Ice Skater Hockey Player Book Novels & Stories

Don’t know what it is about the damn plane but I’d rather be on the bus than anything else. “I’ll be out of your way soon.” I hear Immi saying, bringing me back to the day I took the keys for this house and stood here with my proud parents just taking it all in. Me, some kid from this small-town who was obsessed with ice hockey. I grew up watching some of the greats and I mean the greats. Names like Alex Ovechkin, Jaques Plantes an oldie but a goodun and Steve Yzerman. They all inspired me to work my ass off and to get into ice hockey in school and throughout college. I have won more trophies than I count. I’m the top hockey player in the country right now and have I let it go to my head. Ok

The arena roared with deafening cheers. “RYDER! RYDER! RYDER!” The name echoed through the massive ice hockey stadium as students jumped to their feet, waving banners and wearing the university colors. The bright arena lights reflected off the smooth ice, turning the entire rink into a glowing battlefield. At the center of it all was Ethan Ryder. Fast. Confident. Untouchable. The captain of the Northbridge University hockey team glided across the ice like he owned it. His red jersey clung to his broad shoulders, and his dark hair was damp from the intensity of the game.

"Relax. I am not a member of his fan club. Honestly, watching someone actually stand up to him was the highlight of my week. The guy acts like he owns the hockey rink and the entire student body." "He certainly thinks he does," I murmured, tentatively taking the iced coffee. The cold cup felt good against my palms. "Thank you." "Don't mention it. Just consider it a welcome to Westridge gift," Chloe replied, leaning back. "But seriously, be careful. Damien's family practically funds the athletic department, and his father is on the board of trustees. People who cross him tend to disappear from social circles very quickly." "I am not interested in his social circles," I said softly. "I am just

Around us, I could hear the conversation between some girls, talking about a new player. “I heard there's a new player, he's making his debut today” “Yessss” the other girl squealed with excitement. “I heard he's very hot.” I cringed at their conversation and scrolled on my phone waiting for the game to start. Leah, on the other hand, was already scouring the ice rink like her life depended on it- probably searching for Enzo. My eyes drifted to the ice rink. Players were already skating doing warm-ups, the sound of blades against ice echoed faintly. The cheerleaders were at one end performing an opening dance on ice skates before the game.

Every edge transition was a delicate, dangerous negotiation between his weight and the nineteen-degree steel beneath his boots. He was tracing the blue line, his hips locked, his core tight, when he felt the familiar, heavy vibration of a second skater entering the ice. Jaxson didn't use the figure-skating lanes. He skated with the long, powerful strides of a hockey player, his heavy, unpadded frame moving across the ice with a terrifying, effortless momentum. He closed the gap in seconds, his shadow falling long and dark over Liam as he coasted alongside him, his broad chest generating a wall of heat that seemed to defy the freezing draft of the arena.

Same rink. Same stands. Same seat. I was in the third row from the glass, laptop open on a document I wasn’t going to work on because the two people on the ice below me were making it impossible to look at anything else. The rink was empty – Rhys had booked it through some favour Cole owed the facilities manager, an hour of private ice that was supposed to be for his recovery skating and was currently being used to teach a thirteen-year-old how to shoot the puck like a professional.

I said. He laughed. “Do you know how many times we as players fall on our ass? I’m sure you’ve seen it plenty of times in just one game alone.” He had a point. “But that’s because you guys are going fast and just chasing a puck. I’m sure a figure skater wouldn’t be falling on their ass during their performance.” Ace shrugged and bobbed his head from side to side. “I guess you’re right there.” We took off our skates and he held mine for me.

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.