Hockey Scoring Quotes

Because sometimes in life Ken doesn't always choose Barbie.

You make me want to suck a bruise on you just to kiss it better. --Luc to Jane--

I love you, and I want to be with you because you make my life better.” He pushed her hair behind her ear. “You asked me once what I see when I look into my future.” He slid his palm down her shoulder and took her hand. “I see you,” he said and kissed her knuckles.

I thought if I quit looking around for you, I would forget you. I thought if I avoided you, I could get you out of my head. But it didn’t work.

I have friends. I want more from you than that. I’m a selfish guy, Jane. If I can’t be your lover, if I can’t have all of you, then I don’t want anything.

Because sometimes in life, Ken didn't always choose Barbie. (Jane Alcott)

If ever there was something she needed to stick around and fight for, Luc was that something.

I don’t think you know what you want.” “Yes. I do. I want you, and being with you feels a hell of a lot better than being without you. I’m not going to fight it anymore.

We’ll have sex all night. Half the morning too. And just when you think you can’t take anymore, we’ll go at it again.

You asked me once what I see when I look into my future.” He slid his palm down her shoulder and took her hand. “I see you

Home was his favorite place too. But home for him was anywhere Jane happened to be. Never in his life had he loved someone as much as he loved her. So much that it scared him sometimes. He pulled her against him and looked out over the city. He was in love with his wife. Yeah, he knew what that said about him. That he was a goner. Leg-shackled for life. Whipped by a short woman with a big attitude. Yep, that's what it said about him, and he didn't care.

You’re a complication I don’t need.” He followed, placed his hands on each side of her head, and planted his knee between her thighs. “But you’re a complication I want. One I’m going to have.

I want to make love to you, and if you don’t stop me now, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.

I remember exactly what you were wearing, [...] Dark suit, red tie, gold watch, and a blond woman.

Ask me again why I don’t want you traveling with the team.” “Why?” He slid his thumb across her bottom lip. “Because you drive me insane.

Between the lapels of his subdued charcoal suit, he'd worn a silky red tie. A gold Rolex had circled his wrist, and an overblown blonde had been bonded on his side like a suction cup. The man clearly liked to accessorize.

Do you really think that I don’t have anything better to do than to spend my time thinking about you? Digging up a little of the goods on Luc Martineau?” Fine lines appeared at the corners of his eyes and he laughed. “Sweetheart, there is nothing little about Luc’s goods.

You called him a big dumb dodo?" Caroline asked later that night as the two of them sat on Jane's couch watching the gas fireplace lick the fake logs. "Why didn't you go for broke and call him a poo-poo head too?

The other night when I walked by and saw you in the media lounge, I fantasized about throwing you up on the table and doing you right there on top of the dessert trays.” “Sounds ... messy.” “And fun. I thought about all the interesting places I’d get to lick you clean.” She sounded as if she were holding her breath when she said, “I thought you don’t eat sugar.” He laughed. “I want to eat yours,” he said as he kissed the crook of her neck. “Does that shock you, little Jane?

So tell me, Jane, are you cold?” His lips brushed hers and he said through a hot breath, “Or turned on?

I want you to take a sleeve of Thin Mints and line them up on the edge of the kitchen counter and when I'm hungry I can just bend over and sweep a cookie into my mouth like I'm scoring a goal in hockey.

Luc scored forty and slapped the darts in her palm. “The light sucks in here.” “No.” She smiles and took great pleasure in announcing, “You suck.” His gaze narrowed. Weeks of anger and hurt poured out of her and she said, louder than she’d intended, “And worse – you’re a whiner.” A collective intake of breath caught their attention and she and Luc turned and looked at the guys watching a few feet away. “Lucky’s gonna kill Sharky,” Sutter predicted from the sidelines. By taut agreement they both went to their respective corners. Jane shot and scored sixty-five. Luc scored thirty-four. “Now remind me. Why do they call you Lucky?” she asked as she reached for the darts. He pulled them back out of her reach as a slow, purely licentious smile curved his mouth. A smile that told her he was remembering her on her knees kissing his tattoo. “I’m sure if you think long and hard, you’ll remember the answer to that.” “No.” She shook her head. “Some things just aren’t that memorable.

He looks way too comfortable sitting there on my couch. A blond Adonis with his golden chest and sculpted muscles and perfectly chiseled face. If the hockey thing doesn’t work out for him, he ought to consider going into modeling. Dean Di Laurentis oozes sexuality. He could slap his face on a laxative label and every woman in the world would be praying for constipation just to have an excuse to buy it.

See? I’m good for you. I make you like things you didn’t before. Like hockey and dick and marshmallows.

It’s not a hockey game, James. I’m not keeping score.” He kissed my lips softly. “But if I was, I’d definitely want you to win.

And I guess my sister is on to something about her universe theory, because an hour after my call with Parklane Academy? Allie’s agent phoned with news that made her shriek so loud that Garrett heard her all the way from his shower and flew into my room buck-naked, armed with a hockey stick... we assured him everything was okay—and commented on how pretty his dick looked

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.

What was the problem? Couldn't a guy have a heated argument with his secret billionaire boyfriend at hockey practice with out an audience?

David doesn’t even know what “enjoyable hockey” is, he only knows one sort of hockey that isn’t enjoyable—the one where the opposing team scores more points.

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.

I didn’t know you’ve been seeing someone since then.” “I haven’t been. I’ve gotten together with him a few times. Run into him a few other times. Kidnapped him after our horrendous loss against Boston. And won’t be letting him go this time.

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.

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 second season a tradition was born that became synonymous with town and team: playing Brass Bonanza whenever the Whalers took the ice or scored. DAH DAH DAH dadadadada… Over the years, that snappy fanfare has inspired many emotions. To true believers, it sent tingles down the spine. To naysayers, it was nauseating. “Bombastic,” complained Sports Illustrated.

Wow, I had just scored the winning goal in a championship game! If that wasn't a dream come true, I didn't know what would be.

 I motioned at Frank’s clipboard with a chunk of pita bread. “Gimme the skinny.”   “Well, nothing they’re asking for is too crazy. Basic needs stuff. Though they asked for access to some TV time, a communal computer so they can e-mail—”   “Gnomes e-mail?” Ramon sounded both amused and skeptical.   “Yeah, but I think the computer request was mostly from the Minotaur. The gladiators just wanted to use it to check hockey scores and stuff.”   “Anyone else think it’s funny that what Frank just said didn’t seem weird at all?” Ramon asked.   Brooke rested her chin in her hands. “Nothing seems weird to me anymore.” Ramon reached over and hugged her to him, kissing her cheek. She gave a little half smile and leaned into it.   “I was too busy trying to figure out why the gladiators wanted to check hockey scores, which just goes to show you how skewed my sense of strange has become,” I said.   Frank shrugged, not looking up from the clipboard. “They’re Canadian.”   I swallowed my vitamin as quickly as possible, grimacing from the aftertaste. “But they’re gladiators. Wouldn’t that make them Roman or Greek or something?”   “I asked them the same thing. I guess the marble they’re carved from comes from Canada. You can kind of tell if you talk to them long enough. They say ‘eh’ a lot. They don’t seem to have spent much time in their homeland, so I think they are basing most of their culture on stereotypes.”   “Maybe we should hold a Canada party or something,” I said. “Like a little cultural festival. Then we should hold one for the gnomes, because they just boggle me entirely.”   Frank snickered. “No kidding

There was something about Shane North's voice that made Troy want to tell him to stop being a punk and shut up. The reaction was instantenous from the moment Troy looked up and saw Shane standing in the doorway and it had more to do with why Troy didn't want to think about Shane wet, half-dressed and holding a surfboard that it did with hockey.

I don't know how Tate or Joe will feel about me, and I can't control that.' He lifted his gaze to Mia's and cupped her face. "What I do know if that I can' face a future without you loving me.

He was losing the battle. He felt the last threads of control slipping from his grasp. And Rafe’s mind transitioned from denial to damage control. But that tiny shift opened the floodgates on a desire unlike any he’d ever known before. “What…what about your brother?” She laughed. “He’s not my type.” “Mia.” She glanced around the empty elevator. “Do you see my brother? I don’t see my brother.

I’m certainly not going to tell him about this. And neither are you. None of us needs the useless stress that would create. Don’t even get me started on the topic of how many of my friends he fucked during visits home after I left for college. Besides, we’re grown adults, Rafe. We can fuck whoever we want to fuck. I certainly don’t tell him who to—” “Please stop saying that.” He couldn’t breathe.

He needed to push her back and walk away. He needed to pull her closer and hold on. “I want you to fuck me, Rafe.” Her voice was husky and dripping lust. “And I want you to fuck me like you mean it. Like you want it. Like you love it. I want you to fuck me like you’re hungry for it. Like you can’t get enough. I want you to fuck me so perfectly, I’ll never need you to fuck me again. I want us to fuck and forget.

nipples puckered painfully tight and she squeezed her thighs

He made a vague gesture at her top. “Tits, I mean.” “I’m beginning to think that’s just because you’re a male,” she muttered. “I shouldn’t have told you they were pierced. Is that when this started?” “No. I looked at them before that. I mean the shape of them. You don’t look like a boy.” “Good job, Lane. Those Canadian hockey tutors sure did teach you well. Didn’t they?

And five minutes in the life of a hockey player?More than enough to score a few points.

What he really had was a team of misfits captained by a goalie with anger-management issues and a facial piercing, coached by the man who ended Max’s professional hockey career, and owned and managed by a sleazy asshole who was going to use that for publicity.

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

It didn’t matter if someone else scored more goals or had more points or was the league’s MVP; there might be many leaders on the team, but the Rocket was its spirit.

The Red Wings had missed the playoffs that year, so he’d picked up a gig as a television commentator for the postseason. On an off day, he wound up watching a bridge game between some of the players. Our dad was an avid bridge player and a real student of the game. At one point, Dick Duff, who played left wing for the Canadiens, took a trick by finessing a mediocre trump card past the other players. Appreciating the move, Dad mumbled, “Great play” under his breath. One of Montreal’s defensemen, J.C. Tremblay, overheard him and snapped, “What would a dummy like you know about it?” That didn’t sit well with Dad. He told J.C. to remember what he’d said and walked away. Six months later, the Red Wings were in Montreal to play the Canadiens. As it happened, it was the night that Dad scored his 600th goal. The fans had barely finished giving him a standing ovation for the achievement, when they reversed course and started to rain down boos. A few minutes after his big goal, Dad trailed J.C. into the corner after a puck. When he came out of the corner, he left J.C. on the ice with a fractured cheekbone. The Forum crowd didn’t know why it had happened, but Dick Duff did. He skated past Gordie and said, “Card game.” Dad just nodded.

the Charlie Conway? This guy scored the game-winner on a penalty shot, no bucket!

One time, at the final hockey game of his senior year, against rival Beverly at the hockey rink in Lynn, the score was tied at two after regulation. Jack had scored both goals for Salem. The game went into overtime, but shortly thereafter, Jack’s team lost. It was the team’s seventh loss in a row. Jack was pissed. He threw his hockey stick in anger, then skated to get the stick and marched off to the locker room. Next thing he knew, his mother was in the locker room, too. She bounded right up to him, oblivious to the fact that the guys around her were in various states of undress. She grabbed him by the jersey in front of everyone. “You punk,” she yelled at him. “If you don’t know how to lose, you’ll never know how to win. If you don’t know this, you don’t belong anywhere.” He paused for a moment, recalling the memory. “She was a powerhouse,” he said. “I loved her beyond comprehension.

In golf, all players play against each other. It is played by striking a ball with a club, trying to get it in a hole in the fewest number of strokes. A hole in one is the best score, when you hit the ball into the hole on the first stroke. While there have been many great players, Tiger Woods is the most known.

American football has a field that measures 120 yards in length that players rush down with a football. The goal is to get a touchdown worth 6 points and to score an extra point by kicking the football over the goal. 3 points can also be scored through a field goal. The Super Bowl is an annual gaming event that draws in high television viewer audiences.

With five players on each team taking the field, the goal is to get the orange basketball in the hoop. Two points are scored for close shots, three points if it is behind the large arc. While popular in the United States, other countries also play this sport. Michael Jordan is the stand out player in this game.

Played in the spring and summer, track and field is a collection of running, jumping and throwing events. The goal is to be the fastest, strongest and most liber player on the field with the best scores and time. Events may include the high jump, long jump, 400 meter dash and even relay events.

Strength and flexibility are requirements for success in this sport. Through a series of jumps, physical tricks and lifts, participants go through a skill based series of events that can vary in difficulty. The goal is to perfectly execute each move with precision and balance to score as close to a perfect score as possible.

Ice hockey is a form of disorderly conduct in which the score is kept. ~ Doug Larson

there are four large screens on the scoreboard showing the score, replays of the game and fan participation. Throughout the game, the video screens showed highlights of games played in the past as well.

Malcolm Gladwell book, Outliers. In it, he notes a well-documented Canadian study that shows kids born in January tend to make better grades and score more goals in sports than those born later in the year. The reason, he deduces, is that grade-school kids who were born just after the cut-off date for the school year (January) are always a year older than the kids who were born just before it (December), thus having a full year of mental and physical advantages.   The January kids aren’t naturally brighter and more physically capable than kids born in November and December. They’re just a year older. In elementary school, one year is a lot.   The school system doesn’t see that, so the January kids get labeled as gifted, while the December kids are called slow. Once established, those categories are hard to break out of. The gifted kids get enrolled in advanced classes, increasing the pace of their education and making the gap between them and the December kids bigger.   The physically larger January kids are recruited by better PeeWee teams, then better High Schools and colleges. That’s why, as shown in Gladwell’s book, professional sports leagues – and hockey leagues in particular – have an inordinately high percentage of athletes that were born in the first three months of the year and a much lower percentage of December birthdays.

It’s safe to say that everyone loved to win when they played those games, and I was no different, but to me playing hockey and baseball really wasn’t just about winning. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying we shouldn’t have competition. Even my harshest critics over the years couldn’t complain that I didn’t want to win badly enough. I do believe, however, that learning to handle both winning and losing is the most important part of competition. Coming to grips with the idea that the outcome doesn’t always go your way is a life lesson, not just a lesson in sport. Sometimes we kept score, sometimes we didn’t. But our games were primarily about the sheer joy of play, of being able to go outside with your buddies and simply have a good time.

The final score was five to zero, with high-scoring Brother, the hockey hero! The cheers for the Cousins were long and loud. They left the ice to the roar of the crowd. So there you have it. A stellar performance by Brother Bear and another victory for the Bear Country Cousins. This puts the Cousins in the big Valentine’s game against… the Beartown Bullies-- a dubious privilege at best. There was a special cheer for Brother as well. The cheerleaders gave him a well-deserved yell. They then addressed Brother in more personal terms. “Yuck, when it comes to mush, I’d rather eat worms.

If Boston College didn’t offer them both a commitment though, T.J. would rather go where they could play together. They had great chemistry as linemates with every rush up the ice. Brad was fast, strong on the boards, won battles in the corners and possessed solid forechecking skills. He had that magical ability to score and create plays for his teammates, making him the type of winger that coaches sought. Their friends called it twin telepathy the way they killed penalties together and always knew where the other would be.

To Coach Brantford, I could do almost nothing right. He told me that I didn’t play tough enough, I didn’t hit anybody and that my skating and passing needed a lot of work. If you came to a practice or a game, you’d have never known that I scored 25 goals & had 39 assists what with Coach Brantford always harping on me about something I was doing wrong.

But for the first time in months when my mind wandered that morning, it didn’t take me back to hockey, didn’t torture me with visions of goals I’d never score and trophies I’d never win.

Everyone knew the best player on our team was Luke Zannetti. He’d scored 212 points and led us to the Memorial Cup championship. Nobody liked him, but he didn’t care. He had already been drafted by the Montreal Canadiens, a team in the National Hockey League. That was one step up from our Tier One junior hockey team in the Western Hockey League. Of course, being drafted didn’t guarantee he’d make the team, but the way Luke had been scoring, everyone was sure he’d be playing for the Canadiens some day.

You see, goalies are different from other hockey players. We never cheer against each other. Why? Only goalies truly know what it’s like to be a goalie. Because you’re the last player between the puck and the net, the blame always falls on you when the other team scores a goal.

Only two months had passed since I had been traded to play defense for the Red Deer Rebels. In that time, I had learned to expect great hockey moves from Jason. I had watched him stickhandle while sliding on his knees. I had admired the way he hip-checked guys from out of nowhere. And I had been dazzled once to see him score with two guys wrapped around his shoulders. In my 25 games since joining this team in January, I had learned to expect nearly anything from #33.

All I’ve known my whole life was

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

Hockey is your life,” she tried again. “Hockey is my job, Natalie. There’s a big difference. Hockey is temporary. What we have right here is more important. It always will be.

I’m sorry you lost the game.” His other hand joined the first, both now cupping my face. “Don’t you get it? I don’t care about the game.” “You don’t? But you love it.” “Baby, I love you more. You, and Charlie, Amelia, Jameson, and Beau. All five of you are my world. I choose you. Every time.” Testing the words on my tongue, I asked. “You choose me?” “I knew the first time I saw you that my world was forever changed. I remember thinking I would do just about anything to see your smile, hear your laugh. You were real when so much of my world was artificial. Back then, I only knew what you’d shared on the surface. But now that I know what’s underneath? I want all of you. I want to raise Charlie together with her older siblings. I want to be there for all of you every single day if you’ll let me. I want all of you forever.” “I’ve had some time these past few weeks to reflect on our relationship. Not only this past year, but the past ten years we’ve known each other. I used to curse the timing. That I’d met you too late, and it could have been me in your life if I had now been just a year or two earlier. I know now that I wasn’t enough for you back then. I was this eighteen-year-old-kid—yes, kid—who barely could take care of himself and had a one-track-mind focused on hockey. I wish I could erase all the pain you’ve suffered, but I needed that time to become the man you truly deserved. There was a reason I’d never dated seriously or entertained the idea of settling down. I was always waiting for you. It didn’t matter that you were unavailable. No one could compare to the standard for women you’d created in my mind. And then, one day, the universe rewarded my patience when a little boy threw his ball over my fence. Someone was looking out for me that day because you fell into my lap and gave me everything I’d always wanted but never thought I could have.

Shacking up and procreating with a hockey player? Where do I sign up?” “You know your dad will never let that happen,” I argued. There was a wicked gleam in her eye. “Doesn’t mean I can’t keep trying. Eventually, I’ll break one of them.” “Can’t wait to see Ace have a stroke when you do.

I’ve been around long enough to know those hockey players know how to fuck.

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.