Booktok Hockey Player Novels & Stories

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."

Don’t know what it is about the damn plane but I’d rather be on the bus than anything else. “I’ll be out of your way soon.” I hear Immi saying, bringing me back to the day I took the keys for this house and stood here with my proud parents just taking it all in. Me, some kid from this small-town who was obsessed with ice hockey. I grew up watching some of the greats and I mean the greats. Names like Alex Ovechkin, Jaques Plantes an oldie but a goodun and Steve Yzerman. They all inspired me to work my ass off and to get into ice hockey in school and throughout college. I have won more trophies than I count. I’m the top hockey player in the country right now and have I let it go to my head. Ok

Has she really forgotten? “Ryker, what are your thoughts?” I look up, caught off guard. “On what?” “We’re going through names on the roster. Half the team is out with food poisoning from those damn homemade cookies, so the roster.” I shrug. “I don’t know. Do any of the names actually play hockey?” “You weren’t listening. Coach mentioned Jax,” Quinn mutters beside me. I snap my head up. “Since when was he on the roster? He’s a figure skater, not hockey.”

“Will you fucking get your kit on. We have to be out in ten now.” “Whatever, dude chill out. We’ve got this. Alexei is playing tonight, he might start something,” he tells me. Alexei is a trouble maker on the ice. He was drafted to Boston from Vancouver and has had issues ever since. He’s an angry man who takes it out on anyone he can when he plays. He’s also a very dirty player. “Let’s try to stay out of his face, guys. Got it. Now, let’s wrap this up and show our fans what we’re made of.”

END OF BOOK 2 The Mitchell-Volkov family's story continues in Book 3: "CHAMPIONSHIP ICE" - where new challenges in New York will test everything they've built, while Franklin's legacy influences decisions from afar and unexpected opportunities arise for Emma in women's hockey development. The question isn't whether they can succeed in their new life—it's whether they can maintain their family bonds while pursuing individual dreams on the biggest stage in professional hockey.

Practice began. I played like the ice owed me something. Every stride was sharper. Every hit was harder. When the puck came to my stick I treated it like the only honest thing left in the world. Coach barked approval twice. I didn’t hear him. I only heard the sound of Damian’s blades whenever he passed too close, the low command of his voice when he corrected someone else’s positioning, the absolute absence of any acknowledgment that twelve hours earlier he had been buried inside me against the glass.

Whoever that man was, I was certain that he was behind everything, including paying everyone off to keep them silent. "I didn't get a good look. Tall, definitely. Dark hair. Built like an athlete. I remember thinking he looked familiar, but I couldn't place him." The drunk leaned back, scratching his chin. "You know who he reminded me of? That hockey coach. The famous one. Dominic something." The floor dropped out from under me, and I turned to Patrick whose face has turned pale. "His face was turned away in the photos," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "In the photos Janie showed me. His face was obscured. But you're saying he looked like Coach Dante?" I turned back to the drunk man who w

In the hallway outside the locker room, a tall man in a navy suit leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp beneath a shock of graying hair. “Hayden Michaels?” he asked, stepping forward and extending a hand. “Yes, sir.” “David Kern. Toronto Maple Leafs development team.” We shook hands. His grip was firm and business-like. “I’ve been following your games this season. Your skating’s crisp. Vision on the ice is top-tier. You’re not just talented but you’re teachable and that’s rare for hockey players.” “Thank you,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “I won’t waste your time. You’ve got pro potential, Michaels. Big potential. If you keep this up, we’ll be sending an official invitat

My fingers finding the keys with the same instinct that found them at 2 AM in a dorm room when the filthiest post poured out of me like blood from a wound. The team dinner was the following week. Steakhouse downtown. Twenty pro hockey players, their partners, the noise of cutlery and bass-heavy music and the low roar of men who spent their professional lives hitting each other talking about fantasy football. I sat beside Rhys in a black dress I’d bought with my first stipend cheque because the jersey felt wrong here – this wasn’t college anymore. The backup goalie leaned across the tablecloth. Thick jaw. Evaluating squint. The energy of a man about to say something he thought was clever.

“Send in the hockey guys. One at a time.” A few minutes later, the door opens, and the first guy steps in. I recognize him immediately, Liam Carter, a defenseman for one of the teams Nikolai had under his thumb. He’s young, early twenties, still wide-eyed but with a layer of arrogance that tells me he thinks he’s untouchable. Dark blonde hair, sharp cheekbones, built like a guy who’s used to throwing his weight around on the ice. He hesitates only slightly before stepping forward. “Mercer,” he says, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, the same curiosity I saw in DeLuca’s guy.