روايات وقصص ضمن Hockey Drama Booktok

PUCKING THE GOALIE BOOK 1 Intro; Name: Mara Lennox Age: 22 Personality: Sharp-tongued, observant, emotionally guarded, quietly feral when she wants something Background: Mara didn’t grow up dreaming about hockey players or fantasizing about them, She grew up around them so she wasn’t some groupie. Her older brother is a defenseman on the same hockey team, injury reserve now, sidelined for the time being until cleared. So she’s seen locker rooms, the bruises, blood, the ego these hockey players have, her brother being one of them and she’s familiar with the cycle of life most hockey players adapt.

I have one job, win this game. Mitchell skates past me, shoulder-checking me harder than necessary. “Nice punch, Hart,” he sneers. “Too bad your head’s not in the game.” I don’t look at him. I don’t react. I just keep skating. He hates that. Next shift, he tries again, a shove to my back, a slash to my stick, a muttered insult about my team. Still nothing. I’m not giving him the satisfaction. But then he says her name. “Hey, how’s your little ice princess? Lena, right? Shame, she got hurt. But maybe I can help her 'heal' up”

“You could just check.” I let out a sigh and shook my head as I navigated to the school's gist platform. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the pinned post of the page. It was the picture of Damien holding my hand, with the caption — 'North Crest Cheer Captain Dumps School Hockey Captain for Westlake Rival Captain.' My fingers curled tightly around my phone. “What the fuck?” “Uh… now you get why everyone is going crazy,” Chloe clicked her tongue, then laughed softly. “So tell me… is there really something going on between you and Damien? Cause, that would be crazyyy.”

Both making me question everything I thought I knew about who I was fighting against — and who I was fighting for. I closed my eyes, letting the silence wrap around me. Tomorrow’s practice loomed. Victor Harlow’s calls were mounting. The team’s bets were getting bolder. Coach’s calculations kept turning. But tonight, in the dark, with messages from an unexpected rival and the man I was falling for sleeping inches away, I wondered how much longer I could keep balancing on this knife’s edge before everything finally broke. How much longer could I keep pretending this was only about hockey, when the truth was already slipping through the cracks — pulling me between two men who both wanted me in

Her laugh, her smile, the way her nose crinkled when she teased me, I could almost hear it in the night. I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over her name. We’d talked earlier, but I wanted to hear her again. Just one more time before bed. Instead, I slipped the phone back into my pocket. She needed her rest and I wasn’t going to be selfish. Still, I missed her so much it hurt. I closed my eyes, breathing in the pine-scented air. For the first time, I admitted it to myself without hesitation: I was in deep. Hockey was my dream. But she, she was quickly becoming the thing that made everything else make sense.

She was hiding something, burying herself under the crushing weight of that architecture program, and my father’s enforced isolation had completely shattered my ability to reach her. "Head in the game, Evans!" Leo yelled, snapping a hard pass across the blue line. I caught the puck on the blade of my stick, my jaw clenched. I didn't want to play hockey. I wanted to get on a plane, fly to Chicago, and kick the door of her dorm room down. I accelerated toward the offensive zone, my eyes tracking the goalie. I didn't see the blindside coming. Hayes, the massive senior defenseman I had humiliated earlier in the week, had been waiting for his shot. He didn't play the puck. He didn't aim for my ch

Whoever they were because the internet had no consensus on whether Lana Steele was a man or woman, they knew how to write. I navigated to their page, hoping they'd posted something new. Twenty chapters. Twenty new chapters of "Scored Her Heart, Not The Puck." A smile spread across my face. I clicked the first one, adjusting my reading glasses, and dove in. The story grabbed me immediately. An injured hockey player with a reputation for being cold and untouchable. A nurse determined to heal him. The tension between them was electric, every interaction loaded with subtext and unspoken desire.

The hockey team had a big drug scandal. Then Dr. Hartley died suddenly. After the death, the scandal disappeared. Alexander always felt something was wrong. But he never asked his father questions. He just played hockey. Now, the boy he wanted, the boy who made his body burn with need, was looking for a murderer. And he suspected Alexander's family. Alexander closed his eyes. He pictured Oliver naked in the pool. He pictured Oliver panting under him. He pictured Oliver looking at him with hate. "Fuck," Alexander whispered.

The house is completely quiet, and I should be thinking about how wonderful it is that Jayden is finally home. Instead, I keep thinking about the ticket. I close my eyes, and a memory slowly comes back to me. Months before the assault. We are walking across campus after class. Someone hangs a poster for the state hockey championship. I laugh and ask if he wants to go. Jayden wrinkles his face. "I've never been to a hockey game." "You haven't?" "No." "Why not?" "I hate hockey,” he had said. "You've never even tried watching one." He shook his head. "I don't need to."

Everything about him felt easy. When he asked me to be his girlfriend, I didn’t hesitate. But he left. The moment he got the opportunity to become a hockey player, he chose it and left me behind. I remembered how broken I felt back then. How I cried for days, how I waited for him to come back, to explain, to say something that would make it hurt less. He never did. That was the moment I started hating hockey. Because to me, it took my love away. I almost forgot Duke was standing there until I felt his presence shift slightly beside me.