Ice Skater Hockey Player Book นิยาย & เรื่องราว

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with my casual delivery. I laughed, letting the sound fill the space. “I play hockey. That’s it. Nothing fancy.” She stepped inside, heels clicking against the hardwood. “It’s… really nice.” She said it again, softer this time, as if she were testing me. I motioned toward the study. “We’ll do the assignment over there. That’s where all the magic happens.” She followed, glancing around, her expression calculating. “You have… a lot of books.” “Most belong to my dad,” I admitted. “But the ones we actually need? Right here.”

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.

Donna High’s pride and menace, led by none other than my worst enemy “Maxton Carter, the self proclaimed king of ice and arrogance. They barged in like they owned the ice. Typical. “Yo! Clear the rink, figure Barbie’s done posing!” A familiar voice said. Of course it was him, Maxton. Messy dark hair, eyes full of superiority, and that stupid grin that could curdle milk. Chris groaned beside me. “I wish they could get the hockey players another rink…” Maxton skated past with a lazy smirk. “Didn’t know figure skating was just a warm-up for the real athletes.”

Made the ice look like a big sheet of glass. I took a breath and tasted the cold air. I could smell the wintergreen flavor from the ice. My hand went to my hockey shirt. I felt the tight band of my compression gear. I was feeling the pressure. I adjusted my stick in my gloves. I made sure my grip was firm. Orion skated past me. He is a guy and he can move really fast. He did not look back at me. He did not need to. He knew what he was doing. His shoulders were. His jaw was tight.

[ Scarlett POV ] There is a specific kind of silence that settles over a room full of athletes when they've collectively decided to wait for you to fail. I'd grown up inside that silence. I'd learned to skate in it, learned to read the ice through it, learned to locate exactly where it lived in my body, just below my shoulder blades, a tightening that I breathed through until it became nothing, just air, just background. I'd been doing it since I was the only girl at my first hockey camp at age nine and every boy in my group had looked at me with that same particular expression: patient, almost kind, absolutely certain.

I grabbed my two friend’s arms and dragged them out of the lunch room to our next class. I had to hang around after school, waiting for Jake and Liam to finish their hockey practice. I snuck into the rink and hid at the back so I wouldn’t be seen. We weren’t allowed in here during practice because their coach said that girls distracted the players. I loved to watch their hockey games; there was just something about the way they glided over the ice so fast and gracefully. They were doing sprints at the moment, skating from one line to the other as fast as they could, then they had to dribble a puck around a load of cones, and finally they were all taking turns shooting at the goal, with my br

I winced, looking at the ice, starting to panic. He laughed and pulled me onto the ice. “I know, I remember. Don’t worry, I’ll help you.” Freddie and my brother played Ice hockey for the school; Richard was the goal keeper and Freddie the striker. They had both been skating for years, but I had never been able to do it. I loved to watch people skating and always wished I could learn, but I literally couldn’t stand up, He grabbed both of my hands as I slipped and slid all over the place.

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.