Novel & Cerita Books About Hockey Players

She dragged Oliver inside, pushed him into his small bedroom and locked the door from the outside to make him think about his mistake. At the exact same time, Alexander sat in a dark, quiet office back in the city. A private detective sat across the wooden table. The detective handed Alexander a thick brown folder. It was the secret investigation file about the accident five years ago. Alexander opened the folder. His large hands began to shake immediately. His grey eyes moved fast over the typed words. He felt his blood turn into freezing ice. Alexander read the paper out loud. His deep voice trembled badly. "Dr. William Hartley refused to inject the hockey players with illegal doping drugs

He’s just focused on getting the best out of his client, Cicero, and is ready to go the extra mile to do that if he needs to. So, at that time, when the act took place, I found a way to convince him that if Cicero finds out, it will affect his career, knowing he doesn’t play with Cicero’s career. So, he agreed to keep my secret because, as we all know, Cicero is a ticking time bomb. Frank opens the door, and the faint scent of men's cologne, heat, and masculine odor permeates the air. The sight of half-naked hockey players hits me as he leads the way, walking ahead, while good-looking and well-chiseled hockey athletes stare and whistle as we pass them.

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.

It was the stubborn drive of a hockey captain who refused to lose a game, even when the scoreboard said it was impossible. Holden lunged to his side, sliding across the wet ice. His ordinary human hand reached out and grabbed a heavy wooden hockey stick that had been left near the team bench. He gripped the taped handle with both hands, using his momentum to swing the heavy wooden stick upward with everything he had. The heavy wood connected right with the rogue's jaw with a loud, hollow crack. The rogue let out a sharp yelp, his head snapping back as he stumbled backward across the slippery surface. He crashed into the plastic boards, clutching his bleeding face in total shock. He had expec

Okay, maybe mocking the giant hockey player isn’t the smartest survival instinct, but he started it. He exhales sharply before dropping onto the bed opposite mine. The mattress creaks beneath his weight as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. For the first time since he walked in, I properly look at him. I've heard about hockey players being ridiculously hot and all. Back home, the guys aren't bad but if there's one thing I've come to realize? It's that they are certainly a group of obnoxious bunch who think the world revolves around them. You're an athlete? Who cares? We're all athletes. Just do your thing and get it over with. But no. They want everybody they come across to know

His voice was low enough that only I could hear it under the noise. "You look exhausted, Captain. Starting to break already?" Something inside me cracked open. I do not fight on the ice. That is not who I am. I have played twelve seasons of professional hockey and in those twelve seasons I have received exactly two fighting majors, both of them in my rookie year when I still had something to prove. I am composed, I am controlled. I am the kind of player who smiles at the camera and taps gloves at the end of a loss and says the right things in post-game interviews. My father built that image and I had maintained it for over a decade because it was the only version of myself I was allowed to b

I cry out as I push my ass backward, feeling Ryder pushing his massive cock all the way in me. In response, Ryder uses his free hand to pinch my nipples a little harder, and I part my plump lips in sweet pain. Ryder and I met when I was writing an article about him, the all famous hockey player. He hadn’t wanted to answer any of my questions until after I had gone on at least five dates with him.

"You know what, Coach? I barely know anything about you." He blinks, caught off guard by the subject change. "What?" "I know you're an ex-hockey player. That's it. You should tell me more. Your career. Your story. All of it." "I don't see how that's relevant—" "Humor me." He studies my face for a moment, then sighs. "Alright. I played college hockey at Michigan. Got drafted to the NHL—Chicago Blackhawks. Played three seasons before I tore my ACL in a game against Boston."

“I don’t want it to get attention. I know that some players do volunteer work to improve their image, but I'm not like that. And there is the fact that these kids are deaf. The media would roll over all this information.” “Why only deaf children? Because of your brother?” “Most likely. He loves field hockey and has always wanted to pursue it. But it's not easy, as you can imagine. To date, only one deaf person has played in the NHL. But there are some teams with only hearing-impaired people and there's even a championship. The next world ice hockey championship for the deaf will be held in Vancouver, where he lives. He's very excited about it.

He pointed toward the elevator. “I want the little idiot who used to smile every time he stepped onto fresh ice.” I laughed. “I can do that.” “I know you can.” ⸻ That evening, the coaches gathered all forty players in one of the conference rooms. The walls were covered with banners. NHL logos. USA Hockey. Development programs. Names of former players who’d stood exactly where we were standing now. Some had gone on to win Stanley Cups. Others had never played a single NHL game. The showcase director stepped to the front.