Ice Hockey Booktok Novels & Stories

“And you don’t want that to happen.” “I don’t want that to happen with a gun pointed at us.” Her arms crossed, that beautiful defensive instinct. “You know too much for a hockey team captain. Things no one else even understands.” “Side talent.” I glanced at the clock. Callum should’ve been on the perimeter by now. “Listen.” I leaned in. “I’ll say this once: whatever you’ve been feeling lately—exploding emotions, weird sensations, wounds healing faster—it’s not because you’re crazy. Your body’s not broken. Your body remembers something that was put to sleep.”

The rink was empty, except for the faint scraping of skates against the ice. Mila pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders, her breath visible in the chilled air. She had stayed late to check the equipment, organize some notes, and make sure everything was ready for the next day’s session. The solitude was familiar, comforting even. She liked this quiet moment after the chaos of practice, when the echoes of shouting and skates pounding the ice had faded, leaving only stillness.

These guys sure are playing dirty tonight. We’re two down, will we be able to recover from it in just ten minutes. I mean in the world of ice hockey anything can happen, but it feels so far away to get the puck driving down into the back of the net. Finally, one of our guys gets the puck, he slices it down backwards towards me. Hawk intercepts, pushes the douchebag to his left away and moves the puck forward. He gives me the nod, I skate as hard as my burning legs will allow me and take the pass, stopping the puck then hitting down to the net. I wait with abated breath and watch as it goes to the back of the net, putting the goalie on his ass trying to save it. “Yes.” I roar raising both my

News headlines. "Love on Ice: The Volkov-Montgomery Story Leaks Early." "Chapter 10: 'The Night He Begged.'" "Fans Go Wild Over Explicit Details." Damian sat up so fast his head spun. He opened the first link. A leaked P*F. The book's cover—two hockey players silhouetted against the ice. He scrolled to Chapter 10. "The Night He Begged." The chapter started with the abandoned rink. The cold. The blood. Sebastian's voice, transcribed from their interview: "I told him to beg me to hurt him. His voice cracked when he said please."

This time around, they switched to Italian. Cicero chases down every loose puck, makes every pass with fucking perfect precision, and shoots every chance he gets. I keep shouting and cheering him on, mindless of the people seated beside me. At some point, the Norton Beasts couldn't keep up. The buzzer sounds for the first period, and that’s when his eyes caught me. He stands right there on the ice staring at me. The effect of his gaze washes over me, and I swallow a donut bite whole without chewing it.

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.

"Mass is only half of the equation. If they cannot match his acceleration, they are simply larger obstacles for him to skate around. My father is trying to solve a speed problem with brute force, which is a very poor application of classical mechanics." ​On the ice, the referee dropped the puck, and the physical intensity of the game reached a new level. ​The Vancouver players did not even attempt to play a clean possession. They skated with an aggressive, heavy alignment, their bodies launching into our wingers with every transition. They were trying to create a chaotic, physical environment where a late hit would go unnoticed by the officials.

She said that she wanted some now, and he said that it was bedtime, and she said that babka was breakfast and that breakfast was for morning, and he said that was logical, and I laughed. He went to tuck her in again, and I stayed in the kitchen and cleaned up the plates, and when he came back he was holding a book that Lily said was for me. He handed me the book, and it was a children's book about a hockey player and a baker who became friends, and inside the front cover Lily wrote in wobbly letters that this is you and Daddy and that she drew a picture of us holding hands.

MALACHAR THREE WEEKS LATER… The defenseman wanted me gone. I twisted with the puck in my possession, then tossed it back to Sky, who I could smell behind me at exactly ten feet. Afterwards, I stickhandled past the defenseman. He wasn’t quick enough to notice the puck already back in my possession. “How—what the fuck, cap?” Ryan Walter ripped off his helmet as soon as I scored. “Coach!” “Stetson isn’t here to baby your ass. Grow up,” Sky, the left wing, told him, chuckling while following me.

What exactly was so important that he had to hide it in there? Giving up on the safe, my attention shifted to a small library in the corner of the room. Unlike the dominating rows of business and law books—which made perfect sense considering he was the heir to the Vance empire—there was one bottom shelf filled with worn-out covers. They were hockey textbooks and strategy guides from when Ryder was in high school. I pulled out a thick hardcover book on the history of ice hockey with a faint smile, imagining how the ice-cold Ryder could be so obsessed with this sport since his teenage years.