Hockey Booktok Books Novels & Stories

“Walk in late, act like you own the place, then disappear when real responsibility is mentioned.” I glanced at him. “I didn’t disappear,” I told him calmly. “I left to pursue my dream.” “That’s the same thing!” Adrian shot back. Our mother raised her hand slightly. “Please—can we not start like this?” But no one listened. My father began. “You think hockey is a career worth building an empire on?” My jaw tightened. “It already is.” A cold laugh from Adrian. “Sports?” he said. “You’re betting your entire life on sports?”

Monroe hear that her friend wasn't paying attention. I flipped through the worn-out pages of the book that Grandma Jo had bought for me and looked at the page intently while Bee observed my reaction. "If it's too hard, I can show you my answers early in the morning," Bee offered. "Just come earlier than usual." I nodded without saying anything. The assignment was simple enough, so I could definitely answer it in less than an hour. The only reason why I wasn't able to pay attention in class was because I was occupied with my weekly hockey skills target. It had already been a week since I had started and I was looking forward to getting better.

Before I could respond, he grabbed my wrists, twisted them behind my back, and shoved me against the locker, my red, exposed asshole facing his hardened cock. “Fuck, this shouldn’t be happening. Not after everything between us… Not after….” —— Thirty Minutes Earlier: Year 2017 Commentator with an excited voice: “Today is the day we've all been waiting for. Scores that had never been attained in decades will be won. History will be made, and we are rewriting the legends of ice Hockey!” “Arghhhhhh!!” There was a loud cheer as the crowds of thousands rejoiced, chanting the names of their favorite players. This was one of the biggest Hockey games ever recorded, and the arena was the largest in t

Adrenaline surged—but my focus kept snapping, tugged toward the stands like a damn magnet. Mate, Zach growled, restless. She’s watching. “Shut up,” I hissed under my breath as I stole the puck off a sloppy pass and drove toward center ice. A player slammed into my side. I barely felt it. I passed left, cut right, circled back fast. The game was noise and chaos and speed—but under it all was her scent, faint yet relentless, bleeding into the rink like a curse. Strawberries. Apples. Warm.

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 rink was empty, except for the faint scraping of skates against the ice. Mila pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders, her breath visible in the chilled air. She had stayed late to check the equipment, organize some notes, and make sure everything was ready for the next day’s session. The solitude was familiar, comforting even. She liked this quiet moment after the chaos of practice, when the echoes of shouting and skates pounding the ice had faded, leaving only stillness.

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.

Then the distance turned sharp. Now he barely looked at me. When he did, it was with that blank hockey-player stare, like I was just another face in the crowd he skated past. I turned the corner toward the library — my safe zone during lunch — and nearly collided with a broad chest wrapped in a letterman jacket. Strong hands caught my elbows to steady me. The scent hit first: clean sweat, mint gum, and something colder, like ice from the rink. Jax. Up close he looked even taller than on the ice. Dark hair still damp from morning practice, jaw tight, eyes the kind of blue that used to make me feel seen. Today they flicked over me quickly — recognition, then something unreadable.

I hesitated, but succumbed anyways. “Just one,” I said, not thinking too much to it, a shot with hurt. We sat on the couch, the city lights reflecting on the river outside. Caleb poured us both a drink, handing me a glass. “To better days,” he said, clinking his glass against mine. I took a sip. The whiskey burned going down, but it warmed me from the inside. We talked for a while about hockey, about the team drama, about nothing important. Caleb was easy to talk to when he wasn’t trying too hard. He listened. He didn’t push.