Novel & Cerita Hockey Romance Books Series

Being Rache’s bestie is the best thing that ever happened to me. Her being here makes being back in my home town more bearable. Of course, I have my mother but now there is a whole new level of torture with Blake being here. First, it was because he royally pisses me off. And coming back to my hometown where I grew up, was never really on the cards for me. However, things have shifted and it’s almost high torture to be back near Blake for a different reason. He makes me burn up. My body does weird things and my core tightens every time he is close to me. And I swore when I was growing up here that I would never, ever date a hockey player. Too high maintenance and you rarely get to see them i

"And I'll recommend that the league drop the investigation." "Thank you." "Don't thank me yet." Dr. Chen pulled something out of her desk drawer. A book manuscript. Thick. Printed. The cover page read: "Love on Ice: The True Story of Hockey's Most Controversial Couple. By Emily Chen, Ph.D." Damian's blood ran cold. "What is that?" "My book." Dr. Chen set the manuscript on the coffee table. "I've been writing it for six months. Interviews. Research. Analysis. It covers everything—your rivalry, your relationship, the blackmail, the shooting, the wedding."

So I’d left before dawn, slipping out while she slept, determined to cut her out of my life. My stick slammed a puck into the net, the impact jarring my arms. Sweat dripped down my jaw, my chest heaving. I’d come to the rink to escape, to drown her out with the burn of muscle and the sting of cold. But those eyes—those damned hazel eyes—clung to me, pulling me back to her. She was the reason my name was trending for all the wrong reasons, the reason my father wanted me off the ice and into the family’s real estate empire, married to Sophia Lang, some polished heiress I didn’t give a damn about.

I positioned the lens between two thick textbooks on my shelf, angling it perfectly toward the bed. “This is what you wanted,” I told myself, trying to regain my original resolve. “You're a jock. He's a nerd. You're going to the NHL, and he's just a tool to get you there. Don't soft out now.” But every time I looked at the bed, I saw the way he blushed whenever I held him too close, the way he completely melted when I told him I loved him. Just then, Nathan walked in. “Why are you just standing there?”

Ever. I pointed to the rest of the stuff, and he started moving it all, quiet and strong. The room felt smaller with him in it, but not in a bad way. Still, my mind wouldn’t stop. What if this was a trick? What if he got tired of me and left? The tension in my chest made it hard to breathe. After a few minutes, he broke the silence. “So, you like hockey at all? Or is it just something you clean up after?”

His mouth crashed into mine before I could even blink, the kiss so deep, so fiercely possessive that it tasted like the adrenaline we’d been running on all morning, mixed with the sudden, terrifying release of a pressure valve that had been screwed down too tight for weeks. I groaned against his lips, my hands automatically tearing at the collar of his hockey jersey, my fingers fumbling with the heavy laces and the thick fabric until I managed to bunch it up over his chest, wanting nothing more than to feel the solid, burning heat of his skin against mine without the barrier of the team colors between us.

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”

Chapter One Allison If my brother Zane found out what I was wearing under his best friend’s hockey jersey, he’d probably have a stroke right here in the luxury suite. The jersey belonged to Roman Greyson. Number 87. It was massive, made of heavy black-and-silver mesh that swallowed my frame, smelling exactly like him—expensive cedar wood, icy rink air, and a faint hint of pure, intoxicating male heat. It fell down to the middle of my thighs, completely hiding the ultra-tight, emerald-green silk dress I’d poured myself into for later.

The locker room of the New York Glaciers smelled like wintergreen, expensive cologne, and male sweat. To most fans, this was the smell of victory. To Oliver Hartley, it just smelled like forty thousand dollars of student debt. Oliver adjusted the strap of his heavy massage kit. He was twenty-three years old, with messy blonde curls that refused to stay flat and bright blue eyes that usually held a spark of mischief. But today, those eyes were tired. He had graduated top of his class in nursing, but nursing didn't pay enough to clear his loans fast. Being a massage assistant for a star hockey team did.