Ice Hockey Booktok Novels & Stories

As you know, ice hockey is an extremely fast game. Calli gets the puck, he slices it across to Nolan but is intercepted from one of the Dallas guys. Shit. Atlas comes out of nowhere and drives him back, Edelmann shoots through and grabs the puck. Where the fuck did he come from? I skate forward, there’s no way I need to be in the tussle behind us. I’m already getting hot. By the end of the game, we’re going to be sweating. As I turn back, I see the puck hit the back of the net. Fuck’s sake. We’re already one behind. We need to up our game, I thought this team were having a bad shit season.

My hiking addiction has advantages of keeping my legs in tone with the perfect shape for strength and endurance. I see the hockey players and send a quick wave their way, but they turn their backs to me and I can't help but wonder if I've done something wrong or offended them somehow. Shoot, they're probably upset they have to spend their Saturday here at a school pushing books on a bunch of kids who are about as interested in reading as they would be learning to crochet with their grandmas. The kids are allowed to enter at ten o’clock am and follow through the path of tables, entertaining themselves with games and events, earning candy, fidgets, and most importantly books along the way.

“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.”

I nodded, then she leaned closer. “If you wanna have a good stay here, you should avoid every member of the hockey team?” Xyla advised. Well that immediately caught my attention, “Why is that?” “Because they are trouble, every last one of them, trust me on this. You are better off not knowing about the hockey team” she said and Adele agreed. I smiled at them, how do I tell them that the hockey team is part of the reason why I am here. “Noted” I said instead.

A short dry sound, more exhale than amusement. Then he looked at her. Not quickly. Actually looked, the way people do when they think they won't get caught doing it. The jersey hit her mid-thigh. His number. His name stretched across the back of it in block letters. She was swimming in it, arms crossed defensively over her chest and still radiating the specific energy of someone prepared to die on every hill available to her this morning. He didn't let the thought sit long. That was his first jersey. His first hat trick. Fifteen years old and certain the world was ending every time he touched the ice. He hadn't thought twice last night—Just handed it over.

We didn’t go to the trial grounds where they were already building the pyre for Lucian’s sentencing. We went up to the ridge. The wind hit us as soon as we cleared the tunnel. Cold enough to burn. The shrine was half-buried in snow. Stone pillars older than the Council. Older than the Blood Crown. Moss and claw marks and old blood frozen into the cracks. And below it, stretched out like a scar, was the lake. Frozen solid, white and perfect. The pack’s rink. That’s what we call it now; Hockey. But 26 years ago it wasn’t a sport. It was a treaty.

Something in his expression softens, and then he shoves my shoulder, hard, no warning, and I grab his arm to keep my balance on the ice, which is completely unnecessary and we both know it, and we end up laughing in the middle of the rink, breathless and stupid, completely alive in a way that still feels brand new every time. Tuesday and Wednesday have the texture of a held breath. Classes. Practice. The championship bracket sharpening as two more teams get eliminated in their preliminary rounds. Coach running specific systems for our first opponent's defensive tendencies, sessions running long, everyone tired in a way that has nothing to do with emotional crises and everything to do with ho

The Dalton band struck up something loud and brassy and impossible to ignore. I gripped my pen. Puck drop. Hockey, unlike desire, rewards discipline immediately. For the first five minutes I found my footing by clinging to structure. Line changes. Zone entries. Forecheck pressure. The Vancouver Titans’ first line looked faster than the Boston College Eagles’ right from the opening shift, and I made myself note it cleanly, clinically. Titans controlling neutral ice early Hartley line driving possession Eagles slow on retrieval Then Chase picked off a pass at the blue line, cut inside one defender, dropped a shoulder, and created a scoring chance out of absolutely nothing.

“Keep your head in it, Voss. No showing off tonight, we play smart.” Smart. Sure. The puck dropped and instinct took over. My stick met the ice, quick and clean. Milo passed left, James was already sprinting down the wing. I could hear the scrape of skates, the dull thud of impact when someone slammed into the boards behind me. It was chaos but the kind I could control. The kind that made sense. I slid the puck between two defenders and drove toward the goal, the world narrowing to speed, breath, and noise. And then…..

he said finally, and there was a grudging in his voice that caught her off guard. “You do this a lot? Making people feel less of themselves?” She snapped. “Whenever I can,” he admitted. “It’s how I don’t make sense of things.” “Well, my drawing is perfect and I don’t care what you think.” She added. He nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a beat too long. “Hockey’s like that for me,” he said, almost to himself. “The hockey rink’s the only place that makes sense sometimes. No bullshit, just the game.”