Hockey Player Booktok Drama Novelas e Histórias

I am greeted by the players as I make way through the stench. While fumbling, to get my key in the lock, Alfie questions “Is that what you're wearing tonight to have dinner with my mom.” “You do mean dinner with you and your mom, right?” I ask hesitantly. These boys and their attempts to set me up this summer have got me riled up. Let’s just say Candy wasn’t the last puck bunny that Quickie brought by. I had the unique pleasure to see the disappointment in the eyes of Tiffany, Foxy, Bambi, just to name a few. Even Kingston “King”, my left defenseman from Russia, brought over his 60-something year old aunt in an attempt to ‘save me from the single life’. She was nice enough and damn, her

Hockey is a brutally demanding game, not just the physical exertion but everything else that goes with it, hell some players have been seriously injured on the ice. My phone beeps, I have it on vibrate, it’s my sister Henri. “Hey you,” I say as I shift in my seat in the VIP area to get a better look at Alex skating below, he has the puck, it looks like he is going to take a shot. I hold my breath as Henri speaks. “I’m all good, just got the head librarian role and couldn’t wait to tell you. Mom and dad are so happy for me. And I’m seeing someone.”

Another practically threw her bra onto the rink causing me to roll my eyes. But then, I caught myself staring. Not at the players but at him; Ledger Rivers, captain of the hockey team and the campus playboy. The guy with a unique style that probably had a signature trademark. Last night, he had whispered his address in my ear like it was an invitation to ruin and I accepted, thinking it would be a one night detour from heartbreak. But now, watching him on the ice, something shifted in me. He moved like he belonged there, like every muscle in his body was tuned for this moment.

Hunter Something was wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first. I sat at the end of the bench, elbows resting on my knees, watching the scrimmage unfold in front of me. Neal had the puck, skating hard down the right side while Travis cut toward the net. It should have been easy. But then Neal passed and Travis... missed it completely. The puck sailed past his stick and slammed against the boards. “Fuck!” Neal shouted. Travis spun around. “My bad.”

Liora Devereux POV “Another!,” I ordered drunkily, the bartender stared at me with pityness in his eyes. “Miss, you are drunk. You have to stop…,” “i am not drunk!,” I cried, slamming my chubby hands on the bar table, the bartender rolled his eyes and passed me the glass cup. I downed it, as I wept bitterly. I was here to congratulate my boyfriend of five years for winning the hockey game, his team's slot to the finals and today was also our anniversary. Another chance of him getting drafted into the NFL

I'm dying everyday, this curse is eating me up and I'm helpless but I'll find a way. Which is why I’ve been here all these years, playing hockey, building a name and staying in the spotlight. The Moon Goddess had whispered that I’d find my answers here, that something special in this place would lead me to the one who destroyed my pack… and maybe even to her, my fated mate, the one who holds my redemption. That’s why I pushed for the transfer. I pressured my management until they sold me to a new club. And now, here I am. Right where fate wants me. Even if it means dealing with an annoying human neighbor who plays the violin like she’s strangling it.

I froze… his words edging between confusion and a bad memory I’ve been trying to bury. "You're bluffing," I said, even though every instinct I had was screaming that he wasn't. "Am I?" He finally turned around. And I recognized him instantly. The hockey player. Number 47 for the Edinburgh Raptors. The one I'd seen at Hunter's party with his hand on Olive's chin, calling her "Peach" with that bold confidence that had made me want to put him through a wall. The one I'd been tracking to know who the fuck he was and his deal with me, with Olive.

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.

The Thunderhawks, Julian Drake’s team, were already skating, their dark jerseys a sickening reminder of the Mirkwood Pack’s creeping influence. This wasn’t a hockey game. This was the final, brutal piece of theater before the kill. Julian thought he was watching his prized pawn—the hockey star—play a meaningless game while the blackmail clock ticked down. He didn't know the player on the ice was the weapon, sharpened by Damian’s control and fueled by ten years of redirected vengeance.

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.