Hockey Booktok Novels & Stories

DOMINIC "A hockey team, Dominic? Seriously?" Jax stood on the balcony overlooking the yard, watching as two dozen teenagers and young adults—the Blackridge 'Howlers' hockey squad unloaded crates from the back of an ice-truck. "They’re not just kids, Jax," I said, leaning over the blueprint spread across the railing. "They’re athletes with a specialized skill set. They know how to move on ice, they know how to coordinate at high speeds, and more importantly, they have access to industrial-grade liquid nitrogen and high-tensile netting."

That was why I felt comfortable enough to come out to her. My fingers tightened around the book as my brain scrambled to make sense of it. No way. Noah Carter, straight-laced hockey captain, was reading gay erotica novels? A soft sound behind me made me glance over my shoulder. He was out cold, one arm now flung over his face, his shirt riding up enough to show his mouthwatering V-line that led into his pants. Heat crept up my neck and I turned back to the shelf, knowing I couldn’t put back the book or he’d know I touched it.

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.

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.

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.

"Well, from what I'm hearing, you're in the game tomorrow, and since you don't know a thing about hockey, I figured we could use this power outage to study something fun for once." "What's that?" I asked, trying to peer at the book in his lap from where I was sitting. Adrien grinned, flipping a few pages as if it were a magazine. "Hockey for Dummies," he said with a wink. "Thought it might be useful for you, seeing as you've missed a couple of practices." I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help but laugh. "Thanks, I guess. So, what are we studying tonight? Penalty shots and checking?"

The visitor’s locker room in Vancouver was cold. ​The air smelled of old sweat and synthetic cleaning wax. ​Rhys sat in his stall near the center wall, his gray training shirt damp. The game was three hours away, but the tension inside the team was already a physical pressure. ​Miller and Henderson, the two veteran defensemen, stood five feet away. They held a digital tablet, their faces serious and aggressive. ​"Keller," Miller said, his voice flat. "The Vancouver sports blogs just leaked an audio recording from your Chicago rehab sessions last year. You are heard telling the team doctors that the Seattle franchise is a marketing brand that doesn't understand hockey."

Marcus didn’t waste any time. He pushed the heavy oak coffee table to the edge of the room, creating a wide, hollow square on the Persian rug. “We’re starting with Sensory Synchronization,” Marcus said, looking between us with a grin that suggested he knew exactly how much we were going to hate this. “Hockey is about reading intent before it becomes action. If you can’t read your partner’s breath, you’ll never read a defender’s eyes.” He stepped between us, placing a hand on each of our shoulders to line us up.

“This is just my equipment room.” “Just?” I walked closer to the stuff. I don't want to film with my phone. I'd rather use my camera which I didn't come with. So next time. I typed into my notepad again: He got a spot dedicated to his hockey materials. Extremely organized and neat. I smiled, staring at the photograph. I noticed a book shelf. They're not books related to hockey. “Wait, so you read?” “Yeah. I read novels and books when I'm tired of scrolling.”

Like scoring was the most normal thing in the world. “What the hell?” I muttered. Leah barked out a laugh. “He's so good, it's unreal” I folded my arms quickly, forcing my face to stay calm. “Erm… he’s okay,” I muttered, even though my chest was still buzzing from the goal. “You’re literally standing.” I immediately sat down. Leah snorted. The game continued. Then Knox scored again. And again. And somehow, despite knowing absolutely nothing about hockey, I found myself leaning forward every single time he touched the puck.