Booktok Hockey Novels & Stories

Hockey gear was organized in one corner and textbooks were stacked precisely on his desk. There was a small bookshelf with actual books on it and not just textbooks. A laptop sat closed on his desk next to a half-empty water bottle. The bed was made with dark blue sheets and there were no posters on the walls. It was simple and clean and somehow it felt like Ace. I'd imagined his room before. Late at night when I couldn't sleep. I'd wondered what it looked like and what he did in there when he was alone. But I'd never thought I'd actually see it.

What exactly was so important that he had to hide it in there? Giving up on the safe, my attention shifted to a small library in the corner of the room. Unlike the dominating rows of business and law books—which made perfect sense considering he was the heir to the Vance empire—there was one bottom shelf filled with worn-out covers. They were hockey textbooks and strategy guides from when Ryder was in high school. I pulled out a thick hardcover book on the history of ice hockey with a faint smile, imagining how the ice-cold Ryder could be so obsessed with this sport since his teenage years.

STORY SEVEN: THE HOCKEY CAPTAIN’S FATHER SIN PART ONE The roar of the crowd was deafening as Noah Walsh, the star hockey captain of elite St. Xavier Academy, slammed the puck into the net for the game-winning goal. The arena erupted. Horns blared, lights flashed, and the entire student section went wild.

“I see you are reading a book.” “No, not really,” she muttered. “The book is just for show.” I sat down on the bed too and watched her closely. I took a deep breath before calling her name. She looked up, “What is it?” “I have been thinking…” I muttered. “How about you start playing hockey again?”

Sophia expects me to become one of them, not the other way around. "We'll discuss it later," I say, signaling the waiter. "Right now, I need to focus on tomorrow's game." "Against that little pack from the south?" She waves dismissively. "It should be an easy win. Bloodfang has never been known for their hockey skills." "They're stronger this year. They have some new talent." "Like who? That Hale girl everyone's been talking about?" Sophia's laugh is sharp. "I remember her from the video that circulated. She was nobody then, and she's nobody now. Just because she learned to play hockey doesn't make her important."

"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?*

I didn't move a single millimeter. I turned my head slightly, my freezing, black glare sweeping across the entire locker room, locking eyes with every single player sitting on the benches. "I'm saying this once for the whole damn room," I announced, my voice echoing clearly off the concrete walls, laced with venom. "Janessa Moreno is off-limits. If I hear a single one of you whisper her name, if I see a single look, or if anyone in here calls her a puck-bunny again... you are getting a hockey stick directly to the ribs. I will personally ruin your spot on this roster. Try me. I am begging every single one of you to try me."

SLOANE I spent the next five days bonding with Dad and Victoria. Yeah… *Victoria*. “Let’s play hockey,” I said, tossing the puck Chase had given me as a Christmas gift across the kitchen island. Dad looked up from his coffee, eyebrows raised in genuine shock. --- I pushed off. The blade bit the ice. The glide was smooth — not the glass-smooth perfection of a maintained rink, but stable enough, confident enough, the kind of glide that whispered *I know what I’m doing* even when doubt still lingered underneath.

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.

I kept my balance, my steel blades carving a sharp arc into the ice as I turned to chase the play into the corner. The game turned dirty within the first five minutes. It was not normal hockey. The Boston players were not chasing the puck; they were chasing the honey scent. Every time I went near the boards to battle for a loose rubber disk, two or three opposing Alphas would crowd into my space. They did not try to lift my stick. They aimed their gloved hands high, their forearms pushing hard against my chin, trying to scrape their gear across my neck gland to disrupt the permanent mark.