Ice Hockey Book Novels & Stories

The practice rink felt colder when it was empty. No crowd noise. No boards rattling from other drills. Just the low hum of the refrigeration system and the sharp scrape of three pairs of skates already waiting for me at center ice. Maddox “Brick” stood tall and broad, silence making the empty rink feel colder still. Callahan “Rook” circled him, stick tapping the ice as he muttered something I couldn’t hear. Honestly, I didn’t care.

“You found a celebrity.” “Nat—” “That is Cole Ashford.” She pointed at the screen as though I needed the direction. “He is—that man is fine—and you just—” “He’s the new captain,” I said quietly, reading the banner again. The dread that had started as a flicker was now something much more settled and specific. “Of the Chicago Vortex.” The room went still. We turned to look at each other at the exact same moment. “Nat.” My voice came out very flat. “What team did you say you submitted my application to?”

TIMOTHY POV The ice was slick beneath Timothy's skates as he glided across the hockey rink. The sharp blades of his skates cut through the surface, sending sprays of ice crystals into the air. The arena was alive with the sounds of the game, the thud of sticks against pucks, the clatter of players colliding, and the cheers of the crowd. But amid the cacophony of the game, there was a deafening silence that echoed in Timothy's heart. He had come to this match with a sense of resignation, knowing all too well what he would find—or rather, what he wouldn't find.

Riven The puck dropped again, and my stick dropped on the ice. I moved with graceful ease. I wasn’t chasing the scoreboard—sure I wanted us to win, but I was still chasing discipline. That was the game. If you should win, it was only just that you win fairly. But Sky… That idiot was playing with fire. Who could imagine that in the middle of all these people who were watching the game, right in the middle of these thousands of eyes, that stupid guy chose to use wolf-speed to play on the ice!

My hand stops. My pen hovers above the blank notebook. I have heard Eli speak dozens of times. Heated exchanges across study tables. Clipped words in hallways. The controlled precision he uses when he has decided to say something and means all of it. I have never heard him sound like this. Hockey has its own kind of music. The percussion of blades against ice, the crack of a stick finding a puck at the right angle. Beautiful in a kinetic, physical way. This is something else.

But Hockey is a beast of a game, and I f*ckin love it. But after my marriage, I stopped watching and even checking live scores. I stopped everything that would remind me of Cicero, deleting him everywhere around me. … We were already seated in a row right across the Islanders' bench before the game started. Papa is seated comfortably with Lugo, Cicero's best friend. They are having a deep conversation that they didn't want me to listen to. So, I focus my attention on the ice, biting down on my lips. Papa is wearing a jersey with Cicero's name and even offered me one before we left the house, but I turned him down.

I could hear the distant sound of skates cutting across ice. I walked toward the entrance, my bag slung over my shoulder, my notebook clutched in my hand like a shield. The moment I stepped inside, the cold hit me. Not the cold of the outside air, but the cold of the rink. The players were already on the ice. I spotted them immediately, a blur of movement and color, skating in formation, passing the puck back and forth with practiced ease. The coach was standing at the edge of the rink, clipboard in hand, his voice cutting through the cold air like a whip.

"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?*

“It was fast. You sent it my way too fast.” A knot formed on her forehead. “No, it wasn’t fast. You were just too early.” “I was prepared for the puck.” “No, you were guessing.” I let out a scoff. “I don’t guess. I strategize. No one who just guesses in hockey will never make it far.” She blinked at me, raising a brow. “And you’ve made it far?” I drew in a breath to speak, but I couldn’t find the right words. She had me.

“I have a confession. I know you, we attend the same school and I’ve seen you occasionally. I also know this is what you do” I stared at him and wondered why I didn’t know him if he knew me “ I’m a hockey player in the school, you rarely come for our games so it seems that’s why you don’t know me” he continued “I also have a proposition for you. I’ve wanted to do it in the boy’s bathroom but I’ve been to much of a bitch to even give it a go” Was this guy kidding me? Hell no. I would just get my money abd fuck outta here. I ignored him and grabbed my bag to leave.