Smutty Hockey Books Novels & Stories

Roman Thorne is the invincible team leader of college hockey. He is large, aggressive and a nightmare to the media. The press, however, does not know what makes the Briarwood Ice Devils so feared. They are not just players. They are ruthless, blood-swilling offspring of the most formidable crime business in the city. Trying to keep a small scandal which is about to blow up their small business, the Thorne family appeals to the service of Sloane Mercer. She is 24 years old and a brilliant ruthless PR fixer. Her task is easy: to improve the image of the team, to work with press, and not to put Roman in the prison. But Sloane has not come to save them. She is here to ruin them. Sloa

I keep my eyes on my phone, hoping that if I ignore him, he'll leave. "Hey," his voice is smooth, confident. "Make it for me and this pretty girl right here." I don't respond. I just scroll to the next page, highlighting a section about cellular respiration like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever read. When the bartender slides a drink in front of me, I finally look up. Crew is watching me with this amused smirk, all golden hair and sharp jawline and the kind of face that makes girls stupid. His hockey jacket is slung over one shoulder, and he's leaning against the bar like he owns it. Like he owns everything.

A public declaration of love. That was all Lori wanted for her twentieth birthday. Instead, she caught her secret boyfriend, Travis, in her bed, with Elena— her cruelest rival. Furious and desperate, Lori runs straight into Lucas Miller’s bed. He is also Elena's bitter ex-boyfriend. Lucas has a strict rule. He only sleeps with a girl once. But now, he is hunting Lori down and wants to properly date her. There is just one problem. Lori's best friend has been in love with Lucas for years. Lori is now trapped in a dangerous game of secrets and revenge. She does not know if she is winning the game or walking straight into a predator's trap.

My hiking addiction has advantages of keeping my legs in tone with the perfect shape for strength and endurance. I see the hockey players and send a quick wave their way, but they turn their backs to me and I can't help but wonder if I've done something wrong or offended them somehow. Shoot, they're probably upset they have to spend their Saturday here at a school pushing books on a bunch of kids who are about as interested in reading as they would be learning to crochet with their grandmas. The kids are allowed to enter at ten o’clock am and follow through the path of tables, entertaining themselves with games and events, earning candy, fidgets, and most importantly books along the way.

he cursed, laughing harder, like everything I was saying was a joke to him. “Sky, I swear, you’ve been watching too many spy movies—and I cannot blame you. This is what happens when you watch too many human crime movies. What do you think this place is?” he asked, gesturing dramatically. “Bro, this is Silverfangs. It’s a hockey game. There’s always security—excess security, yo!” He may not understand, and I didn’t blame him. The only person who would have understood me had refused to hear a word from me.

"I know about her." I looked at him. "I have been watching you," he said. "Since I got back. Because that is what you do when someone has been moving into your life while you were away — you watch them. You find out who they actually are." He said it with the flat certainty of someone presenting a conclusion they had arrived at through genuine effort. "And what I have found out is that Knox Rivers — hockey captain, campus hero, the guy who was so concerned about Ember's safety — has been running something on the side this whole time."

"Well, from what I'm hearing, you're in the game tomorrow, and since you don't know a thing about hockey, I figured we could use this power outage to study something fun for once." "What's that?" I asked, trying to peer at the book in his lap from where I was sitting. Adrien grinned, flipping a few pages as if it were a magazine. "Hockey for Dummies," he said with a wink. "Thought it might be useful for you, seeing as you've missed a couple of practices." I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help but laugh. "Thanks, I guess. So, what are we studying tonight? Penalty shots and checking?"

“There it is.” I looked at her confused. “What?” “The hockey voice.” My stomach tightened in an instant, and I immediately looked away. But I could still feel Harper leaning closer. “You know,” she said quietly, “ it’s nice hearing you talk about hockey again.” Suddenly the room felt smaller, and I found myself staring at the wall—at the photos I’d never bothered taking down, at the medals hidden inside a drawer. At a version of myself I didn’t want to speak about until God knows when.

SLOANE The assignment landed like a puck on fresh ice—clean, unexpected, impossible to ignore. I’d been running *Cold Read* for two years. Started it at sixteen in the summer after Mom died—mostly a place to dump the game breakdowns that had nowhere else to go. Dad’s old Flyers connections had gotten me guest access to a couple minor-league press boxes. I’d scraped together three thousand followers who actually cared about zone entries and forecheck systems and why analytics still got ignored in favor of “gut feel.”