Hockey And Ice Skater Book Novels & Stories

Armor that keeps me safe yet makes me ache to move, to explode, to be uncontainable. I crave the puck drop like a lifeline. That first slice of skate against ice the resistance, the glide, the raw, violent grace of it all. The cold wind biting my face, the muscles springing into action, the shock of collision, the rush of the chase. Each moment a spark, a pulse, a release of every part of me tethered and restrained.

Roman Thorne is the invincible team leader of college hockey. He is large, aggressive and a nightmare to the media. The press, however, does not know what makes the Briarwood Ice Devils so feared. They are not just players. They are ruthless, blood-swilling offspring of the most formidable crime business in the city. Trying to keep a small scandal which is about to blow up their small business, the Thorne family appeals to the service of Sloane Mercer. She is 24 years old and a brilliant ruthless PR fixer. Her task is easy: to improve the image of the team, to work with press, and not to put Roman in the prison. But Sloane has not come to save them. She is here to ruin them. Sloa

Oliver ran through the empty back hallways of the huge stadium. His lungs burned. His feet hit the hard rubber floors loudly. He reached the heavy metal door of the Glaciers' locker room. He pushed the door open. The room was completely quiet. It smelled strongly of cold ice, wintergreen muscle rub, and fresh mint. Alexander stood alone by his locker. He wore plain grey sweatpants and a tight black t-shirt. He was slowly packing his expensive hockey skates into a large black bag. His broad shoulders slumped forward. He looked completely empty and totally broken.

Neylan The ice skates slice the frozen ground, a sharp scraping sound echoing through the loud arena. The scoreboard above flashes bright red. We are up by two goals. My lungs burn. My fingers grip the hockey stick until my knuckles turn white inside the padded gloves. The stadium is a madhouse, thousands of fans screaming, but my brain registers none of it. There is a thick, sweet wave hitting the back of my throat. Warm honey melting over ripe peach cutting straight through the smell of rubber, sweat, and melting ice.

I exchanged my backpack for algebra books and allowed Margot to yet again pull me away. The day had gone quickly, and although my friends had wanted me to join them for lunch, I declined, wanting to spend some time on the ice today. So, here I was, dressed in a base layer black sports bra and the matching black shorts that stuck to my body like clingfilm. Today I was in the mood to sweat and get some extreme practice in, and then end with some light figure skating.

Everything about him screamed wealthy man who probably owns boats. “Lily,” he said warmly. “Glad you made it.” I gave the polite smile of someone participating against her will. Mom narrowed her eyes. “Where did you even go?” “Walking,” I responded, clearly not in the mood to speak. I ignored the looks they exchanged and dropped into the empty seat beside Mom. The game resumed moments later, and unfortunately, that asshole from the room appeared on the ice. He skated out like arrogance had developed legs. Broad shoulders. Annoyingly familiar green eyes.

He didn’t even care that I hadn’t consented to that video! “I don’t want to hear excuses, you won’t be going to Toronto this weekend anymore… I'll be sending you to grandmas, surely you can work on the farm…” His words slowly drowned out and I turned to leave ignoring his calls. I hated them… This time j meant it… just one night I had leg loose and foolishly trusted them only for them to ruin my life. What I couldn’t understand was why? Why they had done it?! Perhaps to put me I. My image? Or to break me? As I walked past their room, I heard the hockey team mirror their girlfriends' laughter.

I do not love hockey. I love figure skating, which I have done since I was four years old, which is how I ended up at Harlow on an athletic scholarship, which is also and this is the part nobody tells you at recruitment visits why I have complicated feelings about hockey players specifically. Hockey players share our ice. Hockey players have, on three documented occasions this semester alone, left ruts in the resurface pattern that my coach describes using language I won't repeat. Hockey players operate on the assumption that the rink is primarily theirs with figure skating as a polite inconvenience scheduled around them. I am not biased. I am informed.

CALIX’S POV CRAAAACK! The sound of my hockey stick hitting the puck echoed loudly in the empty arena. I watched the puck fly across the ice and move directly into the back of the net, but I didn't feel happy about the perfect shot, I just skated forward, dragged another puck from the pile, and set it up. It was past ten in the night, and the newly renovated Northcott rink was empty, illuminated only by the bright overhead stadium lights.

I can’t wait to see my girl again and maybe she’ll forget about all this horseshit three months business and decide she can’t be without me. Atlas, as our captain, skates onto the ice first. The crowd goes nuts, the music blasts and the broadcaster announces his name. I skate on next, and the place erupts. I can see banners, those huge, large fingers, scarves being raised in the air. Someone has thrown something on the ice, it looks like a teddy. One of the rink aides goes quickly to retrieve it and take if off the ice. Eventually we’re all on, the Winnipeg guys shake our hands. “We want a clean game.” Their center man tells me.