Hot Hockey Players Novels & Stories

She was already dealing with enough. I had just stepped into campus when Sarah came running up to me like a storm. “Guess what,” she said, eyes wide like a child on Christmas. “We have a hockey match today. A real one. With actual college scouts and everything. And guess who’s the starting player?” I didn’t answer. I already knew. “Dominic Lakes,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “God, he’s so hot. You think he’s single?” I rolled my eyes. “Why would I care?”

Mia said. We went inside and watched the hockey game. I could see right away that these two teams were not up to the level of the Arctic Avalanches. But Arthur didn’t have to tell me which player was the one he wanted to talk to. One player on the French team stood out. Number 33 had the grace and fancy footwork of an Olympian ice skater, the speed of Usain Bolt, and wide shoulders like an American football player.

The media was buzzing with rumors and speculation, all pointing to a budding relationship between the hockey star and his new lover. “This Just In: Beloved Hockey Star Timothy Hayes Is In Love with Stella Fitzgerald!”

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 rounded the corner into the main locker room. The room was full of noise. Thirty hockey players were shifting weight on wooden benches, the sharp rip of Velcro shin guards and the heavy thud of composite hockey sticks against the floor creating a wall of sound. Two guys near the equipment cage were laughing about a missed hit from the Chicago road trip. Then, the air current shifted. The honey hit the centre of the room like a physical drop in temperature.

Noah's pov. "Campbell, pass the puck." The coach shouted from the sidelines. Sweat perforated my face and mist gathered in the helmet I had on. "Noah, pass it for fucks sake." My teammates yelled. My focus was on the puck as multiple hockey sticks crashed into mine. I swerved to the left, giving it a clean sweep into the net. "Fuck yeah," I shouted as I removed the helmet. Sweat dripped from my wet hair.

Lyra whispers as I push off hard. I build speed until the world blurs around me. My stick handles the puck like it's attached to my hands, weaving between imaginary defenders. Each stride feels powerful. A group of college guys is scrimmaging at the other end. One of them is tall with dark hair and an easy smile skates over when I take a break. "You're really good," he says, pulling off his helmet and shaking out his hair. "Ever think about playing college hockey?" "Actually, yeah," I say, unable to keep the smile off my face. "Crimson University offered me a scholarship."

“What's Northeast?” "There's a city. I didn't want to say this because I'm not sure but I saw a professional hockey league. He's been using a ghost name to maneuver around so it would make sense to follow ghost names too in the city and I found something there. A roster with a ghost name attached to a physical profile that matches." I looked at him, barely listening to any other thing. "Hockey?” I asked incredulously. "Hockey." We sat with that for a second.

"I get banged up on the ice all the time." I held his gaze for a second and then went back to cleaning. He was not lying either. I had seen enough hockey players walk around this school with taped up wrists and bruised jaws to know that the sport had a particular relationship with pain that most people outside of it never fully understood. Getting hit on ice at speed was a completely different conversation from what most people called getting hurt. I pressed a fresh piece of cotton wool down and held it firm for a moment.

Helmet. Heavy equipment. That hockey stick is held tight by his big hands. He slides forward as if dancing, chased by another player. It baffles me how he can be huge yet move with this elegant precision. Every little move is calculated. I can tell from looking at his focused eyes. "Oh-my-god, he is going for it!" Winnie comments from my side. "Will he make it?" I hold my breath, watching Nathan shoot the puck forward, and when it hits the goal, people scream score. Music blasts, and the commentators yell Nathan's name while he gets bro-hugged by his teammates.