The Hockey Star's Remorse Mga Nobela at Kwento

Back in my dorm room, I sat on my bed, phone in hand, and eyes glued to it, reading the text I had composed to send to Vivianne. ‘I'm sorry about what happened, Vivianne. I would never do anything to hurt you. I've always genuinely liked you, and I cherished what happened between us… I'm sorry for the trouble that I caused you. I'll bring you back to Stormbridge Academy. I promise’ Just as I was about to send the text to Vivianne, dad's words echoed in my head. ‘Are you ready to give up your hockey career?’ My grip tightened on the phone, and I bit my lip hard.

I leaned into the microphone. "I... I have a statement," I began, my voice sounding hollow in the cavernous room. "Effective immediately, I am retiring from professional hockey. The failure tonight... It was mine alone. I have realized that I no longer have the heart or the commitment required to lead this team. I have let down the fans, my teammates, and the sport." The room erupted. Reporters were screaming questions, their voices a jagged wall of sound. "Lukas! Did you throw the game?" "Are the rumors about your father true?" "How can you walk away now?"

“I have like thirty minutes. Does this also have to do with why you're skipping class today?” He paused for a few seconds. “Did you actually tell her we were a couple?” I shook my head, my eyes showing surprise. “No, that's not it. It's about my…” I sighed, lowering my shoulders. “It's about my hockey career.” He widened his eyes, blinking. “You got in trouble with the coach for beating up Ace?” I nodded. He took a deep breath to calm himself down and then placed his hands on my knees. “What kind of trouble?” It was becoming harder to say now that he was staring at me.

"I just feel like such a fool. To think... I even got him a beautiful anniversary present." ​"Well, trash it." ​"I'm not going to show my face in school for weeks," I muttered, pulling the covers over my face. "I feel so ashamed. And I'm definitely not attending the big hockey game this evening." ​"No, love." Janice forcefully yanked the covers off my face. "You are not going to hide away like a victim. And yes, you are absolutely attending that game this evening. You must show that worthless piece of trash that you don't care."

on the skating roster? Before I could type no, Tessa sent another text: “Gerald Lennox is gonna be there.” My heart skipped a beat. Gerald Lennox was captain of the university’s hockey team. Six-foot-something, broad shoulders, with hair that looked windswept like he’d just stepped out of a cologne advertisement. I’d seen him around campus a handful of times. I shook my head. “No” I whispered to myself. Guys like Gerald didn’t look at girls like me.

I wanted to hear him say, "The points will not be deducted this time, take a rest because you're sick." I wanted to hear him say, "Patrick was wrong and deserves punishment." But he never said any of that, not even once. His remorse now was merely a placebo for making himself feel a little better in the latter half of his life. He wanted to use those shoes to bury every nightmare that haunted him in the midnight hours. Dream on. Some things, once reset, would remain zero forever. Gary continued to cry. "Myra… please, just look at me?" No, I don't.

Sylvia is as red as a tomato, her tiny chuckle tinged with a great deal of embarrassment as she lowers her hand to her side. I have genuinely never seen her look so humiliated. “The broke hockey star.” Drake says suddenly. “What’s up with you lately, Harlan? Finally paid off your mother’s debts?” My eyes narrow in confusion as Harlan goes deathly still beside me. Broke? Harlan? “You seem surprised, Scarlett.” Sylvia quips, the malice returning to her tone; “Didn’t you know?” Didn’t I know about what? Something tells me this situation will end very, very poorly.

Arms raised, acknowledging the crowd's adoration. He looks every inch the golden boy. Confident, beautiful, untouchable. But I know better now. I know about the lies that built his empire, about the crimes his father committed to stay in power. And soon, everyone else will know too. When Timothy reaches center ice for the captain's meeting, our eyes lock through our helmets. For a second, just a second, I see something that looks like pain flash across his face. Good. Pain means he remembers what he threw away.

This pain was similar to a pain of someone whose nerves were meticulously slashes one by one. The pain was too painful that he began to hallucinate, apologizing gibberishly as his mouth was filled with blood, “Sowhry… Liza sorhy, pleahs forgif me.” “Now you are apologizing to her to save your own skin, you really have no guilty conscience don’t you,” Starvos scoffed as he kicked his hand, recoiling Jeremiah to the edge of the study desk. He then bent his knees, crouching right in front of Jeremiah.

Crumpled tissues littered the floor, empty beer cans rolled near my bed, and my phone lay face down on the floor like it couldn’t stand to look at me either. Everything that happened at the bar replayed like a cruel joke. Nate Lincoln, the golden boy, the star hockey player, the reason I had shown up in the first place looked me dead in the eye and told me, “You’re not really my type.” It was as if I had been auditioning for his affection, when all I did was exist… and maybe stare a little too long. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push the memory away but it clung to me like smoke. Humiliating, heart wrenching and stupid.