Daniel?” She says trying to sound annoyed, but I know she isn’t. “Where exactly is the time where I get to take you out?” Stella’s face reddens instantly, and she looks down at the paper in her hand. “See me after, we’ll get you pencilled in.

You’re totally in love with me,” Knox says, a smile widening across his face. “Yeah I am, and you’re lucky that I am, otherwise I’d have to chop your hands off for going through my stuff.

Sunshine, I’ve said this a million times and I’ll say it a million more, but I love you so much. I can’t even remember what life was like before you came along. You make me the happiest I’ve ever been, and if you’ll let me, I want to spend the rest of my life making you just as happy. Kennedy Taylor, will you please do me the biggest honor and be my wife?

Bet he’s the type of guy who makes plans with his girlfriend but not the kind of plans you want. Bet he doesn’t take care of you when you’re sick since he’s afraid he’ll catch it. Bet he says he believes in you but doesn’t really know what you do for a living.

Men,” she says with a heavy sigh. “Seriously.” She turns back to Josie. “Listen, if there’s anything you need, I’d be more than happy to help out.” “You don’t have to,” Josie says. “I want to,” Everly says, boss mode activated completely. “I work with these guys every day. They can be⁠—” “Ornery kangaroos?” Josie offers.

bummer guy, but upon further reflection, it seems like it really was me who was the bummer. Interesting. Oh well. No time to unpack that. On to the huge cock. I want to preface this story by saying I have no interest in hockey. I have gone to a couple games and had fun—but that’s mostly because I went with my sister, and we gave ourselves fake bruises. We only went to Rangers games at Madison Square Garden, and I’d wear a neck brace and two black eyes, and put Band-Aids all over Kim. I don’t know why we used to do that, but we liked to look like we had gotten all bloodied. Most people would ignore us and look away as quickly as possible, but some people would ask what happened and we would say we got into a thing with each other.

Xander is at my side immediately. “What did he say?” “He said he’d organize a threesome with someone on the hockey team if I help him cheat. I said no. Told him I’m committed to my team.

Oh no. Did the nasty man who chases men for a ball insult you? A man who also chases men for a ball, but on ice?” “I know you’re just trying to mock me right now, but let me say, you’re really fucking cute when you pout at me like that. But I’m going to need you to confirm for me that you know there isn’t a ball in hockey. I mean, I’m the goalie, so I don’t technically chase anyone, but if we could start with the ball thing first, that’d be great.

God, Ryan. Don’t make me emotional when I’m about to head to a hockey party. You know being sad makes me horny.” “If you say being sad makes you horny two more times, Mason will appear like Beetlejuice.

Wasn’t there some saying about letting something go, and if it came back, it was meant to be?