Good Hockey Books Novels & Stories

My hockey step brothers Chapter 22 I didn’t know how long I had been sleeping , but when I opened my eyes , there was a shadow watching me . In fact it wasn’t just any shadow but it was a man watching me . I could feel the way the person looked at us , there wasn’t any smile on the person's face and I knew that . I slowly opened my eyes and when my eyes opened , he was sitting there . Stephan 's hands were tightly wrapped around mine And I was just under his grip .

“You remember why you started playing, right? It wasn’t because you loved the game at first. You started because it was the only thing that made sense when everything else was falling apart.” Noah’s throat suddenly felt tight because that was true. Painfully true. Hockey had never been about dreams. At first, it had simply been ice, noise, movement, a place where he could breathe, where hospital smells and unpaid bills and fear couldn't reach him. A place where he wasn't helpless. Chase reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a worn hockey puck. Black, scuffed, edges scratched from countless practices and games. He rolled it between his fingers once, then held it out.

The heavy betrayal from Lucas, the picture from the cafeteria, and Ann’s damning words vanished into thin air. The only reality left was the charged atmosphere between us. And Richard Rashford staring down at me with an intense, dark hunger in his amber tinted eyes. The thick sexual energy that had hummed between us in the gym came rushing back ten times stronger. And I don’t think I can resist it this time around.

TIMOTHY POV The ice was slick beneath Timothy's skates as he glided across the hockey rink. The sharp blades of his skates cut through the surface, sending sprays of ice crystals into the air. The arena was alive with the sounds of the game, the thud of sticks against pucks, the clatter of players colliding, and the cheers of the crowd. But amid the cacophony of the game, there was a deafening silence that echoed in Timothy's heart. He had come to this match with a sense of resignation, knowing all too well what he would find—or rather, what he wouldn't find.

But Hockey is a beast of a game, and I f*ckin love it. But after my marriage, I stopped watching and even checking live scores. I stopped everything that would remind me of Cicero, deleting him everywhere around me. … We were already seated in a row right across the Islanders' bench before the game started. Papa is seated comfortably with Lugo, Cicero's best friend. They are having a deep conversation that they didn't want me to listen to. So, I focus my attention on the ice, biting down on my lips. Papa is wearing a jersey with Cicero's name and even offered me one before we left the house, but I turned him down.

so easy to do what’s right in this situation for Daniel. And yet…he can’t bring himself to. Because the look on Dylan’s face Friday evening when Andre gets back to the dorm with two of the double chocolate pastries? it’s worth all of the gut twisting he endures when Daniel is around. Dylan does not enjoy hockey. If he had to rank all of the sports on a chart, hockey is so close to the very rock bottom. But….for the first time… basically ever …he wants to go the game this weekend.

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.

There were tons of students who were reading this book in high school, it was mandatory freshman year. “What, does that shock you?” he asked with a grin. “Kind of, yes.” He rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to be so blunt about it. Just because I’m a dumb jock, doesn’t mean I don’t like doing things other than playing hockey.” I hated that I felt a little bad, he did have a point. “Sorry, that isn’t what I meant,” I muttered. He pulled up a chair and sat down backward on it next to me.

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.

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.