Ice Skater Hockey Player Book นิยาย & เรื่องราว

“I’m a little out of practice.” “A little?” He smirks, lazily gliding toward me. Effortless. Like the ice bends for him. “You look like Bambi on roller skates.” Heat surges to my cheeks. “You’re supposed to be helping me.” “I am.” He flicks a puck in my direction. “Rule number one: stop whining.” The puck skitters across the ice. Instinct kicks in I catch it on my stick, handle it without thinking. For a second, it feels right. Then my balance falters, and I stumble.

Kai closed the distance between us like the ice wasn’t even there, skating boots clicking against the boards as he stepped off. His jersey was damp, hair sticking up where the helmet had pressed it down, and there was still a faint smear of blood at the corner of his mouth from that high stick. “Isla.” His voice was low, almost careful, like we weren’t standing in the middle of a post-game free-for-all. “You came.” My pulse did that stupid stutter again. “Sarah dragged me.”

I look down at my open book and wait for the feeling to pass. "I did not realize hockey players spent time on the psychological motivations of literary characters," I say, because deflection is something I am significantly better at than honesty. Something shifts at the corner of his mouth. "Didn't realize figure skaters cared about performative identity construction." My stomach drops. "I never said I was—" "You didn't have to." The reading room continues around us. Pages turning. Pencils moving. Someone across the room clicking a pen in a rhythm that is going to bother me if this session runs long.

Senator Ashford offered a slow, satisfied nod, picking his silver knife back up and returning his attention to his rare steak. The freezing, recycled air of the college ice arena burned pleasantly in my lungs as I accelerated down the center of the rink. My skates carved deep, sharp trenches into the solid white ice, spraying a fine mist of frozen shavings into the air as I executed a flawless, aggressive lateral stop. I was playing with a lethal, terrifying perfection today, completely silencing the dark chaos of my human mind and allowing my primal Alpha instincts to dictate every single physical movement. The heavy, black rubber puck slammed violently against the thick plexiglass boards b

The power that rolled off the players, the slashing of sticks and clash of blades on the ice, the raw energy set up a craving in him to be part of the game. He read everything about the game he could lay his hands on, watched games on television, researched it on the Internet. After that he had only one goal in his life - skating for a professional team and winning The Cup. It became his sole focus, over and above everything else. He wanted to be a defenseman like Bill Baker who scored the USA game-tying goal against Sweden in the first game of the Olympics tournament. He studied what it took - speed and strength. He began to exercise on his own, in the yard and in his room. He started runni

Mia said. We went inside and watched the hockey game. I could see right away that these two teams were not up to the level of the Arctic Avalanches. But Arthur didn’t have to tell me which player was the one he wanted to talk to. One player on the French team stood out. Number 33 had the grace and fancy footwork of an Olympian ice skater, the speed of Usain Bolt, and wide shoulders like an American football player.

"Well, in that case, go ahead, sunshine. If you want to tell me something dirty as hell, now's your chance." A slight flush touches her cheeks. "No." The photographer starts clicking away. "So, Jax, what do you do in your spare time?" "I play hockey." He laughs, thinking I'm joking. "No, I mean outside of hockey. People on socials love getting to know the players." I don't want anybody to get to know me. "When I'm not playing hockey, I think about hockey." The interviewer moves on. The photographer circles. "Okay, fabulous. Very nice brooding hockey player thing. But how about less 'scary goalie' vibes and more 'relaxed, smiley, enjoying life' vibes?"

I have one job, win this game. Mitchell skates past me, shoulder-checking me harder than necessary. “Nice punch, Hart,” he sneers. “Too bad your head’s not in the game.” I don’t look at him. I don’t react. I just keep skating. He hates that. Next shift, he tries again, a shove to my back, a slash to my stick, a muttered insult about my team. Still nothing. I’m not giving him the satisfaction. But then he says her name. “Hey, how’s your little ice princess? Lena, right? Shame, she got hurt. But maybe I can help her 'heal' up”

HUNTER I get whatever I want, you just name it. My parents were filthy rich and I was in the school’s hockey team, and that was synonymous to everyone falling for my feet Girls wanted to date me, while guys wanted to be me My words alone was like a worship everyone listened to, cool right? And I was getting more famous day by day My team were training hard, our goal was to advance to the nationals and not stop playing at high school, hockey was really my dream, my life, that was why when one of my teammates got injured during the playoffs with another fucking school, it hit me right on the chest

PUCK OBSESSION (A Dark Hockey Romance) BOOK 6 Intro; People think being obsessed with a hockey player means posters, jerseys, and screaming in packed arenas. But For Kieran Vey, obsession looks different. It looks like memorizing the rhythm of his skates against ice, learning the exact second his jaw tightens before a fight breaks out on the rink, watching interviews frame by frame just to catch the rare moments when NHL golden boy Bryan Calloway looks genuinely angry instead of media-trained perfection.