Hockey Love Books Novels & Stories

The press conference room was packed university officials, reporters, NHL scouts in the back row watching Declan carefully. The athletic director gave us one final warning look before we took our seats at the front table. Declan reached over and laced our fingers together on the table. To the audience, it looked loving. Only I could feel how tightly he was gripping me. It was a silent reminder. The questions started easy. “How does it feel to turn rivalry into romance?” We gave the scripted answer. “The Vegas fight made us realize the passion was real. We eloped in the heat of the moment. We’re happier than ever.”

“There it is.” I looked at her confused. “What?” “The hockey voice.” My stomach tightened in an instant, and I immediately looked away. But I could still feel Harper leaning closer. “You know,” she said quietly, “ it’s nice hearing you talk about hockey again.” Suddenly the room felt smaller, and I found myself staring at the wall—at the photos I’d never bothered taking down, at the medals hidden inside a drawer. At a version of myself I didn’t want to speak about until God knows when.

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.

Tamara’s POV Hockey practice on Monday was like watching a car crash happen in slow motion. I didn’t mean to go. I told myself I was just walking to the rink to grab a textbook Elena had left there after the game. That was the lie I told myself, and I almost believed it until I found myself standing in the bleachers with my backpack slung over one shoulder, watching them warm up.

I looked at the big drawing book and opened it. "You look beautiful today." that makes me smile Next page "I love the way you smile right now." Next page "At high school, I never treat you right. I'm sorry." Next page "You always shower me with your love, care and everything but I kept hurting you." Next page "One day that I realise that I start to miss you because you're gone. I was an idiot." Next page "But here you are, sitting beautifuly and I still can't believe that you're mine for 5 years."

Least ways growing up they were, now Dario is not so close with them. “A romance book, fake dating. She is a photographer brought in to the hockey team to cover them on and off the ice. They don’t like each other but their feelings will evolve.” I fold my arms in front of my chest, my nipples erect and budding wanting him to stretch out his arm and touch me with those big, masculine hands of his. “Ah, so like us then. This is called enemies to lovers is it not?” “What do you know about books?” “You have seen my library. You need to relax Lucky. Trust me you will find this all much easier if you give into your body. Let me show you how to feel like a proper woman should feel.”

There is only one way to describe Elias Lockhart… Cocky to the bone.  And Raeliana Roosevelt? The one girl who refuses to fall for his charm. After one humiliating encounter too many, Elias offers her a deal: fake date him, survive Manhattan’s most ruthless private college, and make his ex regret ever leaving him. The rules were simple. Don’t fall in love.  Don’t tell the truth.  And definitely don’t let the whole school discover your relationship is fake. But sometimes the hardest fall doesn’t happen on the ice… It happens when your heart forgets the rules.

Elliot POV I had learned a long time ago not to want things that could be taken. Hockey was the one exception I had allowed myself. I spent six years making sure no one ever found out why it cost me more than it cost anyone else. The arena was loud enough to shake the bones in my body. I could hear only my own breathing, harsh inside my helmet, too fast and too uneven. The scoreboard burned at the edge of my vision: one minute left, one goal behind, the championship hanging on a blade's width of hope.

"You are playing hockey because you love the game, and you are doing all of this to protect your younger brother. Do not let your father take your passion away from you just because he is controlling the media narrative." "It is hard to remember that when my body feels like it is falling apart," I admitted, and I looked down at the dark purple bruises covering my ribs in the dim light of the bathroom. "The opposing defensemen targeted me during the game tonight, so my torso is covered in marks from their sticks. I can barely twist my waist without feeling a sharp pain."

By‍ Monday morning, Camero‌n Hayes w⁠as trending for reasons that ha‍d nothing to do with hockey. ‘#Came‌naScandal’ sa⁠t at the t‍op of every sport⁠s blog'⁠s fe‍ed, the parking lot kiss dissected f⁠ra⁠me‌ by fr⁠ame, paired now with older photos someone had d‌ug up, the rink, the team dinner,‍ months of moments ne⁠ither of them had rea‍lized were being documented. A ta‍bloid ran the‌ headline ‘HOCK‌EY'‌S⁠ GOLDEN BOY'S FORBIDDEN STEPSISTER RO⁠MANCE⁠’, and it spread faster than anything Lena had eve‌r se‌en move⁠ online.