Booktok Nhl Novels & Stories

It was the only thing keeping him sane, that, and a brutal spar with some of the pack warriors. "Hey man, you good?" Logan, my best friend, asked, pulling me from my thoughts. "Yeah, I'm fine," I lied, stepping around him to get to my locker. I dumped my school bag, wrenched open my side of the locker, and began hauling my gear out…my shoulder pads, skates, and jersey. The number ‘17’ and my last name, ‘BECKHAM’ were printed boldly across the back. The familiar choking smell of the locker room invaded my senses… a mix of after-school uniform sweat, stale adrenaline, and the tang of the ice rink just down the hall.

Everyone questioned it but it had been the only rebellion I’d shown so they let it slide. I recall being happy seeing him play in my school and fucking win, beating our school a fucking five to one. Oh it made my day, seeing him warm up and skate around the ice. Except when I’d wandered away, checking through the list of things in our storage closet that night, preparing for our one-week-away school trip… I saw him. Soren Gregory—the fucking hockey god—on his knees in front of the one woman I hated the most… Anna. His on-and-off situationship everyone knew about.

Riven Heat surged up my neck, even though I should never feel hot here on the ice. My blood was boiling already, my fist gripped hard on the stick. “Reset! Stay sharp!” I commanded my team. The puck dropped again. This time, I won the puck with a clean strike, drove it forward. We cycled fast from left wing to right, right to center, working it like we’d drilled a hundred times. We pressed hard into their zone. One of my boys fired, and their goalie blocked, but the rebound came loose. I skated in, lined it up, and all of a sudden, Sky was there. Again. He swept in from nowhere, stole the puck, and blasted up ice.

The locker room of the New York Glaciers smelled like wintergreen, expensive cologne, and male sweat. To most fans, this was the smell of victory. To Oliver Hartley, it just smelled like forty thousand dollars of student debt. Oliver adjusted the strap of his heavy massage kit. He was twenty-three years old, with messy blonde curls that refused to stay flat and bright blue eyes that usually held a spark of mischief. But today, those eyes were tired. He had graduated top of his class in nursing, but nursing didn't pay enough to clear his loans fast. Being a massage assistant for a star hockey team did.

My hiking addiction has advantages of keeping my legs in tone with the perfect shape for strength and endurance. I see the hockey players and send a quick wave their way, but they turn their backs to me and I can't help but wonder if I've done something wrong or offended them somehow. Shoot, they're probably upset they have to spend their Saturday here at a school pushing books on a bunch of kids who are about as interested in reading as they would be learning to crochet with their grandmas. The kids are allowed to enter at ten o’clock am and follow through the path of tables, entertaining themselves with games and events, earning candy, fidgets, and most importantly books along the way.

News headlines. "Love on Ice: The Volkov-Montgomery Story Leaks Early." "Chapter 10: 'The Night He Begged.'" "Fans Go Wild Over Explicit Details." Damian sat up so fast his head spun. He opened the first link. A leaked P*F. The book's cover—two hockey players silhouetted against the ice. He scrolled to Chapter 10. "The Night He Begged." The chapter started with the abandoned rink. The cold. The blood. Sebastian's voice, transcribed from their interview: "I told him to beg me to hurt him. His voice cracked when he said please."

All I could picture was me tying her arms above her head while I explored every inch of her body. “Are you ok, Nathan?” Amelie asked. “You look a little dazed.” If you only knew, Amelie, I thought to myself. “I’m fine,” I said with a smile. The Rangers came out to the cheers of the crowd, and then a loud boo sound erupted as Boston took the ice. A long-standing rivalry was playing out this evening as it was a battle between two of the original six teams of the NHL. Amelie was right into it, cheering and booing. I loved the excitement on her face. I wanted to give her everything and have her experience everything in life that made her happy.

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.

That was why I felt comfortable enough to come out to her. My fingers tightened around the book as my brain scrambled to make sense of it. No way. Noah Carter, straight-laced hockey captain, was reading gay erotica novels? A soft sound behind me made me glance over my shoulder. He was out cold, one arm now flung over his face, his shirt riding up enough to show his mouthwatering V-line that led into his pants. Heat crept up my neck and I turned back to the shelf, knowing I couldn’t put back the book or he’d know I touched it.