Booktok Hockey Novels & Stories

Americus puffs up with obvious pride, like she's discussing advanced degrees from prestigious universities rather than her informal education in hockey culture. I can't help but smirk slightly. "What a useful life skill for literature seminars and philosophy discussions." "It absolutely is!" Americus insists with complete conviction. "You don't understand the transferable skills involved here, Silver. Hockey locker rooms aren't just changing areas. They're kingdoms with their own complex social hierarchies and unwritten rules. And the players? They're basically knights in really expensive, extremely smelly armor." Riley actually laughs at this description, quickly covering her mouth with her

Carter Blake POV Man, was I spot-on. Hockey? Yeah… this game has me completely hooked. Two weeks in, and I’m officially obsessed. I mean, come on, action, suspense, strategy, chaos, brute strength, skill, and, okay, yes… visual eye candy. It’s the full package.

Do you want to know why I think so? You see, once upon a time there was a girl that hated hockey and everything related to it, especially hockey players. She had a good reason as well. But suddenly Nathaniel Madox waltzed into her life and turned it all upside down. He made her realize that not everyone is out there to hurt her. He helped her see that as much as there were asshole hockey players, there was the same amount of kind and gold-hearted hockey players who were willing to top everything for those they loved and cared about.

Chapter 182: Third Person POV The man's fingers traced the glossy magazine cover slowly, deliberately, his touch almost reverent as it moved across the photograph displayed there, a hockey player mid-action, captured in perfect athletic form, his face focused and intense beneath the headline "Zane Mercer: The NHL's Most Elusive Star." The downtown Seattle penthouse where he sat was dark except for the ambient city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting shadows that made the expensive modern furniture look almost sinister in the dim glow.

I crashed backward into the lockers with a deafening bang, pain shooting through my spine as the metal dug in. The crowd erupted, phones started flying up, people shouting and recording. Natalie stormed in and raised her arm, clearly wanting to slap me back and I'm ready for that. "An eye for an eye, a slap for a slap." But when her hand was about to land on me, another hand caught her wrist. "Hands off, Blondie!" Asher's deep voice boomed through the chaos like a command on the ice. The star winger of the hockey team pushed through the crowd with powerful strides, his broad shoulders cutting through the sea of phones and staring faces.

There was a seriousness in Nathan's voice, unreadable, just not very pleased. How could that be. This was the Master he cared about most. Tiffany blushed and put on a shy, bashful look. "Mm... I was afraid you'd think a girl like me doesn't understand hockey, so I never dared admit it." That notebook was packed with all my tactical workups, exactly the same as the tactics IceTyrant had given Nathan. She must have snuck a look inside while I was asleep. I bit my lip bloody, forcing down the urge to rush out and expose her.

“This is just my equipment room.” “Just?” I walked closer to the stuff. I don't want to film with my phone. I'd rather use my camera which I didn't come with. So next time. I typed into my notepad again: He got a spot dedicated to his hockey materials. Extremely organized and neat. I smiled, staring at the photograph. I noticed a book shelf. They're not books related to hockey. “Wait, so you read?” “Yeah. I read novels and books when I'm tired of scrolling.”

"Man, I don't get it. You guys don't even talk in the locker room, but on the ice, you’re like best friends. How do you do it?" "It's just hockey, Swiss," I said, not looking at Jax. "You don't have to like someone to pass them the puck." Jax gave a small, stiff nod. "Exactly. I just go where the puck goes." But later that night, at 2:00 AM, the “ just hockey” part disappeared. The athletic dorms had high tech security, but I knew the blind spots of the cameras. My father thought he had locked me in a cage, but he forgot that I had spent my life learning how to navigate systems.

I tuned most of it out, focusing instead on the restless movements in the room. Someone’s leg bouncing against the floor. A stick tapping against the chair leg. The faint squeak of skates shifting in their guards. And then, as if the noise wasn’t irritating enough, my eyes landed on him. Asher Beckett. Star player. Poster boy of Boston’s hockey program. No seriously, he was on the school’s brochure last year for the hockey program. He was sitting amongst the hockey players, broad shoulders filling out his jacket, arms resting loosely across his knees. His expression was calmer than the others with his long brown hair falling into his eyes.

Adrenaline surged—but my focus kept snapping, tugged toward the stands like a damn magnet. Mate, Zach growled, restless. She’s watching. “Shut up,” I hissed under my breath as I stole the puck off a sloppy pass and drove toward center ice. A player slammed into my side. I barely felt it. I passed left, cut right, circled back fast. The game was noise and chaos and speed—but under it all was her scent, faint yet relentless, bleeding into the rink like a curse. Strawberries. Apples. Warm.