Dark Hockey Romance Novelas e Histórias

He closed his eyes and sighed before giving in and kissing her again. With every laugh and kiss, they felt longing mixed with nervousness and comedy. They were like two teenagers hiding from their parents—but more intense, because they knew it was forbidden and they couldn’t stay long. So Dark immediately released his Golden Sperm. "Oooohhh! Shiiiittt! Honey! I’m done!" Dark gasped as he leaned against the cold wall, holding his chest as if he were out of breath. A smile he couldn’t erase was on his face even though he was covered in sweat.

It's that simple, that brutal. So I'm staying away. Even though it's killing me. Even though I can feel her pain through the bond— this hollow, aching agony that won't stop. I steal the puck from one of Adrian's teammates and drive toward the goal. Someone tries to block me. I don't slow down. Just slam into them, sending them sprawling onto the ice. The whistle blows. Ronan is shouting something. I ignore him. Adrian skates over, his blue eyes cold. “What the hell is your problem, Knox?”

(Lucas’ Pov– A Few Days Ago) The dim glow of the fireplace cast flickering shadows across the walls, illuminating the room in a soft, eerie light. Outside, the waves crashed against the rocky cliffs of the island, their relentless rhythm matching the simmering rage that had lived inside me for years. I leaned back in my chair, swirling the amber liquid in my glass as Rico sat across from me, his fingers tapping against the polished wooden table. His dark eyes studied me with a mix of curiosity and unease.

Suddenly, the heavy techno beat seemed to fade into a dull hum. The temperature on the dance floor dropped instantly, the air turning thick and freezing cold. A massive, suffocating wave of pure, unadulterated Alpha dominance crashed over the entire room, so heavy and oppressive that the human patrons nearby stopped dancing, stumbling back in instinctive, subconscious terror. The circle of hockey players around me parted like the Red Sea. Roman was standing there.

ZANE’S POV The rink was my sanctuary, the only place where the world’s noise dulled to a low hum. My skates carved the ice, each stride a desperate bid to outrun the chaos in my head. The Blizzard’s practice facility echoed with the sharp crack of pucks and the shouts of teammates, but I barely heard them. My mind was a storm—Lila Harper’s hazel eyes, her defiant mouth, the way she’d shuddered under me last night.

Ever. I pointed to the rest of the stuff, and he started moving it all, quiet and strong. The room felt smaller with him in it, but not in a bad way. Still, my mind wouldn’t stop. What if this was a trick? What if he got tired of me and left? The tension in my chest made it hard to breathe. After a few minutes, he broke the silence. “So, you like hockey at all? Or is it just something you clean up after?”

Six months of rewriting the blueprints of my own mind on and off the ice. I glide toward the center line, the black obsidian captain’s C stitched into my heavy hockey jersey catching the glare of the overhead arena lights. The internal scars left by Ethan Cole haven't vanished—they never truly will—but they have been entirely recontextualized. They are no longer monuments to my violation; they are the armor my wolf wears. A shadow falls over my left flank, a dark, rich scent of pine and absolute authority hitting my senses a millisecond before the heavy impact of a massive body aligns perfectly with mine.

“I’ll be fucking honored, Hayes.” The ring slid onto my finger and then he cupped my wet face in both hands before leaning in to kiss me. Deeply and wholly and stupidly perfect in front of five thousand screaming fans. If anyone had ever told me Dorian, the guy who hated me would be mine forever, I would never have believed it. Dorian pucked me hard, figuratively and literally and showed me love beyond my imagination. Enough with the hockey puns. I love my Redhead. Thank you for reading and enjoying my love story.

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.

I was getting hopeful that we were on the right track to getting my memories back. The feeling continued as I walked through the halls and the chill of the rink washed over me. A few memories came back to me, but they were small snippets, too small to piece together. I looked through the windows of the doors to the rink and spotted a figure in a black hoodie and black sweatpants gliding along the ice. I watched as he slapped a few shots into the net with the utmost anger, shards of ice could be seen flying as his stick scraped the ground.