Romance Books About Hockey Players Mga Nobela at Kwento

That's what I said two months ago when I got fired from my job as a kitchen assistant at Wendies, that's what I also said a month ago when my sister Katherine had took us out to celebrate her divorce, that's what I also said two weeks ago when my boyfriend of two years had broken up with me and left the country to pursue his education. Clearly, I was a liar. And now, here I am drinking again at a team dinner to celebrate me joining Saint Aurelius University as their new hockey coach while pursuing my masters in the grad division. “Let's go for round two!” One suggested, I looked at him and he looked fucked up real bad. The alcohol in his system made it hard for him to keep a steady posture,

"And I'll recommend that the league drop the investigation." "Thank you." "Don't thank me yet." Dr. Chen pulled something out of her desk drawer. A book manuscript. Thick. Printed. The cover page read: "Love on Ice: The True Story of Hockey's Most Controversial Couple. By Emily Chen, Ph.D." Damian's blood ran cold. "What is that?" "My book." Dr. Chen set the manuscript on the coffee table. "I've been writing it for six months. Interviews. Research. Analysis. It covers everything—your rivalry, your relationship, the blackmail, the shooting, the wedding."

They’d smiled at each other, and for a second, it looked like a fucking scene out of some teen romance movie, two star-crossed lovers reaching for the same book in a library, fingers brushing, eyes locking, hearts racing. I nearly lost it. And then Luke, one of my teammates, leaned over and muttered, "Damn. That girl looks like a sex doll with that hair." That was it. That was when I stood up and walked out. Because fuck that. A reporter cleared her throat, snapping me back to the present. Blonde, sharp-eyed, the type that got off on making people squirm. "Logan," she started, her smirk playing at the edges of her lips. "Hockey fans all over have been dying to know 'what’s your type?'"

” A pair of strong hands caught my arms before I could bounce backward. “Are you lost, love?” I looked up. He was tall—the kind of height that came with playing center, built broad through the shoulders and chest in the way that hockey did to people if they’d stuck with it long enough. His dark hair pushed back from his forehead like it had been pushed back many times tonight, with a finely carved jawline. I registered his hands on my arms—they were light but there. And I knew that face, not from here. I knew it from two seasons ago, across the ice—game five of the regional semifinals. Harlow versus Westbrook. I’d watched that face score three goals in the third period like he was personally

“They work." "They terrify me." "They should.” Sandra folds one elegant leg over the other. "The public doesn't see Mercer versus Locke as a hockey rivalry anymore." Jim nods. "What do they see?" She smiles. "They see mythology. They're opposite archetypes.” She gestures toward the screen. "Locke is discipline, Mercer is chaos. Locke is cold precision, Mercer is pure instinct. They’re the two biggest personalities in the league, and every time they're photographed within ten feet of one another our engagement explodes."

“Let’s get this over with.” She leaned forward and the blouse gaped more. “So, Zane. The fans are dying to know. A man like you, rich, famous, built like that, why no girlfriend?” I stared until she shifted. She tried again. “Rumors say you’re getting serious with Sophia Lang. That you two are engaged? Care to comment on that for the fans?” I leaned forward slowly. “Let me explain something. You’ve been tugging at that blouse since I walked in. Either button it or stop pretending this is about hockey.”

The media was buzzing with rumors and speculation, all pointing to a budding relationship between the hockey star and his new lover. “This Just In: Beloved Hockey Star Timothy Hayes Is In Love with Stella Fitzgerald!”

And somehow, despite knowing absolutely nothing about hockey, I found myself leaning forward every single time he touched the puck. Every time he got close to the goal, I found myself holding my breath. My stomach dropped whenever someone checked him. For some reason, I cared enough about Knox not to want him to get hurt. Which was ridiculous. I hated him…. right? Yet somehow, I barely noticed Mike the entire game. Every time my eyes wandered across the ice, they found Knox. The girls behind me weren’t helping. “He’s so hot.” “Look at his arms.” “I would let that man ruin my life.”

The good stuff. Turns out growing up around professional hockey players teaches you a few things about how their careers work. And more importantly, how badly most of them need someone smarter handling their money. My brother calls it my “empire” while I call it, a practical job. My assistant, Claire, looks up from her desk. Her dark hair is pulled into a loose knot while she flips through a stack of documents. “You’re early.” “Am I ever late?” She snorts softly. “Fair.”