I know why you’re here. You know why you’re here. We all know why you’re here.
You don’t care about the line combinations. You don’t care about his childhood dream of making the league. You definitely don’t care about fifty pages of unresolved tension while two grown adults pretend they don’t want to fuck each other.
You want the hotel room. The road trip. The bad idea involving a man who is six-foot-whatever, built like a wall and still half-dressed in his gear.
So I cut out the fluff. Well, most of it.
No slow burn. No third-act breakup. No wondering how many chapters you have to get through before somebody finally puts a hand somewhere it shouldn’t be.
This is just the good stuff.
Ten different women. Ten different players. Ten different stories of questionable decisions.
The men in these stories don’t have names for a reason. Give him your favorite face, number, voice, accent or stupid little playoff beard. That part is up to you.
I’m just here to get his pants off.
This is Hockey Smut.
