Hockey And Ice Skater Book Novels & Stories

"Get back out there, keep your left elbow locked, and finish this game." ​"On your terms, Sasha," Rhys promised, his fingers squeezing mine with a tight, possessive pressure before he stood up. ​He pulled his helmet down, stepped back over the boards, and skated onto the ice for the final twenty minutes of the game. He was the captain of the Seattle Kraken, and he was ready to claim his victory.

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. Kai doesn't slow his stride, his skates cutting a deep, aggressive groove into the ice as he hooks his stick horizontally against my hip, checking my momentum just enough to force my spine back against his solid chest. "Your focus is drifting from the perimeter, Prince," his gravelly frequency rumbles against the shell of my ear, his breath hot in the freezing air of the arena.

As he descended the stairs, Lyon looked at the rippling muscle of Viktor’s frame and thought of a few unprofessional things he might like to order the goalie to do, too. He found a pair of skates and a stick. The pack gave them a wide berth, watching with predatory curiosity. Lyon stepped onto the ice, shivering slightly, but his heart was racing too fast for the cold to take hold. It was time for his secret: he hadn't just written about hockey because of the gossip. He had grown up in a house obsessed with the sport. He had spent his childhood chasing his brothers across frozen ponds. Viktor slid the puck toward him. Lyon caught it with the stick, a fluid, practiced motion. He slapped it ba

"He was talking about the power." "He was talking about control. The ice was the only place he couldn't hurt me. The only place I could channel everything I was feeling into something that made sense. Slap shots. Body checks. Speed. Every time I felt the hunger rising, I skated harder. Every time I wanted to destroy something, I aimed for the net." He looked at me. "Hockey didn't just save me from my father. It saved me from myself." "And now the draft is going to put you in front of every scout and every family in the country."

When I finally found the door with 213 on it, I was exhausted. I pushed it open and saw three girls sitting and chatting on the lower bunk. One of them immediately caught my attention. She held a spell book in her hand and her white-blonde hair was tied into a ponytail. "This is your room?" She asked, peering at me. "Yeah, I'm Liora of Hollowshade." "Elyra of Korrvale. These are my friends, Lila and Mira." "Hello" the girls chorused. But their voices were cold. I saw it in their eyes that they didn't like me.

I thought I was here because of my spices, because of my hard work in the hot kitchen, but. The cold air of the ice rink pierced my pores, but the blood in my veins felt boiling. I didn't remember how I got there. I just knew I had to see him. In front of me, dozens of hockey players in full uniform were hurtling at high speed. A black puck shot straight up, hitting the wall with a deafening thud. "Woah! Chef! Get out of there!" someone shouted from the bench. "When did she get in there?"

Mary's POV The freezing air inside the ice rink bit at my skin, but my gaze was burning hot as I watched my Big boy out on the center ice. Ryder skated at full speed, his hockey stick swinging to smack the puck, sending it slamming into the net with a loud, aggressive crack. He looked unbelievably sexy in his practice jersey, the fabric molding perfectly against his thick, corded muscles. After scoring for the umpteenth time, he braked sharply, sending a spray of shaved ice flying into the air. His dark eyes immediately locked onto my position on the sidelines. Without warning, he skated straight toward me.

“We’re hitting the rink. You gotta learn to skate for real if we’re selling this boyfriend story.” I groaned but followed him anyway. The hockey rink was empty that early, just us and the cold air that made my nose sting. The ice looked smooth and scary under the bright lights. I laced up the skates, feeling clumsy already. My feet wobbled the second I stepped on. “Easy, dude,” Roland said, gliding over like it was nothing. “Bend your knees. Don’t lock up.”

I look down at my open book and wait for the feeling to pass. "I did not realize hockey players spent time on the psychological motivations of literary characters," I say, because deflection is something I am significantly better at than honesty. Something shifts at the corner of his mouth. "Didn't realize figure skaters cared about performative identity construction." My stomach drops. "I never said I was—" "You didn't have to." The reading room continues around us. Pages turning. Pencils moving. Someone across the room clicking a pen in a rhythm that is going to bother me if this session runs long.

It was like something Dylan had never seen before. And still, he was wrong. Because there is nothing more attractive than seeing the way Andre hovers behind his little sister as she gets the hang off skating with much more weight on her shoulders than she’s used to. Their trainer, Evan, made it clear that he wouldn’t even let her touch her hockey stick until she could skate confidently with all of her gear on. Considering she did a lot of bragging about being the ‘fastest ice skater in her school’, Dylan hadn’t expected her to be so adorably clumsy.