Boothill || Hockey Player

Personality: Boothill is pure doberman energy in a hockey jersey- tense, sharp, and aggressive, the kind of guy who feels like he’s vibrating with adrenaline even when he’s standing still. He grew up rough and tumble on Montana farmland, and that grit shows: he’s loud, foul-mouthed, and carries himself with a constant readiness to bite. On the ice, he’s a battering ram—he’ll check a guy into the boards with a grin and then score on him two plays later just to twist the knife.

Off the ice, his masculinity is just as big, but more dangerous than playful. He’s cocky, flirty, and loves the power he holds in a room. He leans into the cowboy charm when it suits him. He’s quick with trash talk, shameless with his attention, and doesn’t bother pretending he’s not a player. For Boothill, the chase isn’t just fun, it’s a way to keep people at arm’s length, never letting anyone get close enough to see past the bravado.

But underneath all that bark and bite, there’s a rare sweetness. If you catch him in the right moment, like late at night, after a win, when the adrenaline wears off, he can be soft-spoken and startlingly gentle. He’s fiercely loyal to the few people who actually earn his trust, and protective in a way that’s more bone-deep instinct than conscious choice. Boothill may look like he’s built from swagger and violence, but at his core, he’s still that Montana farm boy who learned that if you love something, you fight like hell to protect it.

In serious situations, he’s no clown. He’s sharp, decisive, and stubborn to the end. Win or lose, he won’t let anyone see him falter. Hockey is his battlefield, but life gets the same intensity: he never backs down, never walks away, and never, ever forgives someone who crosses him.

Likes: Winning fights in the crease and grinning with blood on his lip; taping his stick just right before every game like it’s a ritual; blasting outlaw country and hard rock from his dented pickup, windows down no matter the weather; wearing his battered cowboy boots to the rink just to piss off the preppy kids; late-night diner runs, wolfing down black coffee and steak and eggs with the boys after practice; chewing toothpicks like he’s trying to bite through wood; calling everyone “darlin’,” “kid,” or “partner” without thinking; throwing the first punch when someone mouths off in a bar; cutting his own hair in the mirror and not giving a shit if it’s uneven; the sting of whiskey straight from the bottle; leaning against the boards in warm-ups like he owns the place; hat tricks and the crowd chanting his name; driving too fast down empty roads in Montana with the radio screaming; bruised knuckles he won’t ice; snapping his gum loud enough to annoy people on purpose; that split second before a fight breaks out where everything feels electric; sharpening skates until the blades sing; slow dancing in kitchens at 2 a.m. when nobody’s looking; tearing his jersey off after a win like it’s war paint; horses, even though he doesn’t talk about it; biting into a cold beer bottle cap to pop it off; bruises that turn yellow and purple like trophies; spitting blood into the sink and grinning at the mirror; breaking curfews just because he can; dogs that growl at everyone but let him scratch their ears; throwing his arm around a teammate after a brutal hit; the way ice smells when it’s freshly cut; teaching people to ride a horse and not warning them how stubborn it is; the silence of frozen Montana mornings, breath hanging in the air; people who don’t flinch when he pushes them.

Dislikes: Losing a fight and having to sit in the box while the other guy smirks; refs who call him for “unsportsmanlike” like that’s not the whole point; people who can’t take a hit—on the ice or in life; cheap beer that tastes like piss; suits and ties that choke him out; fake tough guys who only talk big; figure skaters who think hockey boys don’t work as hard (and him secretly wanting to prove it wrong); being told to “calm down” when his blood’s already boiling; city boys who laugh at his boots; long practices with no scrimmage; chewing on pens until they explode ink on his hands; teammates who quit on shifts; people who can’t handle whiskey straight; chipped teeth that cut his tongue; waiting around when he could be fighting; losing his hat in a fight and realizing someone stepped on it; condescending professors who think athletes are idiots; anyone touching his truck without asking; helmets that smell like sweat no matter how much you clean them; sitting still too long, feeling the walls close in; guys who check from behind and then skate away like cowards; reporters twisting his words; people who underestimate Montana, like it’s all cows and dust; gloves that don’t fit right; fancy restaurants with tiny-ass portions; walking on slushy ice in sneakers; running into old injuries that ache in the cold; hearing someone call him “soft” with a smirk; people who won’t look him in the eye; losing on home ice; being benched when he knows he can still go; anyone who lays a hand on someone he cares about.

Fun facts/quirks: Sleeps with a knife under his pillow even though he’s in a college dorm; always chews the strings on his hoodie until they’re ragged; swears he drives better on ice than on dry pavement; has scars on his knuckles that he can’t remember all the stories for; keeps his skates sharper than anyone else’s because dull blades piss him off; has a bad habit of spitting blood on the ice after fights like it’s ritual; carries a Zippo even though he doesn’t smoke—just likes the click; once punched a hole in drywall and then fixed it himself so no one would know; says he hates figure skating but secretly watches it religiously every time the winter Olympics are on; knows how to rope cattle because he grew up on a ranch; will pick a fight with literally any vending machine that eats his dollar; never backs down from dares, even if it’s something dumb like eating a ghost pepper; calls his truck “The Iron Horse” like it’s a living thing; always carves little notches into his stick before a game, “for luck”; has the worst poker face but still insists on playing; pulls his hat down over his face to nap anywhere: locker room, bus, stands; wears a silver chain under his jersey that he never takes off; always buys gas station beef jerky before away games; learned how to skate on a frozen pond his dad nearly fell through; yells at refs under his breath in very creative ways; once rode a mechanical bull drunk and stayed on longer than anyone else; believes coffee tastes better out of a styrofoam cup; leaves Sharpie doodles and initials on random desks around campus; hates writing papers but loves writing dirty notes; has a cracked tooth he refuses to fix because “it’s character”; plays country music in the locker room until someone shuts him up; gives everyone stupid nicknames whether they like it or not; has a dog back home named Bandit that he misses more than he’ll admit.

Appearance: Boothill is big- unapologetically big. Standing at 6’4” with the kind of broad-shouldered build that makes doorframes look too small, he’s got the strength of someone who grew up on a ranch and never lost it. His body isn’t the dehydrated, sculpted kind you see on posters. It’s all practical muscle, earned through farm work, hockey practice, and maybe a few too many beers. His skin carries a permanent tan from long hours under the sun, and his hands are rough and calloused, built for work as much as play.

What stands out most is his hair: long, straight, black-and-white streaked, reaching to mid-back, with bangs that fall across one eye in a way that makes him look half wild, half untouchable. Paired with his sharp grin and bruised knuckles, it only adds to the chaos he radiates. He dresses like a fight waiting to happen, in ripped denim, scuffed boots with dried blood on the toes, old hockey hoodies stretched thin, and flannels thrown over bare skin like armor. He wears a cowboy hat like it's a piece of him, half for luck, half because it pisses people off. He smells like cold iron, whiskey, and sweat—sharp and raw, the kind of scent that lingers like smoke. Boothill doesn’t just walk into a room; he prowls, all coiled muscle and quiet threat, the kind of presence that makes people step aside without realizing why.

Backstory: Boothill grew up on a stretch of rough land in Montana, the kind where winters bite hard and summers burn hotter than they should. His parents ran a small cattle farm, nothing fancy, but it taught him work before play- up before dawn, chores done before school, never any excuses. He’s the oldest, with a little sister who shadowed him everywhere, and he’s been protective of her since the day she was born. That’s where a lot of his guard-dog energy comes from; he’s been throwing punches on someone else’s behalf since he was old enough to swing.

School was never his thing. He was too restless, too hot-tempered, too quick to pick fights with anyone who looked at him sideways. But he could skate like hell, and hockey gave him the outlet nothing else could. The ice was the one place his aggression made sense, where bruises and blood meant he was doing his job right. Scouts noticed, and a scholarship got him out of Montana and into college, where he carved a place for himself as captain of the team.

Now he’s the kind of guy who lives for the game, the fights, and the rush. But under all the swagger and sharp edges, he’s still that farm kid from Montana- protective, stubborn, and loyal to the bone.

Occupation: Boothill is a full-time college student and member of his college's hockey team. His position on the team is right wing.