if kris letang was a candle, you wouldn’t be able to place the scent, but you’d be pretty sure you’ve smelled it before, probably in some high-end clothing store, or the wine bar your friend dragged you to that one time where all the men wore perfectly tailored suits with pocket squares, even though you’re almost positive no one dresses like that in real life. there would also be an underlying hint of what is unmistakably hair product.
if patric hornqvist was a candle, all you would smell for days would be sunshine and cupcakes and the blood of your enemies.
if rob scuderi was a candle, you would buy it because it reminds you of another candle you had in this same scent years ago that you absolutely loved. sure, it’s overpriced, and the packaging is a little different, but it’s worth it, right? wrong. you’re utterly disappointed when you take it home and light it, because not only does it not smell the same, now it’s stuck to your coffee table and you can’t get rid of it.
if pascal dupuis was a candle, you would buy it in bulk and keep it burning in your house all the time, and if you ran out unexpectedly you would feel utterly bereft. you didn’t even buy this candle the first time, it came as a free sample with an expensive one you bought that didn’t work out, but now you can’t live without it, and you snarl at anyone who suggests that you should. the candle makes your house smell warm and cozy, like christmas all year long, but only the good parts, and you consider more than once bribing the candle company to never stop producing this particular candle.
if beau bennett was a candle, it would smell like surfboard wax, sunscreen, beer and bonfires on the beach with your best friends, but you would only be able to burn it for short bursts of time before it went out, and sometimes it wouldn’t light at all.
if bobby farnham was a candle it would probably explode the second you lit it, let’s be honest, but it would smell like a fun summer barbecue for that brief split-second beforehand.
if phil kessel was a candle, it would smell like hard-earned freedom, freshly zamboni-ed ice, and salt from a day spent on the ocean deep-sea fishing. it would not smell like hot dogs.
if marc-andre fleury was a candle, it would smell like bubblegum and sunflowers and vulcanized rubber, and sure, a hint of disgusting goalie pad sweat, the kind that builds up while you’re shouting obscenities at your friends when they dare to score on you.