The Elmwood Stories Series by Lane Hayes – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

The Elmwood Stories Series by Lane Hayes – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com Thu, 17 Apr 2025 13:10:53 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 http://www.ilovenovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png The Elmwood Stories Series by Lane Hayes – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com 32 32 Puck Love (The Elmwood Stories #6) Read Online Lane Hayes http://www.ilovenovels.com/puck-love-the-elmwood-stories-6-read-online-lane-hayes Thu, 17 Apr 2025 13:10:53 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/puck-love-the-elmwood-stories-6-read-online-lane-hayes Genre: Contemporary, M-M Romance, Sports Authors: Lane Hayes Series: The Elmwood Stories Series by Lane Hayes
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Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)

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Two rivals, one secret, and a shot at forever…

Jake

Favorite things and hockey, family, friends.
Least favorite person in the entire history of the Mason Trinsky.

I have my reasons, but since you’re curious, Trinsky is a showboat and a loudmouth. Sure, he’s a great athlete. Good for him. I accept that we have mutual friends and I grudgingly accept that he’ll be a coach at Elmwood Junior’s Camp this summer, however, I plan to keep my distance.

Of course, some wise guy pairs us up for a camping expedition and everything that can go wrong does go wrong.

Guess who I’m stuck with?

Trinsky

Favorite things and hockey, surfing, and my kid brother
Least favorite person in the entire history of the Jake Milligan

Look, I might be in the minority, but if you ask me, Jake is a nitpicking diva who wants everything his way. I hope my NHL team crushes his, and this summer, I want my campers to out-prank his. Childish? Nah, it’s all in good fun.

Until it starts to feel…complicated. I shouldn’t care if he’s happy, should I? I don’t want to be Jake’s friend. I don’t want to have feelings for him at all.

The only thing that matters is hockey. It's all about the puck. Not love.

Or is it?

Puck Love is an MM bisexual, small-town romance featuring hockey’s hottest rivals, a hiking trip gone wrong, and a shot at forever

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

JAKE

“Love your enemies, for they tell you your faults.”— Benjamin Franklin

Hockey wasn’t complicated. It required mad skills on the ice, strategic thinking, and a high tolerance for pain. But the rules were simple:

Get the puck.

Protect the puck.

Drill the puck into the net.

Repeat.

Unfortunately, I had no idea where the puck was. In my defense, it was hard to see with blood dripping into my eye. At least it hadn’t run down my cheek yet, so I had that going for me. Time was ticking, though, and we needed a goal…like, now.

The familiar scrape of sticks, grunts, and juvenile taunts echoed on the ice as my guys jockeyed for dominance. It was a fierce battle to eke out a win before playoffs. Both teams were going, but we needed this W more than the Condors. They’d had a great season and by all accounts, they’d stayed healthy. We were another story.

My team was counting on me to make something happen, but damn it, my head was pounding in my skull and my ribs hurt from LaMarche’s brutal body check. His minutes in the sin bin hadn’t done us any good. We’d missed four shots on goal and had spent the majority of the power play getting outskated by Denver’s superstars, Mellon and Trinsky. Ugh.

Here’s the thing…I’d known Denny Mellon for years, and I loved him like a brother. Not only did he live up to the hype of being one of the greatest to ever play the game, but he was genuinely a good person who used his celebrity to help underprivileged kids, to fund scholarships, and to speak out about mental health issues and his journey as an LGBTQ athlete. He was impressive and completely down-to-earth.

Mason Trinsky, on the other hand, was just a fucking asshole.

No, he was worse. Trinsky was a conceited dickwad with more confidence than sense. He played dirty and mean and had the audacity to laugh off hits like a seasoned fighter while his opponents limped to safety. Trinsky was a forward who played like a D-man. He was rough and single-minded in his determination to do whatever necessary to win.

According to Smitty, my dad’s husband, who happened to be a former AHL pro, I would have liked Trinsky if we’d been on the same team.

I seriously doubted it.

“You okay, Milligan?” Sergei asked in a heavy Russian accent, bumping my shoulder as he signaled for me to cover him.

I grunted. This wasn’t a great time to admit that my chest ached and the boo-boo near my eye might require stitches. That could wait, and at least the refs hadn’t noticed yet. Puck first.

We just had to outmaneuver Denver’s defense to get to Trinsky, who was currently on a mad dash toward our blue line. Sergei and I were fast skaters, so catching up to him wasn’t the issue. Trinsky’s quick reflexes and the fact that he always seemed to suss out impending danger worked to his advantage. It was as if his radar were tuned in to my frequency.

Danger danger, Jake Milligan is closing in. Right flank, two seconds to impact.

Boom! Trinsky passed to Mellon, who deked around our big guy, Madsen, leaving him in a cloud of dust, cartoon-style. Boston converged on Mellon, squeezing him out. That was it, play killed. But no, not Denny. He created an opening out of thin air and pulled a disappearing act that would have made Houdini proud.

There was no one to stop him now. It was Denny against our goalie. And yeah, Ace was good, but Denny was better.

Unless…I stopped him. All I had to do was shake Trinsky and cut Mellon off from behind.

I bolted forward at full speed, blinking wildly as my vision blurred. Get the puck, get the puck. I was close now. Blood rushed in my head, pounding in my ears. I cocked my stick, angled my hips, and⁠—

Trinsky cut me off with a simple hip check. Not hard or even dirty by his standards, but it slowed me down. “Yo, not so fast, Jakey.”

“Fuck yourself.” I growled in frustration, regained my footing, and hurried after Denny.

But Trinsky was glued to my side now, yapping away. Don’t ask me what he said—it was a mix of gibberish and smack talk.

“Dude, what’s up with you? My kid brother skates faster than you. Someone pissed in your Cheerios, huh? I fuckin’ hate Cheerios. Do you like ’em?”

Denny slowed as he neared the goal, stick poised and ready. Ace was in position, but I had one last chance. I darted left, away from Trinsky, but somehow ended up flying in the opposite direction. And I do mean flying.

I hit the boards with a thump and keeled like a rag doll.

Half a beat later, Denny scored.

The arena erupted—lights flashed, music blared, and raucous fans cheered wildly for their hometown heroes.

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Hotshot (The Elmwood Stories #5) Read Online Lane Hayes http://www.ilovenovels.com/hotshot-the-elmwood-stories-5-read-online-lane-hayes Sat, 31 Aug 2024 08:13:13 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/hotshot-the-elmwood-stories-5-read-online-lane-hayes Genre: M-M Romance, Sports Authors: Lane Hayes Series: The Elmwood Stories Series by Lane Hayes
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Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)

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The rookie superstar, the desperate cowboy, and a naughty proposition…

Denny
The press calls me this year’s hot shot, the rookie who scores at will and conjures plays out of thin air. Truth is…I’m a PR nightmare. Seriously. Ask my agent.
My anxiety is off the charts. I can’t talk to the media without breaking into a cold sweat, but once I get through the season, I can regroup at home. Life is simpler in Vermont.
Well, not anymore. There’s a new cowboy in town. Literally, a cowboy. At least, Hank looks like one—he owns a horse, wears a hat, and did I mention he’s hot?
And get this…he has a proposition for me.

Hank
Proposition is a strong word. I prefer to call this a mutually beneficial arrangement. See, I could use Denny’s help with a family business venture, and though I was planning to offer cash, the jock has a sexier idea.
Not gonna lie, I’m interested.
This could be a fun distraction while I’m stuck in Elmwood. Nice enough place, however, the locals are wary of an outsider taking over the neighboring mill. Long story short…they don’t trust me. But they love their hometown hockey hero.
I get it.
I’ve never met anyone like Denny—skittish in street clothes and a feral beast with cunning instincts on the ice. He’s fascinating, sexy, smart, and—
Whoa! I’m not falling for the hotshot rookie. No way, no how, no chance…
Too late.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

DENNY

“You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”—Wayne Gretzky

“This defense isn’t prepared for Denver’s rookie,” the sportscaster commented. “Denny Mellon is quick and agile and—he stole the puck again! It’s a breakaway for Mellon! He’s blasting toward the goal. Oblinsk is ready, but this guy is lightning. Mellon fakes a pass, takes a high shot to the upper left corner, and…scores! NHL’s new hotshot is on fire!”

The Bleacher Report

The hotshot is at it again. Denny Mellon, Denver’s power forward, is earning his ice time and putting his team on the map.

ESPN

There are some talented rookies out there having great seasons, but Denny Mellon is arguably the best. He’s an impact player with speed, skill, and poise, and Denver’s hotshot is a mad scoring machine reminiscent of hockey’s greatest players.

Sports Illustrated

Denny Mellon is the undisputed golden boy in Denver, scoring and assisting at will every time he takes the ice, Mellon dazzles fans, who chant, “Hotshot!” from the rafters.

“Yo, Hotshot! Welcome home!”

I waved at the shadowy figure outside the bar and sighed.

Were you supposed to get a say in a nickname? If so, I wanted a redo.

There had to be something better out there than Hotshot. It was too silly, too flighty, too showy. I was none of those things. How about Speed Demon, or Speedy, or just…Demon? I was open to all ideas and propositions.

Oh, wait. That didn’t sound right. Propositions came with connotations. Nothing good ever came from an opening line like, “I have a proposition for you.”

Interesting, funny, ridiculous, smarmy, terrifying…sure. But not good.

Of course, I had zero to no experience in such matters. Elmwood wasn’t Vegas…or Denver. We didn’t do propositions here. We dared each other to do things we’d planned on doing anyway, like climbing the roof of St. Finbarr’s and chugging beers under the stars or maybe going skinny-dipping in Lake Norman at midnight.

But that was in high school, when impromptu parties and dubious decision-making had practically been badges of honor. I was old enough to know better now, and I did.

I rubbed my hands together and glanced up at the black awning over the bar attached to the Black Horse Inn, a small motel at the fringe of forest in southern Vermont. The bar advertised itself as a charming gem from a simpler time. If you were into sticky tabletops, watered-down beer, a perpetual playlist of hokey songs from the sixties and seventies, and ambient lighting so dim it was hard to see two feet in front of your face, then…yes, this was the right spot.

To me, it looked and felt like home.

And damn, it was good to be back…if only for a short time. The mellow hum of everyday life in Elmwood was a welcome respite from the reality of grueling practices, high-stakes games, and constant travel. I liked my team, and I’d met nice people in Denver. I just couldn’t relax there.

Sure, I was killing it in the NHL, but a rookie had a lot to prove. I had to be a-fucking-mazing every night. I had to put in a thousand percent effort, smile through rough hits, and shake off idiotic jabs meant to fuck with my concentration on the ice. None of that was particularly challenging for me. The hardest part was not knowing who I could trust.

That wasn’t the case here. The second I walked into the bar, I knew I’d be greeted with a sea of friendly faces, high fives, fist bumps, and hugs. However, I was still me, and I didn’t do well with crowds or people in general. Even at home.

Awkward? Yep, that description fit.

I sucked in a fortifying breath, wiped my sweaty palms on my leather jacket, and tapped my thumbs against my upper thigh to calm my nerves before I pushed open the door, mentally preparing myself for a huge helping of unfiltered, in-your-face attention, and—well, you’ll see.

“Denny!”

A whoop of applause and cheers echoed from the rafters of the old bar. Next thing I knew, the whole place was chanting the nickname a sports reporter had given me after my premier game in the NHL a few months ago.

“Hotshot! Hotshot! Hotshot!”

Ugh.

I pushed forward with my chin tucked to hide my certain blush, slapping high fives like a pro on my way to the bar.

Side note: The bartender here knew everyone’s name and beverage preference. There was no waiting or overthinking your poison of choice for the night. Bill took one look at the door, gave the newcomers an up-nod, and got to work. It didn’t matter how long it had been since your last visit to the Black Horse—he never forgot a name or an order.

“Denny Mellon! I saw that goal last night. Your money is no good here tonight, Hotshot,” Bill boomed. “Drinks on the house for you.”

I probably should have insisted that was unnecessary, but I’d done this dance a few times and knew Bill wouldn’t relent. There was no point in expending my finite amount of social energy on an argument I wouldn’t win. So I thanked the older man before heading toward the high table near the ancient jukebox in a dark corner of the bar where my idiot friends were screaming their lungs out.

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Thin Ice (The Elmwood Stories #4) Read Online Lane Hayes http://www.ilovenovels.com/thin-ice-the-elmwood-stories-4-read-online-lane-hayes Mon, 27 May 2024 20:57:33 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/thin-ice-the-elmwood-stories-4-read-online-lane-hayes Genre: M-M Romance Authors: Lane Hayes Series: The Elmwood Stories Series by Lane Hayes
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Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)

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The hunky hockey dad, the bad boy coach, and a new start...

Bryson
Elmwood isn’t good for my love life. Sorry. I’m a positive person and I have nothing but wonderful things to say about small town life, but I haven’t had a date, let alone a boyfriend in years. That’s fine. My son is and always has been my number one focus.

Except now he’s grown and is rarely home. And it’s lonely.

Yes, the new hockey coach is hot and single, but he’s off limits. Smitty’s trouble with a capital T and his baggage outweighs mine. Besides, we said nothing would happen after “that” night. It was a one-time, never to be repeated deal.

So why can’t I stay away from him?

Smitty
Am I sad about retiring from pro hockey? Honestly, no. I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t in pain. My body needs a rest, but I can’t go home. Everything has changed there and I need a distraction. Stat.

So… Elmwood.

Look, we all know I won’t last a whole season of coaching high school kids, but stepping in till they find a better candidate is a good temporary plan. And Bryson’s here.

There’s something about the hot dad with the sunny smile and bad jokes that makes me feel alive again. Look, I’m not in the market for forever. Been there, done that. I’ve risked my body, but I’m not giving my heart away again. I know thin ice when I see it.

Or do I?

Thin Ice is an MM bisexual, small town romance featuring a silver fox dad, a bad boy hockey player, and a new start on solid ground.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

BRYSON

“In skating over thin ice, our safety is in our speed.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

Tie game, third period, less than four minutes on the clock.

The entire arena was electric. Everyone was on their feet, stomping, clapping, cheering, and bellowing their lungs out with a rabid air of anticipatory excitement. The wall of sound echoed, ratcheting up a few notches at the barrage of whistles as two refs descended on a scrap-up left of Toronto’s goal and sent one of their forwards to the sin bin for tripping.

Finally! The Scorpions needed this break. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood, willing our guys to score on this power play.

“Oh, crisse! What is wrong with Jeffries? He is slower than the molasses in the—” Jean-Claude snapped his fingers and wrinkled his nose, his Quebecois accent thick with frustration. “What is the saying?”

“January,” I replied, my gaze locked on number twelve. “C’mon, Jake, c’mon.”

JC scoffed. “Slower than January? Weird, okay.”

“Slower than molasses in January.” Riley elbowed his husband playfully. “You’re right. He’s having an off night and Jake is—oh…let’s go, Jake!”

Jake had the puck. He skated like the wind with Toronto’s beast of a D-man on his tail. The knot in my stomach tightened, making me woozy. There was nothing quite like watching your twenty-one-year-old son being chased like a deer trying to outrun a hungry lion. And that was exactly what was happening out there.

Damn, I was getting too old for this. The gut-wrenching stomachaches I’d remembered from watching Jake’s youth hockey games were nothing compared to an AHL division playoff game with seasoned, tough-as-nails players vying for their shot to play in the championship. I’d known this was going to be a rough one, but I’d underestimated Toronto’s tenacity. And I definitely hadn’t considered how terrifying it would be to see my son being pursued by Smitty Paluchek, a six-foot-five force to be reckoned with.

Paluchek had garnered a reputation for being a monster on the ice. I was pretty sure he’d played a few games in the NHL too, but he hadn’t played for Philly or a team I’d rooted for, so I hadn’t followed his career.

All I knew was that Jake thoroughly disliked him, which I suspected had more to do with being intimidated by a veteran who pulled no punches rather than a personal issue with his character.

I clenched my jaw, willing Jake to pass to Lombardi or Newinski or anyone before he got clobbered.

Jake was quick, but Smitty was a behemoth who used his might and impressive muscle mass to clear the ice and keep pesky forwards from scoring by whatever means necessary. Holy shit. He was going to make mincemeat out of my son in front of my very eyes.

It wasn’t quite that dramatic, but sure enough, Smitty cut him off, blocking Jake’s errant wrist shot with ease. He delivered a wicked hip check for his troubles and dumped the puck to a teammate just as the penalty clock ran out. So much for our big break.

JC, Riley, and I, along with the other Scorpion fans in the building, let out a collective groan and commenced screaming for our defense to get their asses in gear.

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Holiday Crush (The Elmwood Stories #3) Read Online Lane Hayes http://www.ilovenovels.com/holiday-crush-the-elmwood-stories-3-read-online-lane-hayes Fri, 15 Dec 2023 11:43:42 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/holiday-crush-the-elmwood-stories-3-read-online-lane-hayes Genre: M-M Romance, Sports Authors: Lane Hayes Series: The Elmwood Stories Series by Lane Hayes
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Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)

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The hockey has-been, the barista, and some holiday magic…

Court

Cut from the team, fired my agent…now what?

This can’t be it for me. Unfortunately, the phone isn’t ringing. My best bet is to head home for the holidays and regroup.

Problem: I don’t know what to do with myself. Helping out at the rink might be my ticket out of here, but nothing is happening fast enough. And then there’s Ivan. No, no, it’s not what you think. We went to school together. We’re acquaintance-friends…nothing more.

But you know, I like him. A lot. He’s funny and relentlessly upbeat. I’m a better person when I’m with him—the kind who volunteers to deck the halls and wrap garland on lampposts and—
 Whoa. What’s happening here?

Ivan

I love the holidays! But running the coffee shop on my own during the busiest season of the year is going to be a challenge. And the sudden appearance of my former crush is all kinds of distracting.
 See, I spent my formative years mooning over Court Henderson, our high school’s hockey phenom, even though he was out of my league. Thankfully, I grew up and left the silly remnants of my youth behind. Or did I?

Grown-up Court is full of surprises, and under his gruff yet extremely fine exterior, he’s a good soul with a huge heart. He’s charming, sweet, handsome, and— Uh-oh.

My crush is back. Just in time for the holidays…

Holiday Crush is an MM bisexual, small town romance featuring a renewed ancient crush, some mistletoe latte art, and a little seasonal magic.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

COURT

“Home is where one starts from.” — T.S. Eliot

The clock was running out on the Sea Snappers’ worst loss in a decade. For a team with a three-year losing record, that was saying something.

I leaned on my stick, chewing on my mouthguard, my gaze fixed on the puck as I waited for the signal for a line change. Put me in, Coach. Put me in. My blood was pumping, fast and furious, and my heart was racing. I’d been as useless as a screen door on a submarine tonight, but this was my moment. I could feel it.

When Coach Calhoun blew his whistle, I jumped the boards and skated like the wind, ready to wreak havoc and prevent another goal. And you know if I saw a chance to score, I’d make it happen. No question.

Except…Detroit’s big D-man was two inches taller than my six three and easily outweighed me by fifty pounds. And Jenkins was a renowned dirty player whose smack talk was a ridiculous combination of offensive and humorous.

“You wearing your grandma’s knickers tonight, Henderson? I see little pink hearts through your uniform,” he taunted, bumping my shoulder hard as we took our places to the left of the circle.

“My uniform is black, moron.”

“Like the puck I’m about to score on your sorry ass with. Boom!” He kept his gaze on me but drew his stick back just as his teammate passed the puck, leaving a vapor trail in his wake.

I chased after him, so focused on Jenkins that I didn’t notice my own teammate closing in. That was my cue to pull away and cover the right wing. Problem: I couldn’t stop my momentum. And that was a terrible excuse for a veteran pro hockey player—even one who’d been stuck on bad minor league teams in regions of the country where football and baseball were the only sports that got any love.

None of that mattered. So what if the money sucked and the fans rarely showed up for home games? This was my job. I knew what I was supposed to be doing, and it sure as hell wasn’t defending Granny Henderson’s honor. No doubt she was watching from heaven, laughing her ass off at the notion of her unmentionables getting a shout-out while my opponent outskated me.

Jenkins thundered toward the goal like he fucking owned it and just before I reached him, passed to his center. Like I said, momentum wasn’t in my favor. I pummeled into him at a weird angle and somehow…accidentally, I swear…I nudged his face with my stick and yep, there was blood.

Guess who got sent to the sin bin?

Again.

I sat on the bench, watching the puck slip by our meager line of defense and in between our goalie’s pads, giving the Detroit Dragons their tenth and final goal of the night.

The few diehard Sea Snappers fans in the mostly empty arena groaned aloud. And damn, I couldn’t blame them. We kept promising this was the season everything would change, but so far…it was the same ol’ story with the same disappointing ending.

We sucked.

We’d sucked for so long, we’d forgotten what it felt like to win. And personally, I’d forgotten what it was like to feel proud of my job or my life in general.

For fuck’s sake, I was thirty-four years old and had nothing to show for myself. I’d ridden my professional hockey player bragging rights into the ground for thirteen years. I’d love to claim I’d made bank, invested well, and saved like a squirrel preparing for a mini ice age, but that was a lie.

Something had to give.

The team needed to bond and figure out how to work together if we were going to avoid another awful year. I’d mention it to Coach tomorrow. Fuck, Calhoun had to be more desperate than anyone to turn this ship around. I’d bet he’d be open to some new ideas.

Management and I must have been on the same page ’cause I received a message requesting my presence for a meeting the following morning. Eight a.m. was aggressively early in my opinion, but hey, I was relieved to take this to the top and implement some immediate changes.

Did I think it was strange to be called in on my own? Not at all. I was on good terms with management and the coaching staff, and the owners liked me.

No, I wasn’t captain. Fuck, I’d avoided that gig like the plague for good reason. I’d done it in college and it had sucked. I wasn’t a cheerleader or babysitter material. However, like it or not, I was an older statesman and I’d been around the block a few times. And in spite of my abysmal start to the year, I was appreciated and well respected.

In a twist, I was also extraordinarily delusional.

The general manager, a short squat man in his sixties with thinning gray hair and a bushy beard, motioned for me to sit at the conference room table, a grim expression fixed on his not-so-handsome mug.

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Next Season (The Elmwood Stories #2) Read Online Lane Hayes http://www.ilovenovels.com/next-season-the-elmwood-stories-2-read-online-lane-hayes Thu, 02 Nov 2023 21:56:05 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/next-season-the-elmwood-stories-2-read-online-lane-hayes Genre: M-M Romance, Sports Authors: Lane Hayes Series: The Elmwood Stories Series by Lane Hayes
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Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >67

The injured hockey player and the grumpy chef…

Riley

My time playing pro hockey will be up soon. I can feel it. And I’ve heard the he’s too old, he’s had too many injuries, he’s lost his edge. I don’t want to admit it, but they could be right. Next season might be my last.

Or this season. Because of course, this is when the universe decides I need another concussion. It’s a doozy too—the kind that’s going to keep me off skates for a while.

Which is how I end up in a small New England town in the middle of nowhere Vermont, eating every meal at a diner where a grumpy chef from Quebec makes haute cuisine…and burgers. Jean-Claude is funny and charming and—

Okay, I have a crush on a gay man.

This is a new one.

Jean-Claude

Confused straight men are entertaining. But Riley is…fascinating, sexy, and curiously vulnerable. His injury has rocked his confidence a bit, so perhaps he’s in need of a friend. Any friend. Even moi .

I’m an unlikely choice, but maybe he just likes my tuna salad.

No…I think it’s me.

And though I’m happy to help him explore his bisexual curious side, I have career concerns of my own. See, the things I love most about Elmwood seem shaky and uncertain, but not Riley. He’s solid and genuine. Suddenly, this temporary secret liaison feels more real than anything in my life.

I need more than this season. I want it all. With Riley.

Next Season is an MM bisexual-awakening romance featuring a grumpy chef, an injured hockey player, and a big HEA in a small town where anything can happen.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

RILEY

“Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.” —Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Wednesdays = orange tape.

Okay, that was a personal preference and a tried-and-true ritual, but as anyone who’d ever played hockey could attest, certain rituals were sacred. For me it was right sock first, left knee pad last, and orange tape on Wednesdays.

Hey, hockey players were a suspicious bunch, and we all knew that the slightest deviation from routine could result in catastrophe.

Check this out:

The Slammers’ center, Mickey Romajski, tore his ACL the weekend after he’d accidentally used a teammate’s towel in the shower. For a germaphobe like Mickey, it was a no-no and possibly the cause of injury. Another teammate, Jake Moran, cracked a rib two days after he’d uncharacteristically sat on the bench to pull on his shoulder pads instead of standing as usual. Both injuries were sustained on the ice, but not on the same day as the routine hiccup, which might mean they had nothing to do with messing with tradition, but you couldn’t be too careful.

And how ironic was that? Caution didn’t fly in this game. The most superstitious D-man out there still had to play like a badass ’cause this was hockey, for crying out loud.

So as my teammates engaged in their own rituals, I taped my stick and gave my pregame “we got this” speech like a good captain. Or co-captain. This would be the night we’d turn our lukewarm start to the season around. This would be the night we’d come out strong, beat our opponent to the puck, pass like a finely tuned machine, and create scoring opportunities at will…no problem.

Except there was a problem: As I neared the end of my roll of tape, the color looked more yellow than orange. Like the manufacturer had started with yellow and switched to orange and— Fuck me. This was the wrong color.

No wait. It had to be the light. No issues here, folks. Nothing to worry about.

I pushed aside the tinge of apprehension and focused on my surroundings. The locker room was a flurry of fist bumps, words of encouragement, and then someone blasted a raucous beat to pump us up. We were warriors going into battle, and victory was ours for the taking.

We hoped.

We skated out to tepid applause and jeers as per normal for the visiting team. Some crowds were more brutal than others, but it was still early season and anything could happen. And after a particularly off-key rendition of the national anthem, I took my place on the bench, swallowing my annoyance when my co-captain, Ben Childress, lost the face-off.

So…co-captain. Yeah, not gonna lie, it sucked. Sort of like being given a sliver of a slice of chocolate cake instead of the chunk you’d been promised. Three years into sharing the C with a twenty-five-year-old phenom from Boston, I’d thought I’d resigned myself to reality, but some nights…not so much.

At thirty-five, I was one of the old-timers now. My minutes were down, and I resented every fucking thing about that. Childress wasn’t a better forward than me; he was just younger. Ben was also hotheaded, impetuous, and had a tendency to pick stupid fights, which was how he’d earned the nickname Chili.

Case in point: He not only lost the puck, but he pissed off Buffalo’s beast of a center. He’d probably called him a pussy or insulted his parentage or made fun of the mole on his left cheek. Who knew? Chili was a dick, and he loved the sound of his own voice.

Needless to say, the tone was set from that first slap of sticks. This wasn’t going to be pretty, and Buffalo’s fans fucking loved it. They wanted blood on the ice. Preferably ours.

Childress ate up the animosity, egging on the crowd with his arms raised. By the second period, you could practically see the energy roll through the stands like a wave onto the ice. So much for tepid.

I hopped over the boards with the second line and found myself battling with Buffalo’s new star, a quick twenty-one-year-old kid with fire in his eyes who’d sized me up and decided I wasn’t a problem. I didn’t like that. I kept up with the little shit, slicing in front of him and easily stealing the puck.

I could hear Childress’s whoop of glee above the crowd and Minski’s holler for me to pass as I deked around a D-man and tore off with a breakaway that couldn’t have been a sweeter opening if it had been gift-wrapped with a red ribbon and served on a silver platter. I didn’t need Minski. I had this one. The goalie was hugging the right corner, but there was just enough space to sling it in on the left. I angled my hips, gaining speed as I pulled my stick sideways, and—flew through the air, landing in a heap against the boards.

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You Again (The Elmwood Stories #1) Read Online Lane Hayes http://www.ilovenovels.com/you-again-the-elmwood-stories-1-read-online-lane-hayes Thu, 14 Sep 2023 21:22:26 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/you-again-the-elmwood-stories-1-read-online-lane-hayes Genre: M-M Romance, Sports Authors: Lane Hayes Series: The Elmwood Stories Series by Lane Hayes
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Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)

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The hometown hockey hero and his best friend’s brother…

Vinnie
Hockey is in my blood. I learned to skate before I learned how to ride a bike. I’ve been on a wild ride, playing at the highest level for some of the biggest and best teams in the league. But now it’s over, and I’m not sure what to do with myself.
So I’m going home to Elmwood.
But I’ll tell you what I’m not gonna do—I’m not going to coach my buddy’s junior hockey league. No chance. I don’t know how to deal with kids, and besides, the other coach—who happens to be my best friend’s brother—hates me. With reason.
That may be old news, yet something tells me we’re going to have to deal with the past.
And that’s almost as scary as coaching teens.

Nolan
No, I don’t hate Vinnie, but he drives me nuts.
He’s cocky, goofy, selfish, and yeah…after all these years, I’m still attracted to him. But I’m a responsible adult now. I run my family’s business, and with the help of my ex, I’ve made Elmwood Diner into a New England institution.
So maybe my life isn’t particularly exciting at the moment, and maybe Vinnie isn’t the worst. Nonetheless, I have no desire to rekindle a friendship with the hockey hero who no doubt will be on the first flight out of town the second he gets bored or gets a better offer.
And I’m not coaching with him. No way.
Ugh…
I can’t believe I’m doing this again.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

VINNIE

“Our enemies can never hurt us very much. But oh, what about forgiving our friends?”—Willa Cather, My Mortal Enemy

Lights flashed and cell phones lit up the arena as the starting lineup took to the ice. Our hometown crowd roared in anticipation and appreciation, stomping their feet, clapping, and whooping like maniacs. These fans were voracious—and thankfully, forgiving.

Our season had been lackluster at best. We’d been plagued by injuries, a management shake-up, and a host of twenty other excuses that had kept us from the playoffs for the first time in a decade.

Not the way I wanted to go out, but this was it—the final game of my sixteen-year career.

My teammates slapped their palms on the C on my jersey and bumped my fist as their names were called.

Riley Thoreau, a talented center, a good friend, and most likely my replacement as captain, knocked his helmet against mine and grinned. “Gonna miss you, Kimbo.”

“Who’s gonna hide your tape next year, Trunk?”

“No one, fucker.” He snorted, fiddling with his mouthguard.

Side note: Nearly every team member on every squad I’d played for since Pee Wees was given a nickname. Sometimes it was a simple abbreviation of their first or last name, like mine. My last name was Kiminski, and some wise guy my rookie year joked that I came at the opponent like Rambo, guns blazing, no prisoners taken and—boom, I became Kimbo. Trunk Thoreau, on the other hand, was an average-sized man whose big-ass quads resembled tree trunks. Makes sense, right?

It was going to be weird as fuck to return to a world where people used first names on the regular.

I shook off my mopey vibes and cupped my ear. “You hear that? They’re restless out there. Get your ass in gear so we can get the party started.”

“And I suppose you’re the party?”

“You know it.” I winked.

He stomped his skates on the rubber mat. “Are you ready for everyone to ask what you’re doing for the rest of your life? Or this summer?”

“Fuck, no.”

“Didn’t think so.” Trunk held out his fist and tilted his chin meaningfully. “It’s been an honor, man. A fucking honor.”

Great, now I was feeling verklempt. I didn’t want to be sad tonight, and I didn’t want to think about summer…or autumn or winter.

I wanted to be completely in the moment. I wanted this to be a celebration. One last awesome game before I hung up my skates.

I stood alone at the mouth of the tunnel and watched the spectacle of lights in the dark, smiling as the crowd chanted my name, “Kimbo, Kimbo, Kimbo…” I took a cleansing breath, then glided onto the ice.

Seventeen thousand screaming fans jumped to their feet, whistling and cheering. I thumped my chest twice and held my stick in the air in acknowledgment. If possible, the decibel level in the arena rose to a fraction beneath ear-splitting.

What can I say?

I was Seattle’s hero, the scariest D-man in the West. I never backed down, I was tough on the boards, grumpy when my team lost, and slightly obnoxious when we won. Sue me…I yam what I yam—a six-foot-five, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound wall of solid muscle, and the fans here loved me.

Or they were at least entertained by my antics. Air guitar, disco moves, the impromptu dog piles…yeah, I always brought the party. More importantly, I kicked ass on the ice. I protected the net, intimidated our opponents, and scored at will.

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