Booktok Hockey Novels & Stories

a commentator started off. “Oh, come on, Derrick… having the upper hand has never once worked in hockey. If the Red Deers can defeat the Blackhawks, then the U.S. will be happy today.” I continued watching the game, with Easton carrying his group and then a score against the Red Deers. “She's not fit for him. I had no idea he was engaged,” I heard behind me. I turned, and both girls stopped their small talk. I noticed the way they acted like their eyes weren't on me.

Whereas Nathan’s eyes were brown. "You must be Jin-hoon," Arthur said, extending his hand for a handshake. "I am," Jin-hoon replied. They shook hands and then Arthur introduced us, and Jin-hoon introduced his wife, Nancy, and their eight-year-old daughter, Brittney, who was wearing six pink and purple bows in her hair. "I’ve never been to a hockey game before," Brittney said in perfect English. "You’ll love it. They chase a puck around with a stick, and then they fight each other but pretend they’re not really fighting," Mia said.

"I promise. Now come on, we're going to be late." We split up for our different classes, and the morning passes in the usual blur of lectures and note-taking. By the time lunch rolls around, I'm ready for a break. But as I'm packing up my things, Ty appears at my classroom door. "Hey." He leans against the frame. "You coming to the game today?" "Game?" "The hockey match. Home game against Westfield. It's this afternoon." He grins. "I'm the goalie. You have to come."

“Accurate?” “Extremely,” I said, crossing my arms. “I prefer books to bruises.” Knox leaned on his stick, helmet dangling from his other hand. Sweat glistened on his temples, but he still smelled like mint gum and victory. Unfair. “Books, huh? What’s your poison? Romance? Mystery? Or are you one of those ‘I only read classics’ types?” I blinked. Was the hockey god actually making conversation? “Mostly fantasy. The kind with dragons, not… whatever this is.” I gestured at the entire rink like it had personally offended me.

A scoff followed after, almost like she didn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth, “You can’t be serious. It’s hockey!! A game of champions. Blake University has had the best team for years. We almost made it to the playoffs last year even, there’s no way you came in here without wanting to— “No.” I shook my head, “I think hockey is a game for losers.” “Aria!!” I remained defiant on my stance, “You heard me. I think hockey sucks, the concept of the whole game sucks, I think it’s a waste of student resources and the school’s money. I did my research and the school pumps a whole load into the team, which I think is pathetic. So you heard me loud and clear—Hockey is a game for losers.” I

DOMINIC "A hockey team, Dominic? Seriously?" Jax stood on the balcony overlooking the yard, watching as two dozen teenagers and young adults—the Blackridge 'Howlers' hockey squad unloaded crates from the back of an ice-truck. "They’re not just kids, Jax," I said, leaning over the blueprint spread across the railing. "They’re athletes with a specialized skill set. They know how to move on ice, they know how to coordinate at high speeds, and more importantly, they have access to industrial-grade liquid nitrogen and high-tensile netting."

Dark hair messy beneath his helmet like a cologne commercial designed to ruin women financially and emotionally. Still an asshole though. “You’re watching this again?” she asked. Ethan finally glanced at her. “This was his hat trick game.” “You say that like it’s supposed to mean something to me.” “It means he scored three goals in one game.” “Congratulations to him and his violent ice soccer.” Ethan gasped in mock offense. “Did you just call hockey ice soccer?” “Yes.” “That’s offensive.” She bit into her toast. “You know what’s offensive? The fact that this man has rejected me four times this month.”

His teammates started joking that som‍ebody neede‍d to bottle whatev‌er ha‌d gotte⁠n into their captain. L‌ena went‌ to every‌ home g⁠am‍e she could, tuck⁠ed into the stands near the glass, and⁠ every sin‌gle time, every time, Ca⁠meron⁠ found her face⁠ in the crowd b‌efore t⁠he puck even dropp⁠ed⁠.

Driven by the restless energy bubbling inside me, I decided to head over to the camp gym to burn some of it off before the morning briefing. I put on a matching set of dark athletic leggings and a fitted top, grabbed my water bottle, and strolled over to the fitness center located just a stone's throw from our residential hall. The room was sparsely populated with a few familiar faces from the competition, but I was relieved to see that Mirabelle wasn’t one of them. I stepped onto one of the treadmills, setting a light jog to warm up my muscles. I was just settling into a smooth rhythm when a deep, smooth voice called my name over the mechanical hum of the machine.

Specifically to the pages sitting next to his keyboard – a cover page visible with what appeared to be a very muscular torso sketched in pencil. “Cole.” He reached for the pages. Too slow. “Was that a romance novel?” He slammed his laptop shut like that would somehow help. “It’s literary fiction with romantic elements.” “There was a shirtless hockey player on the cover page.” “...Research.” Sienna looked at me. I looked at Sienna. For one second – one brief, ridiculous, beautiful second – the weight of everything lifted and we were just two girls in a boy’s apartment discovering that the 6′4" redheaded goalie with the deadpan delivery was secretly writing love stories.