I’ve been reading hockey romance from this writing duo since they published their first one together in 2017 – I still don’t know a lot about hocked. 😊 But it doesn’t matter whether you follow hockey or not because the sport isn’t the main focus of this book. It’s a great romance about a very insecure Hollywood action hero who has ADHD and is deep in the closest. When he hires a hockey star to help him learn to skate their attraction to each other is hot – but not acknowledged right away.

There’s not a lot more to tell you about the story, other than what the excellent blurb says, so I’ll tell you that it gave me all kinds of feels while reading it. RJ and V.L. never fail to make me feel the gamut of emotions while reading. I particularly got a kick out of one scene where Cameron is helping Finn get dressed in hockey gear for the first time. They’re talking about wearing a cup and Finn asks Cameron:

“What do you feel when you put yours on?” I asked instead, and he stared at me.
“I’m sorry?” He frowned.
“Like your motivation in the scene,” I expanded.
“My motivation is not letting a one hundred mile an hour puck crush the boys,” he said.
“Well obviously, your boys are very nice, and uhm… important.” I gestured at his groin, and then sat back in the cubby, knowing damn well my cheeks would be bright red soon. “But I mean, what are you feeling when you put it on.”
“Like my cock is way too big to fit in a tiny space?” he deadpanned, then gestured at his groin before making a shape with his hands that I assume was an indication of his unfeasibly large penis.

There are many tender moments in the story as well. One where Finn and Cam help a young teen come out to his father was very touching. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of reading hockey romance from these two authors. Book two in this series should be out in December.

Reviews for RJ Scott

Reviews for V.L. Locey

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Not again.

Standing at center ice, my eyes on the scoreboard as they showed the game-winning goal for Boston, all my exhausted brain could keep playing on a loop was…

Not again. Our barn was quiet as a tomb save for the few Rebels fans who had made the trip from the east coast to west. They were loud. They were happy. Our fans? Not so much. And rightfully so. We’d fucked up once more.

My sight flicked from the chaos on the screen over my head to the desolation on the ice. Off in one corner were the Boston Rebels, this year’s Cup champs, ebullient, some weeping with joy. And then there was the Storm.

Our goalie Phillipe was still splayed out in his crease, belly down, the grill of his mask resting on the ice, the very image of dejection. A stuffed storm cloud bounced over to me. There were several on the ice now, our fans’ way of telling us that we sucked. Which, yeah, we all kind of were feeling that vibe—thanks gang.

My teammates were stunned, shock and grief playing on their faces. Our captain, Charles Zhang, seemed to have shaken off the stupor of last-minute loss, but we could see right through him.

“Next year, guys,” I could hear him saying as he skated to each man on the ice. He moved to Phillipe and got him up on his skates. The man was devastated. We’d all tried so hard for him, knowing his time in the crease was limited. He was thirty-eight now. And this might have been his last chance. Fuck. This sucked, and not in the good way. “Handshakes now.”

Fuck. Me. One of the toughest things to do was get in that line and congratulate the other team on achieving your goal. But that was what was expected. Hockey players were nothing if not humble good sports. Inside, we all felt like beating ourselves over our heads with our sticks, but on the outside, we were in a conga line of sorts, only there was no joyous dancing. At least on our side.

Credit to the Rebels, they were good sports. Their captain, Xander Holden, took an extra moment with each Storm player, patting them on the shoulder while telling them that they played one hell of a series.

I wasn’t so sure about that. His freaking team had taken us down in five games. This last one of the series had been tight, yes, but the previous losses were anything but. We’d won the first game here at home, lost the second in front of our fans, then flew to Boston where they trounced us, and now here losing again… it was just fucking shit on a shit stick at a shit barbecue.

“Hey, man. Congratulations,” I said to Austin Rowe, his sweaty face aglow with their well-deserved victory. His cousins—Jamie, Brady, and Tennant—must be super proud. My family would be waiting for me to get home, then the calls would start and every single one of them would be proud of me, but they’d also commiserate. “Great series. We’ll get you next year.”

L.A. Storm Series

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