Thursday Morning Cupcheck - Fifty Shades of Gary

We recommend you have a clean pair of pants within arm's reach before beginning this article.

Good morning, hockey fans! Last week we bared our hearts to the cold, unfeeling eldritch tentacles of the NHL owners. This week we're going to delve into the rapidly-expanding world of erotic CBA fan fiction. Don't act so surprised: we know you keep two or three tabs open to the stuff when you're "working." Here's a Pulitzer-nominated excerpt from the latest New York Times bestseller, Fifty Shades of Gary.

Pictured: Gary Bettman, left, and Ed Snider of the Flyers enjoy a productive discussion.

I entered the lobby of NHL headquarters ready for anything but expecting nothing. With my imposing six-foot-five frame, flowing blonde locks and jaw chiseled from reinforced titanium, I thought it a bit odd why they asked me to come in a form-fitting Boston Bruins miniskirt and matching heels. Even if they did provide me with a 10% coupon from the NHL.com store to buy it.

I sashayed up to the receptionist at the desk and sized her up as I sashayed: she was about six-five with flowing blonde locks and a jaw chiseled from reinforced titanium. Her fake eyebrows arched as I approached.

"I'm here to see Gary Bettman, the Owner of the National Hockey League, please," I said sputteringly.

"And whom should I say is calling?"

"Joe Q. Averagefan."

"Ah! Mr. Q. Averagefan! Mr. Bettman's been expecting you."

The elevator rapidly zoomed up the skyscraper really fast until I was there within seconds. The meeting room upstairs was beyond expensive. To describe it would take two or three paragraphs. My lower jaw dropped almost as far as it could. Wow.

"This guy must be loaded," I said quietly to myself under my chiseled breath.

"Indeed I am!"

I turned around. Behind me was the most expensive suit I had ever seen. Trapped inside it was a little man who had just gone to the bathroom.

"So, Gary, your Red Room of Pain is a little, uh... outdoorsy."

"Probably a very expensive bathroom," I said loudly like an uninvited fart.

The little man in the suit grinned like an uninvited fart. He reached up to slap me on the shoulder for my joke but missed due to his extreme height and slapped my swimsuit area instead. And he lingered there until ten minutes passed. Finally I broke the stunned lingering after ten minutes.

"Mr. Bettman? I came about the ad?"

He says nothing. I size him up. A stitch in time saves nine, Q. Averagefan! Judging by the room's selection of red shag carpet on the walls, which is normally covered in art or light switches, I figure Bettman to be in his mid-50s: a good speller who isn't afraid of eating crackers in bed. I grab his hand and shake the sweat off of it and look deeply into his eyes.

"Mr. Bettman, the ad."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Your ad."

"Yes."

"I answered it."

"Mmm?"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Mmm-hmm."

You could cut the erotic tension with a knife. Gary Bettman whips out a knife and starts cutting the erotic tension. I trip and fall headfirst into his arms. He picks me up with his hands, his strong, attractive, awkwardly strong hands. Unexpectedly so, even. He roughly grabs me up to a standing position and our fingers meet for a split second. He secretly feels an odd, inexplainable tension shudder through him visibly. I withdraw my hand quickly. Must be static. I stomp my foot on the ground rapidly, my stomping matching my heart rate.

"Anyways, Mr. Bettman, as you are no doubt aware, I am Joe Q. Averagefan, and my description of myself as a terrific and chiseled member of the greatest fanbase in sports, I feel, matches the text in your ad exactly."

"Do you like to sit?" He motions to a very expensive L-shaped couch made of bored-looking AHL call-ups stacked like logs.

"Without sitting, we would never know when we were walking," I murmur excitedly, distracted by both him and the way he is. He sniffs his armpits and eyes me intently.

"I couldn't have said that thing better myself," he replies, his soft voice so tender I find myself blushing in my face.

"I don't know about that, Mr. Bettman. According to the ad, you have a way with words that rivals your rugged charmingness."

"Forget the ad, Joe —may I call you Joe?— and let me ask you one thing. Would you like to have rough sexual congress?"

Oh! This is Foxnews to me. I'm temporarily distracted by the thought that the richest man in sports—okay, maybe the world, okay, maybe even pretty handsome when you close your eyes a little bit and okay, as a symbolic representative of the fanbase of hockey I should really wait until our third sudden-death overtime— is going to start plowing me. Just plowing away.

"I am sexually attracted to each and every NHL fan," he says while handsome. No one should be this handsome.

"That sounds like your heart talking instead of logic and facts," I say, pointing to where his heart is in case he didn't know. But I know.

"Gary Bettman smiles with unsubstantiated lust," he says erotically, pouring his martini on the floor. I get down on my hands and knees to clean it up but forgot that there are no paper towels in that expensive room. Too clinical and modern. Gary gently lifts my chin, chiseled out of reinforced titanium, and brings my face to his lips.

I look at his watch to see what time it is but instead of a very expensive watch he has an even more expensive tattoo that resembles a watch that doesn't have hands or numbers but just says "Time to Bone." My manparts quiver. Must be static.

"I see you eyeing hungrily my very expensive tattoo. You have taste and class."

"So we propose that hockey-related revenues be lowered by 2.1 percen—Gary, are you even paying attention?"

He knows me too well. I may be a symbolic representation of the average hockey fan, but I still have needs like you or me. Needs that involve getting tied down to a team, bound tightly in expensive jerseys and not allowed my freedom for ten years after I'm drafted.

I was nervous. I was so nervous. Wow, okay, it was incredible how nervous I was.

"As a handsome multigillionaire who doesn't always get nervous around small children, I can open your eyes to new, unexplored worlds. Worlds where NHL owners are given a fair shake. Worlds where hockey commissioners can get a good buggering on their lunch break. Worlds where someone finally stands up to the entitlement and privilege of a world where hockey players reign like dictators and instead create a world where that idea hasn't come up yet. And never will."

I stood transfixed, my chiseled jaw sore from all its dropping. Gary Bettman showed me the shocking leather devices he had in store for me, Joe Q. Averagefan, as well as the shocking number of whips and chains and extension cords he promised to use on me.

"I promise to use these on you," he said, my eyes swimming in his. I pulled up a pant leg and he sunk his teeth into my ankle. The next thing I knew—

That's it for this week's excerpt. Tune in next week when HFBoards publishes its first-ever community-written erotic fan fiction using nothing but ridiculously lopsided trade proposals.