Hockey Love Books Novels & Stories

Yet this girl, who spent two years writing my name in a notebook she never wanted me to see, walked right through my defenses in a single afternoon. Maybe it was because she didn't flinch when I spoke. Most people looked at me and saw a future NHL draft pick or a target. When I talked to Cheryl, she looked at me like I was just a person. Or maybe it was because she handed me her own wreckage first. The shattered ankle, the bitter sister she still wouldn't name, the version of herself that hockey had stolen away. I've never been good at taking without giving something back. Richard made sure of that early. In our house, nothing was ever free.

The blonde reporter looked at Maya. "Is that true?" Maya nodded, a smile tugging at her lips. "I'm impressed he pays that much attention to anything other than hockey." A few reporters laughed softly. Hunter chuckled beside her. "Hockey may be my first love," he said, turning to look at Maya, "but you're the love of my life." Maya's heartbeat stuttered. She almost looked at him. Almost. It was fake. Every word of it was fake. Yet the way he said it—without hesitation, without sounding rehearsed—made it dangerously believable.

I was carrying Damien's baby. Damien Volkov. The captain of Boston Wolves. Hockey's golden boy. One of the nation's most loved hockey stars. And I was now the mother of his child. The thought made my heart swell with joy. This news could change everything. If he found out that his child was growing inside me, maybe Damien would finally look at me. Maybe he would finally love me as his wife Maybe he would finally be proud enough to show me off to the public as NHL's Damien Volkov's wife.

A scoff followed after, almost like she didn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth, “You can’t be serious. It’s hockey!! A game of champions. Blake University has had the best team for years. We almost made it to the playoffs last year even, there’s no way you came in here without wanting to— “No.” I shook my head, “I think hockey is a game for losers.” “Aria!!” I remained defiant on my stance, “You heard me. I think hockey sucks, the concept of the whole game sucks, I think it’s a waste of student resources and the school’s money. I did my research and the school pumps a whole load into the team, which I think is pathetic. So you heard me loud and clear—Hockey is a game for losers.” I

I feel like we already had this conversation, "I told them, just like I told you… except you totally ignored me. I bet you didn't even G****e him." "No, I didn't. I have a bunch of stuff to do," I complain, pointing at my schedule, "And why would I care about a fucking hockey player? I feel like every guy in this country is a hockey player. It's not like he's a celebrity or something." "He IS! He just won a Stanley Cup last year," She whispers-screams at me. Those words ring a bell, but they don’t really mean anything to me. "I have a Stanley cup right there," I mutter, pointing at it. Mine is pink.

Better than the rich kids who could buy their way back if they fucked up. And now this. Now Damien, with his smirks and his hands and his voice notes that made my stomach flip even when I hated him. Now Jax, showing up like some quiet hero who didn’t ask for anything. I couldn’t be poor and gay at the same time. Not in this world. Not in hockey. Everyone knew the stories , guys who came out, got dropped from teams, lost endorsements before they even started, became locker-room jokes or worse, became nothing at all.

One more win and we’re in the Stanley Cup. But right now? Hockey feels a million miles away. Right now, all I care about is Lena. I sit between my mom and Mason, with my dad, Gabe, and Lena’s parents filling the rest of the row. It’s weirdly comfortable, like our families have been doing this forever. The arena is buzzing. Skaters glide across the ice, music swelling, blades slicing clean lines. It’s… peaceful. Calming. Like watching ballet, but colder. I get why people love this. I get why she loves this.

“I fought the whole damn world for you. Don’t make me fight for you again. Please.” They shattered together, bodies shaking, clinging like shipwreck survivors in the aftermath. Afterward, JR eased them down onto the couch, stroking slow, soothing circles over Soren’s sweat-damp back, legs tangled intimately. City lights sparkled across the water outside, indifferent to the storm inside. “I love you more than hockey,” JR murmured into his hair, with a thick voice. “More than the Cup, more than anything else in this life. If something’s eating at you, you have to tell me. We don’t do secrets, not anymore.”

Then we plan the next move on Vance. Two hours later we loaded the buses. The drive north stretched long. Snow started falling heavier as we left the city. Trees got thicker. Roads narrower. The young winger sat behind me. Cap this place better have good food. I heard it is old hockey school in the woods. Bears and wolves maybe. The veteran laughed from across the aisle. Wolves we can handle. The real problem is being locked in with each other. No running from the fights in the locker room. Kade spoke from the seat next to mine. Good. We need the fights. On the ice. We hit hard. We get better. Evan calls the systems. I bring the energy. The boys see it works.

My hand stops. My pen hovers above the blank notebook. I have heard Eli speak dozens of times. Heated exchanges across study tables. Clipped words in hallways. The controlled precision he uses when he has decided to say something and means all of it. I have never heard him sound like this. Hockey has its own kind of music. The percussion of blades against ice, the crack of a stick finding a puck at the right angle. Beautiful in a kinetic, physical way. This is something else.