Good Hockey Romance Books Novels & Stories

Fears about the future, dreams for after hockey, promises to face whatever came next side by side. The emotional rawness led naturally to tenderness—kisses turning heated, hands wandering, bodies pressing close. But this time it was slow, reverent—worshipping each other with touches and whispers until we were lost in it again. As we lay spent and tangled once more, sunlight fully streaming in, I knew one truth above all.

“I kissed him… no. He kissed me. I think. Oh my god. I don’t know.” “WHO. TELL ME WHO BEFORE I DIE.” I bit my lip hard. “Dominic.” Dead silence. Then she screamed. Like, actually screamed. “DOMINIC LAKES?! LIKE… DOMINIC DOMINIC?! THE HOCKEY PLAYER?! THE BAD BOY WHO LOOKS LIKE SIN??” “Yes!” I hissed into the phone. “Shut up before my whole street hears you.” “Tell me everything. Right now. Or I’ll come over there and drag it out of you.”

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.

It was a promise to love and protect, to cherish and nurture the flame that burned brightly in our hearts. A surge of passion and desire ignited between us. The air crackled with an electric energy, and I could feel the intensity building as our lips drew closer. Unable to resist the magnetic pull, our mouths met in a searing, passionate kiss. It was a union of souls, a melding of two hearts that beat as one. Our tongues danced in a passionate rhythm, exploring the depths of each other's desires. He bit my lips and sucked my blood from them, grabbing my hair.

"This is becoming a habit. First you break into my suite in disguise, and now you're breaking into my shower." I stared at him in disbelief. He stood there, dripping wet, completely bare, acting like this was a casual Tuesday afternoon meeting. "Will you please put some clothes on? Do you realise you're literally naked in front of me?!" "Does it bother you so much, Miss Thorne?" *** The arrow flew straight for my heart. Before I could react, a strong arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me back. I crashed against a hard chest as the arrow struck the marble pillar behind us. Duke Blackthorn. Zane. "Why did you save me? I thought we were enemies." "We are." "Then why?" His grip

His powerful presence filled the entire space, making it incredibly hard for me to breathe or think clearly. "Start with those heavy boxes over there," I said, my voice shaking slightly as I pointed my finger toward a high stack of hockey pucks. Holden did not move a single inch. Instead, he took another slow step closer to me. The remaining space between our bodies disappeared completely. I could feel the intense, unnatural heat radiating off his skin again. It was the exact same heat from yesterday in the arena hall. "Why did my deep cuts heal the exact second I touched your skin in the hall?" Holden demanded to know, his voice sounding dangerously soft and low, his eyes drilling into mine

Williams just took it. "You need to end the hockey game!" Mariam screamed, her voice cracking with pure rage. She stepped into his space, her chest heaving, pointing a manicured finger at his chest. "Stop playing hockey! It is affecting our marriage! You care more about that stupid puck and the Blackwood Alphas than your own pack. Than me!" Well, that was the excuse she gave for today's violence. Every day had its own reason. Yesterday, it was because he returned from the pack borders too late. The day before, it was because he hadn't tasted the dinner she ordered the cooks to make.

” A pair of strong hands caught my arms before I could bounce backward. “Are you lost, love?” I looked up. He was tall—the kind of height that came with playing center, built broad through the shoulders and chest in the way that hockey did to people if they’d stuck with it long enough. His dark hair pushed back from his forehead like it had been pushed back many times tonight, with a finely carved jawline. I registered his hands on my arms—they were light but there. And I knew that face, not from here. I knew it from two seasons ago, across the ice—game five of the regional semifinals. Harlow versus Westbrook. I’d watched that face score three goals in the third period like he was personally