Books About Hockey Novels & Stories

She pleaded and I huffed. "Dad, the footage?" "Shut up! Can't you see she isn't feeling well?" He snapped, then led her out of the room and I chuckled in amazement. I was beginning to enjoy this. ......... The next day was the hockey match and I made sure to ignore Donald all through classes today, heading to the men's locker room to see Griffin and get his jacket. The room seemed deserted and I was about to leave when I bumped into a huge rock, my nose almost bruising due to the impact.

“Fine. Let’s watch a hockey game and I’ll teach you.” I grabbed a bag of popcorn, poured it into a bowl, and then grabbed a couple of cans of soda from the kitchen. Then I pulled up a video of a hockey game on the TV. I pulled her between my legs to sit and then pressed play. “So the fundamental thing you need to know about hockey is it’s just like regular soccer, but instead of a ball, it’s a puck, and you need to get it into the opponent’s net more than they get it into yours. Two teams, six players each. There’s a goalie that guards the net and five other skaters: forwards—they score goals—and defensemen, who stop the other team from getting in and protect the goalie,” I explained.

I opened the door and stepped inside. The room was large, with a long table in the center. At the head of the table sat three members of the Athletic Board. I recognized them from the games. "Good morning.Sit down, Liam," one of the Board members said, gesturing to a lone chair at the end of the table. I sat. I felt like I was on display. Coach Mike was nowhere to be seen. I was alone. "We want to talk to you about the team," the Board member began. He was a man with grey hair and a sharp nose. "We’ve been looking into the hockey program. Specifically, we are concerned about the team culture at Northwood."

Nothing about me thinking of Wade Scott was romantic. Okay, sure. I was thinking of him. I was thinking of how to dodge him until I never had to see him again. Not even his shadow. I was thinking of ways to disappear, somewhere I would never hear his name, never read it, never. The halls emptied out as five pm hit. Students left. Only athletes stayed behind. And of course, the hockey team was still on the ice, acting like practice was life or death. We passed the hockey building, and the air shifted. The sound of skates cut through everything. We paused, and I could not stop myself from looking in.

I hesitated, but succumbed anyways. “Just one,” I said, not thinking too much to it, a shot with hurt. We sat on the couch, the city lights reflecting on the river outside. Caleb poured us both a drink, handing me a glass. “To better days,” he said, clinking his glass against mine. I took a sip. The whiskey burned going down, but it warmed me from the inside. We talked for a while about hockey, about the team drama, about nothing important. Caleb was easy to talk to when he wasn’t trying too hard. He listened. He didn’t push.

"Twice. You didn't pick up." I pulled off my gloves and dropped them on the desk. "I was on the ice." "I know where you were." She set the leather folder on the desk and opened it without ceremony. "Sit down, Luca." I sat… She laid three printed pages in front of me. The first was a screenshot collection, fan accounts and sports commentary, all circling the same exhibition game footage I had been trying to stop thinking about for four days. The second was a social media analytics report with certain sections highlighted in yellow. The third was an article from a mid-tier sports culture site with the headline underlined in red pen: *Devereaux and Calloway: Hockey Rivalry or Something Else?*

“And you don’t want that to happen.” “I don’t want that to happen with a gun pointed at us.” Her arms crossed, that beautiful defensive instinct. “You know too much for a hockey team captain. Things no one else even understands.” “Side talent.” I glanced at the clock. Callum should’ve been on the perimeter by now. “Listen.” I leaned in. “I’ll say this once: whatever you’ve been feeling lately—exploding emotions, weird sensations, wounds healing faster—it’s not because you’re crazy. Your body’s not broken. Your body remembers something that was put to sleep.”

There were tons of students who were reading this book in high school, it was mandatory freshman year. “What, does that shock you?” he asked with a grin. “Kind of, yes.” He rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to be so blunt about it. Just because I’m a dumb jock, doesn’t mean I don’t like doing things other than playing hockey.” I hated that I felt a little bad, he did have a point. “Sorry, that isn’t what I meant,” I muttered. He pulled up a chair and sat down backward on it next to me.

I found my place on the right wing and locked my eyes on the far boards so I would not have to look at the captain standing three feet to my left. The puck dropped. The first period was a study in held breath and sudden violence. Their defensemen played heavy. Every board battle left new bruises blooming under my pads. I took a hard hit at the half-wall two minutes in and went down harder than necessary, the impact driving the air from my lungs. For a second the rink tilted. When I looked up Damian was already moving past me, calling for the puck, eyes locked on the play like I was nothing more than another obstacle on the ice.

"You hid your bruises well, and they will not ask about your injuries if they cannot see them." "You just need to answer their questions with polite words, and you need to avoid talking about the physical fights on the ice," he advised. "They do not understand the rules of hockey, and they just want to know you are kind."