Novel & Cerita Hockey Player Booktok

"Let's clear something up, because your little ego is getting embarrassing. You think I like you? You think I would actually pick you over the tons of girls throwing themselves at me in my DMs every single day? Because of what—a kiss we had like, what, twice?" He let out a short, mocking breath, his eyes scanning my face with absolute disdain. "I am Noah Wystan Graves, might I remind you. The star hockey player. The guy who can have literally anyone he wants with a single look. And you honestly sat there and convinced yourself that a couple of meaningless, repetitive mistakes meant you actually held some kind of power over me?"

“What on earth is going on? Your father and I just saw the latest article. They’re saying you’re involved with one of your patients. A famous hockey player. Is this true?” I closed my eyes for a moment, already feeling exhausted. “Yes, it’s true. His name is Ronan Hale. He’s the goalie for the New York Defenders. I was assigned as his live-in physical therapist after his injury.” My dad’s voice joined in the background, sounding equally concerned. “Live-in? Honey, this doesn’t sound right. You’ve always been so professional. Now there are pictures of you everywhere and people calling you… well, things I won’t repeat.”

I said, my voice full of pride. He just chuckled, a low, free sound. “You can say that again.” “Well, I am a natural LD, born for the game, bro. I’ve been playing since I was a little boy. My father was a star hockey player. So it’s in my blood, you know?” I boasted. Yeah I boasted because why not. I’m good at the game so I use every opportunity I get to inform someone who doesn’t know it already. He just chuckled again. “I know, right. Damn. You seem like a very nice dude. Unlike…” He stopped, and his eyes went to Riven. “Unlike some people I have met.”

"Twice. You didn't pick up." I pulled off my gloves and dropped them on the desk. "I was on the ice." "I know where you were." She set the leather folder on the desk and opened it without ceremony. "Sit down, Luca." I sat… She laid three printed pages in front of me. The first was a screenshot collection, fan accounts and sports commentary, all circling the same exhibition game footage I had been trying to stop thinking about for four days. The second was a social media analytics report with certain sections highlighted in yellow. The third was an article from a mid-tier sports culture site with the headline underlined in red pen: *Devereaux and Calloway: Hockey Rivalry or Something Else?*

And I didn’t want to be part of that. I’ve worked too hard for my name. Too hard for my reputation. I’m not just some guy in that school. I’m building something. I’m becoming something. The number one hockey player. The one who will challenge Damon. That’s what I want people to see when they look at me. Not this. Not gossip. Not drama. Not this mess. “You are three minutes late for breakfast. And you are going to be late for school.” My aunt’s voice came from the kitchen.

Damien’s voice cut off abruptly. I turned around slowly. Damien stood in the doorway, his hockey gear bag slung over one shoulder, his jaw tight as his gaze shifted from his father to me. The shock in his dark eyes lasted for only a fraction of a second before hardening into pure, unadulterated fury. Damien dropped his athletic bag to the floor with a heavy thud. He marched into the room, closing the distance between us until he was towering over me, invading my personal space.

He’s just focused on getting the best out of his client, Cicero, and is ready to go the extra mile to do that if he needs to. So, at that time, when the act took place, I found a way to convince him that if Cicero finds out, it will affect his career, knowing he doesn’t play with Cicero’s career. So, he agreed to keep my secret because, as we all know, Cicero is a ticking time bomb. Frank opens the door, and the faint scent of men's cologne, heat, and masculine odor permeates the air. The sight of half-naked hockey players hits me as he leads the way, walking ahead, while good-looking and well-chiseled hockey athletes stare and whistle as we pass them.

I look down at my open book and wait for the feeling to pass. "I did not realize hockey players spent time on the psychological motivations of literary characters," I say, because deflection is something I am significantly better at than honesty. Something shifts at the corner of his mouth. "Didn't realize figure skaters cared about performative identity construction." My stomach drops. "I never said I was—" "You didn't have to." The reading room continues around us. Pages turning. Pencils moving. Someone across the room clicking a pen in a rhythm that is going to bother me if this session runs long.

Not love letters, nothing overtly romantic, but still enough to destroy me in front of everyone. The Alpha flipped it open dramatically. “Oh, this is good.” My face burned with humiliation. “Give it back.” He ignored me completely. Instead, he started reading aloud. “‘Damon scored twenty-three goals in eighteen games.’” More laughter followed. “‘Fastest player on the ice. Strong left-side attack.’ The crowd laughed harder. I took a desperate step forward. “Stop.” “‘Favorite move during power plays—’” “Stop!”

As he descended the stairs, Lyon looked at the rippling muscle of Viktor’s frame and thought of a few unprofessional things he might like to order the goalie to do, too. He found a pair of skates and a stick. The pack gave them a wide berth, watching with predatory curiosity. Lyon stepped onto the ice, shivering slightly, but his heart was racing too fast for the cold to take hold. It was time for his secret: he hadn't just written about hockey because of the gossip. He had grown up in a house obsessed with the sport. He had spent his childhood chasing his brothers across frozen ponds. Viktor slid the puck toward him. Lyon caught it with the stick, a fluid, practiced motion. He slapped it ba