Pucking Novels & Stories

There's no hesitation, no second-guessing, just instinct. We shift into drills, starting with passing sequences. The puck moves fast and bounces between sticks. It's controlled but aggressive. Quinn fires one at me, and I catch it before skating backward and sending it right back. Our rhythm continues to build, the puck snapping between us. Muscle memory takes over, making it instinct now.

He never mentioned it while we were together and He calls out a correction "Kai, your angle on the left side" I adjust, and then he says "Good," I miss my next pass. Clean. Open lane. Puck goes right past my tape. Derek stops skating and stares at me like I've grown a second head. "What was that?" he says, coasting over. "Nothing." "That was a nothing pass. You don't miss nothing passes." "I missed it. Move." Derek looks at me. Then he looks at Liam. Then he looks back at me with an expression I refuse to interpret. He moves.

He lets the pressure come to him, draws it in just enough to break it open. The pass cuts clean across the ice, threading through a gap that shouldn’t exist, precise enough that it only works when you know exactly where it’s going before anyone else does. Jay is already there. Of course he is. Who’s surprised? The puck lands on his stick like it belongs there and with a quick shift of his weight before the shot releases, the puck snaps past the goalie before he can even set his feet. The entire arena detonates like a bomb just went off. The sound hits all at once, rising in a wave that rolls through the building as the red light flashes behind the net.

I whispered to myself, and I fired the puck with a massive crack of wood. The loud arena went completely dead silent in a single second as the black rubber flew straight toward the net.

my hips bucking toward his touch. "You like that?" he murmurs against my neck, his breath hot as he nips at the skin there. "Yes," I breathe, my voice already ragged. He pushes a finger inside me, then two, curling them to stroke that spot that makes my thighs tremble. I moan louder, "Oh god, right there," my pussy clenching around him as he pumps steadily, his thumb still working my clit. The pressure builds fast, heat coiling tight in my core.

"A game of Ash-Puck. My best five against yours. You win, the water is free. You lose... I pick who goes under the knife." The Game of Survival The "Ash-Puck" was a distorted, violent version of the hockey they had played in the Ring. The puck was a twenty-pound lead weight, and the sticks were sharpened pieces of rebar. The Feral Six lined up in the muck. They were hungry, tired, and their powers were a luxury they couldn't afford to burn. "Remember the physics," Rhys whispered from the sidelines. "In this sludge, friction is your enemy. $$\mu_k \approx 0.6$$

The new angle let him hit even farther, cock bottoming out with every brutal snap. Vicky screamed—raw, broken. Her whole body seized. Pussy clamped down on his fingers like a vice, gushing around them in hot pulses. Ass fluttered around his cock, milking him. She came in violent waves, thighs trembling, back bowing, tears streaking her cheeks from the intensity.

In his hand, Adrian held the black, rubber game puck the official championship puck from the opening match. "For the photographer of the night," Adrian said softly, stepping into Ethan's space. He reached out, pressing the cold rubber puck into Ethan’s palm. "My good luck charm. I wouldn't have made it onto the ice today without you." Ethan looked down at the puck, then up at Adrian. "Adrian, I was just doing my job. I'm glad you're safe." "It's more than that, Ethan. And you know it," Adrian murmured.

Tristan was everywhere. He read the ice like it was written in a language only he could speak. He stole the puck, split the defense, and flicked it past the goalie so cleanly the whole arena stood. The horn blared. The crowd lost its mind. He tore his helmet off, grinning, hair plastered to his forehead, and pointed at the stands. At her. I stood at center ice with my stick hanging from my hand, and something dark and sour crawled up my throat. The arena lights flickered once, a long stuttering blink, and I clenched my teeth and forced my breathing down until they steadied.

I took a black hockey puck, slapped an orange sensor onto the center of it, and stood exactly four feet away from Jaxson. "I am going to drop this puck," I told him. "You will not use your hands. You will simply point your finger at the exact spot where the puck contacts the floor the moment you hear the sound. Do you understand?" "Sounds easy enough," his voice rattled through the helmet's cage. "We shall see." I held the puck at chest level. Jaxson shifted his stance, his large body going completely still, his posture coiled like a spring. I dropped it.