1. How much love is there for you to give to the Riot? We can take a lot

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2. Are you willing to switch positions? We look for players that are versatile and have proven to make those that switch produce (see: Mikko Koskinen, Tommy Creller, and Pavel Bursyuk playing defense despite being forwards).

I'm a pretty easy going and flexible kinda guy, so yeah, I'd be down for wherever you'd wanna stick me.

3. Do you think you're able to actually be drafted by us, given your own "totally not biased" opinion of your draft stock?

Maybe. I'm a deep draft option because life is a harsh and cruel mistress, and I joined my class super late (legit, I've been working hard, so I'd like to believe that's the only real reason, but I'm also a little shy about self-promotion, so who knows). But yeah, I have been working hard, and I'll be active as hell if you pick me. I also make really goofy faces when I score points, so:



if that doesn't make you immediately want to draft me, I don't know what's wrong with you.

4. Tell me a story about you, your player, or anything really. GoB's a literary mind, and we have to have you on point. Please include links to your player page and updates, or tell us lazy asses to look in your signature.

/clears throat

I give you:

A Gore Bay Boy and His Awesome Dog

Once there was a bantam hockey player named Frank, who had a dog named Butterscotch. Frank and Butterscotch were the best of friends. Frankie and Butters did everything together:

They stole extra portions of Mom's meatball parm together. They went on 5am runs together, even in January when the snow fall slicked the pavement by the shore and made staying on your feet extra hard. They slept in the same bed together at night. They played shinny together, since Butters wasn't half bad at blocking shots with her paws.

Every year when Frankie started going to school far away with his billet family during the week, Butters slept by the door -- regardless of how Frankie's parents tried to coax her away with bacon and sausages -- waiting for Friday night when Frankie would burst through the door, tired and sweaty, hands full of hockey gear and skin still smelling like hockey funk. Friday nights were the best part of Butters' week, just like Sunday nights were the saddest.

Then the day came when Frankie couldn't play hockey anymore. Butters was happy at first, because Frankie stopped leaving Sunday nights, and now that Frank was always home, they could go back to being the best of pals all the time! But Butters noticed something too -- that without hockey, Frankie was different. Acted different. Wanted to be alone in his room a lot all the time. When they went to bed together at night, Butters was always concerned because instead of hockey funk, Frankie's face smelled and tasted like sour salt and was almost always wet even before she went to lick the nasty smell away.

Then the worst day of Butters life happened: she woke up one morning and Frankie wasn't in bed.

Butterscotch searched the Latta household high and low, but no sign of Frankie anywhere. She sat down by the front door, whining, until Mrs. Frankie eventually came downstairs to see what was wrong.

"Girl, it is way too early for your first walk, what's the matter with you?" Mrs. Frankie asked, rubbing at her ears. "And if you want one so bad, why isn't Franks taking you out right now, huh? Is he being a lazy little mooch of a son? Is he? Yes he is."

No he's not, Butters couldn't say back. He's just gone.

Eventually, Mr. and Mrs. Frankie figured out what Butters couldn't say to them, eventually had a sit-down with Little Girl-Smelling Frankie and Younger More Annoying Frankie. Tried to explain what Butters still couldn't understand, that Frankie was gone, but not hockey-gone, some other kind of gone using the words "run away" which Butters understood, but not in that order or when used to talk about Frank. Then more people came into the house, ones that smelled like leather and metal and other dogs, ones with shiny badges that Butters would want to chew on if she weren't so worried about Frank being gone. They used even bigger words Butters definitely couldn't understand, like "post-concussive depression" and "generalized anxiety disorder" and "summary conviction." Butters just knew it meant that Frankie wasn't coming home Friday night, because Frankie was definitely not hockey-gone -- not with this many strangers in their house. She wanted to growl and bark at them all, but Butters knew this wouldn't get Frankie back any faster either.

The whole house stank like sour salt, after the shiny badge men left, and Butters couldn't stand it. There was a hole in the basement, up by the vent window, that she could push open -- it led to the underneath of the house, where it was always damp and full of green dirt and smelled clean. The underneath was also Butters naughty way out of the house, for the nights she just needed to go chasing things in the woods. Maybe Frankie was down at the frozen bay inlet pond, playing shinny. Butters thought that seemed like a reasonable idea, because the inlet always smelled like raw salt (it burned, and was never sour) and fish and a crisp coldness, some of the best things that Butters could think of. Plus -- frozen water meant hockey, and maybe Frank had gone there to get less sad. Even though it was snowing outside, the underneath was protected from the wet drifts, so the hole would still work to let Butters outside. Butters decided she would go there tomorrow, to look for Frank.

In the morning, she waited until after Mr. Frankie fed her breakfast, licked his hand in thanks after, especially because she knew they'd be mad when they realized Butters had gone searching for Frankie, and trotted off to head downstairs. She didn’t even make it to the kitchen doorway, before Mr. Frankie hugged her tight around her midsection. She huffed, but let Mr. Frankie continue.

“We all miss him girl,” Mr. Frankie said, voice sounding tight.

OK Butters couldn’t say. That’s nice, but you’re not out looking for him, so I’m going to go out looking for him. Please don’t be upset with me.

Mr. Frankie just hugged her tighter for a minute, before letting her go and rubbing her belly. Butterscotch let him, thumping over to one side, because it felt nice, nobody besides Frankie gave her belly rubs much, and Frankie was gone.

It was afternoon before Butters could escape downstairs to wiggle her way to the outside. She was a little worried about food, but she’d pulled the tupperware with her meat and rice mixture down off the kitchen counter before leaving, which definitely made her a Bad Dog, but allowed her to eat her dinner before heading out. Butters was pretty confident she’d be ok for two or three human days, which had to be enough time to find Frankie. She climbed up on Mr. Frankie’s workbench, hopped on to where Little Girl-Smelling Frankie kept all her chewing plastic building blocks in impossibly secure plastic bins, and from there, Butters pushed herself out the window. It was cold, shockingly so, outside, and Butters briefly reconsidered going back indoors and sitting by the wood stove upstairs until the chill settling into her bones was gone and banished, but remembered that, of course, she was doing this for Frankie, and Frankie would deal with a little cold to find her. Butters was determined to do the same for him.

The inlet was about 40k away from the house, and Butters had to wander through town to get there. She was a little worried that someone might try to stop her, pick her up and take her back home, but the only person who even looked at her twice was Billy Sanders. Billy Sanders was a coward and a busybody, so when Billy scrunched up his face like he was gonna go find his mom or something and tell them that the Latta’s dog was loose, Butters just squared up with little Billy Sanders and growled -- long and low. Billy squeaked, and froze in his tracks. Satisfied, Butters continued onwards with her journey.

It was already turning light by the time she managed to make it all the way over to the inlet -- the smell of the rust on the goals the kids left out there for practice sticking to her nose and dragging her the remaining few kilometers to where Butters was trying to reach. She was tired by the time she got there -- very tired, actually -- so when she did a preliminary sniff of the perimeter and smelled no sign of Frankie, Butters let out a mournful whine, and then padded over to some rocks that seemed relatively dry so she could curl up for a nap.

Butters wasn’t sure then, and probably will never be sure exactly how much time passed after she went to sleep, but she does remember dreaming once.

In the dream, there was this huge ugly Thing. It almost looked like a person, but it smelled much worse than people do -- like pain and heat and fear -- and it was taking shots at Frankie, who was lying asleep on the ice, completely still. He was lying limp on his side between the posts, and no matter how much Butterscotch barked, he just wouldn’t wake up. So Butters did what she could, slid back and forth across the ice and tried to kick away those stupid rubber disks the Thing kept hitting at Frankie, barking and growling at the Thing in an effort to distract it until Frankie woke up. But it didn’t stop, and Frankie didn’t wake up, not even when Butters launched her body between Frankie and a few of the rubber disks she wasn’t able to quite reach, forcing a pathetic yelp out out of her mouth against her will. The first one of those puck disks the Thing got past Butters hits Frankie square in the face, knocking him to the side, but it woke it him up too. Frankie had blinked, sat up, and seen what was going on, and instead of beating the Thing, or fighting it like Butters had seen him do in real life, Frank ignored everything and gone to pick Butters up. Butters tried to lick at Frankie’s fingers, tried to kick at Frankie, get him to do something about the Thing, but he had just smiled, still looking sad, and said “You didn’t have to come looking for me, silly girl.”

Butters didn’t understand. A sudden warmth had covered her then, the edges of the dream breaking apart like ice in the spring, and she suddenly became aware that she was shaking very hard. She was also in someone’s lap. That lap belonged to someone who smelled -- the lap smelled like Frankie’s lap, and despite the shaking, Butters tried to wag her tail.

The laugh that echoed across the ice sounded a lot like Frankie’s laugh too, and although most of her face was covered in extra-warm blankets, Butterscotch tried to nose her way out of the pile to see if it really was Frankie holding her in his lap. It was -- it really was Frankie, not just a dream, or some person in Frankie’s clothes -- although he smelled a little different, a little less like sour regret, and a little more like… gravy?

Frankie crinkled a paper bag next to him, and the gravy smell got stronger. Butters could feel herself drooling, sniffing avidly in the direction of the source of the smell. Frankie opened the bag with a smile, pulling out some weird container with hot potato things, and cheese smelling things, and lots and lots of gravy, and put it in front of Butters, who immediately started to eat the wonderful smelling food.

“Poutine can’t be good for you, girl, but I bet you’re starving, eh? You were out here for two days, according to Mom. While I was in Montreal. Listen,” Frankie stopped talking. Pushed more of the mess of luke-warm poutine towards Butters’ snout. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left, I’m sorry I didn’t take you with me, I’m sorry I’ve been so terrible since the accident. I’ll get better, OK? It just might take some time. But I won’t run away again if you don’t.”

Butters wondered if that’s what she’d done -- after all, she’d just wanted to go looking for Frankie, since it seemed like no one else was trying to find her. But here she was, and Frankie had found her instead. She was very cold, though. The “poutine” tasted amazing, although she could tell from the way her stomach was grumbling, she would probably regret eating it all this quickly later.

“If you hadn’t been mean to Sanders on the way out here yesterday, you know I might not have even found you -- when I came home with Dad, and he didn’t tell me until I was home that you were missing, I almost ran right out of the house again. Thankfully, Sanders saw me putting up the missing posters -- fucking jackass. Called you a shitty dog,” Frankie rubbed Butters’ belly, which she usually hated while eating, but decided she would allow this one time, especially since it helped the shaking. “You’re the best dog.”

Butterscotch felt that was probably true. She woofed happily to let Frankie know this.

“Still probably should take you to the vet though,” Frankie sighed. “Considering how cold it’s been at night.”

Frankie was pretty close to being the best human, too, although things like “vet visits” and stuff like “running away” left some room for improvement in her mind. With that said, though, as Frankie unloaded the last of the gravy covered potatoes for Butters to eat, he had brought her snacks when he’d come back, and snacks, Butters figured, forgave almost everything always.

The End.

Also my pages are in my sig.

5. JK, if you can't write, post a graphic. We're desperate here.

I really can’t graphic. I’ll always try, if you twist my arm, but fair warning -- it’ll be bad.

6. What experience do you have with the STHS sim? If you were pressed to label yourself an Amateur, Semi-pro, Pro, or Expert, which tier would you select?

Total amateur, sorry.

7. Who would you take in the SHL Deadpool?

any of the goalies, because with their leg pads on, they probably couldn’t out-skate me.

8. How do you plan on earning monies and TPE?

All the ways.

But, um, media? And play progressions, I still plan to do those, on top just plain ‘ole activity checks. If there’s anything like PGSes, I’ll try and jump on those too -- once I got into a rhythm for doing them, they weren’t that hard and a great way to earn tpe.

9. How active are you? I'm actually looking for a posts/day projection.

Ah. Well. I don’t post much, tbh -- at least not casually for chatting purposes. I could get better about it, I guess? Atm, low-end 2, high end 10 posts, though that’s rare, a day. I’m kind of shy, but I always try to participate in other people’s threads.