if pk subban was a candle, he would smell of the perfect pure clean scent of evening air after a spring thunderstorm, when you step out onto your porch and inhale deeply to smell rain and earth, the wet cement under your bare feet, the flowers you planted along the front walk back when warm weather was barely a promise between frosty mornings and chilly nights. the sky is just starting to turn pink with sunset and if you watch closely you can catch the flicker of fireflies emerging anew into the dusk. (submission courtesy of @beckalin)

if paul martin was a candle, he would smell like apple pie—not overpoweringly sweet, with the perfect crust and just a hint of cinnamon— and the first snow of winter, with a lingering whiff of james neal’s hair gel.

if claude giroux was a candle, he would smell of a perfectly constructed grilled cheese, alternately melty and crusty in all the right places, with underlying notes of pining for friends traded far away.

if tyler seguin was a candle, he would smell like some obscenely expensive cologne that somehow still manages to smell like frat boy, with an undercurrent of natty light and wet dogs who have just gotten out of a pool that they probably shouldn’t be swimming in because their nails will tear the liner. “it’s cool,” he tells you, smiling in a way that somehow manages to be lazy and sleazy at the same time, “i taught them how to climb in and out of the steps.”

if seth jones was a candle, he would smell like freedom, and freshly cut grass in the summer, the kind that you sit on to drink your beer and watch fourth of july fireworks and perhaps, if you’re lucky, spot a bald eagle drifting on a thermal.

if aaron ekblad was a candle, he would smell of freshly baked cookies that are definitely not oatmeal raisin, because aaron ekblad lives up to the promise you see in him, unlike oatmeal raisin cookies that masquerade as chocolate chip only to disappoint you when you bite into them.

if eddie lack were a candle he would smell of cinnamon roll, too good for this world, too pure, and undertones of tacos vaguely reminiscent of date nights past.

if jordie benn was a candle, he would smell like a cabin nestled deep in the woods of the pacific northwest, surrounded by trees that reach higher than you could’ve imagined. the sharp tang of pine needles hits your nose as you curl up on the windowseat in an old flannel shirt, watching the rain fall.

if mike green was a candle, he would smell of some cologne you’ve probably never heard of, and the new, buttery leather of the vespa gloves he slips on as he prepares to leave washington on his moped at dusk, heading toward his future in that snowy, far-off wasteland that is michigan. if you really focus, you can detect a slight hint of regret.

if sidney crosby was a candle, he would smell like the sharp freshness of an ice hockey rink at dawn, fog rising off it, with notes of pregame peanut butter and jelly sandwiches made with exactly the right brands of each, crown royal maple, and the weight of a nation.