Ice Hockey Book Novels & Stories

"No seriously. What is this?" Still nothing and he pointed toward the other end of the rink. "One guy." Then silence. "Just one." Still silence. "He isn't even using his teammates anymore." Nikola slowly raised a hand and spoke quietly. "He kinda doesn't need them." Coach looked at him and imagined different ways to kill him but chose peace. "Don't speak." Nikola lowered it immediately and Coach looked back at everyone. "Did all of you suddenly forget how hockey works?" Nobody answered and Coach pointed directly at Lukas.

The bookstore was exactly how she had imagined it: floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with stories that smelled of aged paper and binding glue, the sunlight streaming in through the front windows to illuminate the floating dust motes like tiny diamonds. It had been six months since Jax had officially retired from the NHL. The transition had been smoother than either of them had dared to hope. While the sports world had mourned the loss of "The Glacier," Jax had traded his pads and helmet for a life of quiet stability. He was currently in the back of the shop, kneeling on the floor as he organized a shipment of new hardcovers, his movements efficient and his focus absolute. "You’re going to give

I do not love hockey. I love figure skating, which I have done since I was four years old, which is how I ended up at Harlow on an athletic scholarship, which is also and this is the part nobody tells you at recruitment visits why I have complicated feelings about hockey players specifically. Hockey players share our ice. Hockey players have, on three documented occasions this semester alone, left ruts in the resurface pattern that my coach describes using language I won't repeat. Hockey players operate on the assumption that the rink is primarily theirs with figure skating as a polite inconvenience scheduled around them. I am not biased. I am informed.

I’d have to make sure we never cross paths again. After ensuring our kits were intact and stored properly, I shut down the rink once everyone else had left. Coach Stetson texted, said he wanted to discuss a lucrative deal with me. Something about bringing my name to big screens like N*****x and delivering me on a platter to NHL scouts. When I came to Richmond, I had no desire for fame. I started playing hockey because I enjoyed it. It was a good pastime, but there was no future for me in the sport. Once I completed the important task I came to this city to do, my pack and I would return to hiding from the rest of the world.

“This is just my equipment room.” “Just?” I walked closer to the stuff. I don't want to film with my phone. I'd rather use my camera which I didn't come with. So next time. I typed into my notepad again: He got a spot dedicated to his hockey materials. Extremely organized and neat. I smiled, staring at the photograph. I noticed a book shelf. They're not books related to hockey. “Wait, so you read?” “Yeah. I read novels and books when I'm tired of scrolling.”

"Man, I don't get it. You guys don't even talk in the locker room, but on the ice, you’re like best friends. How do you do it?" "It's just hockey, Swiss," I said, not looking at Jax. "You don't have to like someone to pass them the puck." Jax gave a small, stiff nod. "Exactly. I just go where the puck goes." But later that night, at 2:00 AM, the “ just hockey” part disappeared. The athletic dorms had high tech security, but I knew the blind spots of the cameras. My father thought he had locked me in a cage, but he forgot that I had spent my life learning how to navigate systems.

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.

Roman Thorne is the invincible team leader of college hockey. He is large, aggressive and a nightmare to the media. The press, however, does not know what makes the Briarwood Ice Devils so feared. They are not just players. They are ruthless, blood-swilling offspring of the most formidable crime business in the city. Trying to keep a small scandal which is about to blow up their small business, the Thorne family appeals to the service of Sloane Mercer. She is 24 years old and a brilliant ruthless PR fixer. Her task is easy: to improve the image of the team, to work with press, and not to put Roman in the prison. But Sloane has not come to save them. She is here to ruin them. Sloa

I thought I was here because of my spices, because of my hard work in the hot kitchen, but. The cold air of the ice rink pierced my pores, but the blood in my veins felt boiling. I didn't remember how I got there. I just knew I had to see him. In front of me, dozens of hockey players in full uniform were hurtling at high speed. A black puck shot straight up, hitting the wall with a deafening thud. "Woah! Chef! Get out of there!" someone shouted from the bench. "When did she get in there?"

It never occurred to him how much skill has to be involved. It's hard for him, as a spectator sitting still to keep an eye on it let alone for players gliding on the ice trying to keep track of the play in motion and mentally think a few plays ahead. it’s…kind of amazing. Andre moves around like the ice is his playground, with the other team hardly able to staynon his tail. Then he passes the puck into a perfect pocket where Daniel is waiting to score. The game continues… and it happens again. Andre gliding around untouchably. securing Daniel a golden shot on the net.