All Chapters of Hot Adventures With The Hockey Star : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The heavy rubber floor mats of the Westbridge University arena always smelled the same at midnight: frozen iron, machine grease, and sweat.​I leaned my elbows against the dark wooden desk in the sub-level film room, my eyes burning from the harsh blue light of dual monitors. On the left screen, a high-angle feed of our varsity hockey team was frozen mid-stride. On the right, my custom tactical software mapped out defensive recovery times down to the millisecond.​I blinked against the dryness in my eyes, reaching for the worn leather binder resting beside my laptop. The corners were frayed, the leather scarred by years of rink moisture, with black sharpie fading across the spine: M.S. – Westbridge Tactical.​My father’s handwriting.​Four years ago, my father was the king of this university. He built the varsity program from scrap, drafted the strongest high school recruits in the country, and turned Westbridge into an unstoppable powerhouse. When his heart gave out right on the benc

The air in the arena tunnel was freezing, but my blood was boiling hot.​I didn't look back as I pushed through the heavy double doors, leaving the bright glare of the ice behind. My sneakers squeaked against the wet concrete floor of the corridor.​I just needed to get to the locker room, grab my duffel bag, and get out of this building before my resolve crumbled.​"Maya! Stop."​The voice was a low, dangerous rumble that echoed off the concrete walls.​Heavy, aggressive footsteps threw the double doors open behind me.​I didn't stop. I forced my legs to move faster, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.​A hand caught my upper arm.​It wasn't a gentle touch. It was a firm, inescapable grip that spun me around and pinned my back flat against the cold concrete wall of the tunnel.​Ryder towered over me, still in his full hockey gear. Up close, the sheer size of him was terrifying. The heavy shoulder pads made him look twice as wide, his chest heaving under his jersey

I stared at the open passenger door of the Lincoln Navigator, the warm, leather-scented air from the heater blowing out into the freezing street.​Richard Callahan sat in the back seat, his hands resting casually on the silver head of his cane. He looked immaculate, wearing a tailored wool coat that cost more than my entire year of tuition. His grey hair was slicked back, his expression carrying the calm, terrifying poise of a man who owned everything he looked at.​"I won't ask twice, Maya," Richard said, his voice smooth, completely devoid of the anger his son had just shown on the phone. "Get in. Before you catch pneumonia."​My instinct screamed at me to turn and run. But where? My contract at State was suspended. My job at the Westbridge rink was gone. If I ran, I was running into a wall of debt and a ruined career.​I swallowed my fear, stepped forward, and climbed into the back seat. The heavy door clicked shut behind me, sealing out the noise of the city, leaving only the quie

The neon sign of the twenty-four-hour diner buzzed, casting a sickly pink glow over the wet asphalt outside.​I sat in the corner booth, my hands wrapped around a mug of lukewarm black coffee. The heat of Ryder’s touch still burned on the back of my neck, a ghost of a sensation that made my skin prickle despite the draft seeping through the diner's front door.​“Stay with me. Let me handle my father. Just tell me you won't go back to State.”​His desperate whisper echoed in my head, a cruel melody I couldn't silence. He had looked so broken in the cramped cabin of his truck—so raw, so agonizingly sincere. For a split second, I had actually believed him. I had wanted to throw myself into his arms and let the world burn around us.​But then my eyes drifted to the screen of my phone, resting on the scarred wooden table.​I unlocked it, scrolling back to the picture Bianca had sent me weeks ago. It was a candid photo of Ryder’s locker at the Westbridge arena. Tucked inside the metal door

The door’s lock clicked with a sharp, heavy snap that resonated through my entire body.​In the dark physical therapy room, the only light came from the blue, neon wash of the empty ice rink bleeding through the high frosted-glass transoms. My back was pressed flat against the cold vinyl of the treatment table, my breath instantly trapped behind Ryder’s hand.​The heat radiating off him was staggering. He smelled of heavy sweat, ice, and the sharp pine-scented soap of the visitor's locker room. His broad-shouldered frame loomed over me like a shadow, effectively cutting off any hope of escape.​"I told you not to scream," Ryder whispered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against my ear.​Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his hand away from my mouth. But he didn't step back. Instead, his fingers slid down to my chin, his calloused thumb catching on my bottom lip, dragging it down just enough to expose the frantic, uneven rhythm of my breathing.​"Get off me, Ryder," I hissed, though t