Real Men Feel Things: On Masculinity, Hockey, and Why Ilya and Shane Broke My Heart (In the Best Way)

Let’s talk about men.

Specifically, let’s talk about the kind of men who get written about in sports romance — and the kind who should be.

Because here’s the thing I keep coming back to as both a reader and a writer in this genre: we do not need toxic masculinity in sports romance. We never did. It was never the point. The appeal of the hockey player, the football star, the elite athlete, has never actually been about emotional unavailability or aggression or the performance of hardness. That’s not what draws us to these characters. What draws us is the physicality of the life — the discipline, the sacrifice, the team bond, the body pushed to its absolute limits in service of something bigger than itself. That’s compelling. That’s romantic, in the truest sense of the word.

The toxicity was never the feature. It was always the bug.

My guys in the PHLu universe are masculine. I won’t pretend otherwise and I wouldn’t want to. They’re big and physical and competitive and they bleed for the game. But they also feel. Maybe not right away — often not right away — but the capacity is always there, underneath the pads and the tape and the persona they’ve built for public consumption. The work of the story, so often, is just getting them to the point where they can access it. Where they can name it. Where they stop being afraid of what it means that they feel things as deeply as they do.

That’s not un-masculine. That’s just human.


Let’s be honest about something, because I think we all know it and nobody in mainstream hockey coverage particularly wants to say it out loud: the real NHL has locker rooms. And locker rooms, when you pack them full of elite competitive athletes performing a very specific kind of hyper-masculine identity for each other day after day — well. We can imagine.

Actually, we don’t have to imagine. For those of us who’ve read The Long Game, Rachel Reid gave us Montreal (the team that Shane has been captain of for years), and Montreal gave us a pretty unflinching look at what that environment can actually feel like from the inside — the background radiation of homophobia that nobody names but everybody navigates, the way it shapes what you say and don’t say, what you show and don’t show, who you are allowed to be in that room. It’s not cartoon villainy. It’s subtler and more suffocating than that. And it rings true precisely because we all know, on some level, that it’s not fiction.

We also know — and this is the open secret of the entire hockey romance genre — that the realistic gay and bisexual representation level in the fictional hockey leagues writers have built is… let’s call it aspirationally high. Gloriously, joyfully, deliberately high. And that’s not naivety. That’s intention. That’s a whole community of writers collectively deciding that if the real league won’t make space, we’ll build our own league that will.

Which is exactly why I have the PHL.

The Premiere Hockey League exists, in no small part, so that my characters don’t have to spend their emotional energy surviving a locker room that wants to erase them. They can just — play hockey. Fall in love. Be whole people. The PHL isn’t a utopia exactly, it has its own tensions and politics and complicated men doing complicated things, but the baseline hostility that testosterone-saturated real-world environments so often produce? We left that at the door. On purpose. With zero apology.


I want to talk about Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, because Rachel Reid did something with those two men in Heated Rivalry that I think about constantly, and that gets to the absolute heart of what I’m trying to say.

Here are two of the most compelling, most genuinely masculine characters in the genre. Shane — the golden boy, the clean image, the captain energy, the man who has spent his entire career being exactly what everyone needed him to be. Ilya — the showman, the villain of the rival team’s story, the smirk and the swagger and the devastating skill underneath all of it. Both of them, unquestionably, men in every way that word gets applied to athletes.

And for ten years, they hid.

Ten years of a relationship built in secret — in hotel rooms during away games, in the margins of a rivalry that the entire hockey world was watching. Ten years of something real and loving and sustaining, conducted entirely in the dark. Because the culture they lived inside — the professional hockey world, the media scrutiny, the locker room politics, the national identity wrapped up in both of them — didn’t have a box for what they were to each other.

And that is the indictment, right there. Not of Ilya. Not of Shane. Of the culture.

Shane’s image was so carefully constructed, so central to his career and his sense of self, that the idea of cracking it open felt unsurvivable. Ilya, for all his apparent confidence, carried his own weight — the Russian hockey landscape, his public persona, the expectations layered onto him from every direction. Neither of them had been given a world that said you can be this and also be loved openly. So they took what they could get, in the only way that felt safe.

That’s not weakness. That’s two men navigating an impossible set of constraints with the tools they’d been given by a culture that failed them.

What wrecks me about their story is that the love was never the problem. The love was easy, in the end — it had been there for years, it was the most natural thing in either of their lives. The problem was everything built up around them. The sport they gave their lives to. The personas required to survive inside it. The world that had very specific ideas about what a hockey player was and was allowed to be.

This is the real cost of toxic masculinity in sporting culture. Not the big dramatic moments. The quiet, decade-long cost of two people who loved each other having to hide it because the room they lived in had never been made safe enough for the truth.


This is why I write the men I write.

I want to give my characters the thing Ilya and Shane had to fight so hard for — a world, within the pages at least, where feeling things doesn’t cost you everything. Where you can be physically formidable and emotionally present. Where the team bond includes the whole person, not just the athlete. Where loving someone, regardless of who that someone is, doesn’t have to be a secret kept in hotel rooms for a decade.

My PHLu men are not soft. But they learn. They stumble toward understanding their own interiors like it’s a foreign country they’ve been told they’re not allowed to visit. And when they get there — when they finally let themselves feel the thing they’ve been skating around for three hundred pages — that’s the moment. That’s why we’re here.

Masculinity and emotional depth are not opposites. They never were. Sports culture convinced a lot of people they were, and sports romance, at its best, has been quietly and persistently dismantling that lie one fictional locker room at a time.

Ilya and Shane didn’t hide because they were broken. They hid because the culture hadn’t yet made room for them.

I’m trying to write the room.

— Bella 🏒

On Found Family and the Teams We Build

One of the things I love most about writing hockey romance is the thing that was true about hockey long before I started writing it: the team is always, already, a family.

Not always a comfortable one. Not always a quiet one. Families rarely are. But a family in the truest sense — people who did not choose each other initially and who, through the specific alchemy of proximity and pressure and shared purpose, become something to each other that has no cleaner name than that.

The PHL has its blood families, of course. Brothers who came up through the same system, who learned to skate in the same backyard, who ended up on the same roster because the talent ran in the same veins. Fathers whose sons are now playing the game they played a generation before, sometimes for the same organisation, sometimes facing each other across a faceoff dot with the specific complicated weight of all that history between them. Those stories are real and they are rich and they are part of the fabric of the league.

But they’re only part of it.

What gets me every time — what got me long before I started building the PHLu universe, when I was just a reader falling in love with this sport — is the found family. The one that forms inside a locker room and on a bench and on a bus between cities at two in the morning. The one that happens because these men spend more time together than they spend with the people who chose them by love or marriage or blood. You cannot be that present in each other’s lives without becoming something. The question is only what shape the something takes.

Sometimes it’s the veteran who takes the rookie under his wing and teaches him how to survive the league and doesn’t say a word about it to anyone. Sometimes it’s the line that develops the specific shorthand of people who have been reading each other’s bodies on the ice for long enough that the communication happens below language. Sometimes it’s the goalie and his defense, who have a relationship that the rest of the team watches and cannot fully explain and does not try to.

And sometimes — and this is the one that breaks my heart open in the best possible way — you find the small family within the family. The cluster of three or four or five players who have become something specific to each other inside the larger something of the team. The ones who have each other’s emergency contacts. The ones who show up. The ones for whom ‘teammate’ stopped being the right word somewhere around the second season and nobody has quite found the better one yet.

The PHLu is full of them. The Worth family gave Portland its backbone — real brothers, real history, the complicated grace of people who grew up together and are now performing the same work in front of crowds — but they are not the whole of what the Portland Pioneers are. The Pioneers are also every player who walked into that locker room without a single person who belonged to him and found, slowly and then all at once, that he had a room full of them.

That’s the story I keep coming back to. Not the blood families — though I love them — but the ones that built themselves from scratch, in the middle of a season, in the specific hothouse of a roster that has to function as one thing while being made of very many different and individual people.

It doesn’t take long, in hockey, to find the small families within teams. They’re always there if you look.

I have been looking for a long time. I am still finding them.

🏒 — Bella

They’re Real, They’re Actually Real

I have been sitting with this image for approximately twenty minutes and I cannot stop looking at it.

This is Deacon Worth and Konstantin Andropov. Number 43 and number 27. Portland Pioneers. My boys.

If you have been following along with the PHLu universe, you know Deke and Kon. You know the goal crease and the press conference and the year that changed everything and the specific, particular way these two found their way to each other on the ice and off it. You have lived inside their story with me. And now Paul — our incredible artist who has given visual life to all three of my universes — has given them a face.

I cannot tell you how close this is to what I saw when I wrote them. That is not a thing I expected to be able to say. You write a character and you have them in your head in the specific way that fictional people live in an author’s head — vivid and particular and entirely yours — and then someone else tries to render them and the gap between the interior version and the external version is usually where you learn to manage your expectations.

There is no gap here. None. This is Deke. This is Kon. The way they are standing, the way Kon is leaning in, the specific quality of how they are with each other — this is the book, made visible.

Isolated releases June 15.

Cover reveal June 5.

If you’d like to be notified the moment that cover drops — and I think you would like that, I think you would very much like that — watch this space. I am barely containing myself and I have known what the cover looks like.

You are going to love them. I already do, obviously. I have for quite some time.

🏒 — Bella

Meet The Worths

If you’ve spent any time in the PHLu universe, you’ve probably bumped into a Worth by now. They’re not exactly easy to miss.

Dalton Worth is the reason the Portland Pioneers exist. An ex-hockey enforcer who surprised everyone — possibly including himself — by transitioning into pairs figure skating, he met Aspen on the ice and never really recovered from it. She was the figure skater. He was the large man learning very quickly that grace was harder than aggression and that impressing this particular woman was going to require genuine effort. Reader, she married him anyway. Together they built a family, a legacy, and a part-ownership of one of the PHLu’s expansion teams, and if their children are anything to go by, they did not do any of that by half measures.

Because the Worth children are a lot. I say this with enormous affection. I also say it as someone who spent a great deal of time living in their heads, and I can confirm it is never quiet in there.

Peregrine and Bergen arrived first, because of course the Worth family started with twins. They’re 28 when our story opens, identical in face and absolutely not in personality, and they are the Portland Pioneers’ first line. If you want to understand why the expansion team punches as far above its weight as it does, start with these two. They’ve been skating together since before they could walk, finishing each other’s sentences and each other’s plays, and the chemistry between them on the ice is something opponents find genuinely unsettling.

Deacon and Sorrenson came next, a pair in the looser sense — same age cohort, very different orbits. Deacon is Portland’s starting goalie, the backbone of the team, the kind of presence between the pipes that makes coaches sleep better at night. Sorrenson looked at the family business, decided a little thing like gender wasn’t going to keep her out of it, and is currently head choreographer and lead performer of the Portland Wheelers — the Pioneers’ cheer team. She didn’t inherit the enforcer’s build but she absolutely inherited the enforcer’s stubbornness, and the Wheelers under her direction are something else entirely.

Anton and Hudson are the family’s gentle plot twist. Neither of them can skate. Not for lack of opportunity — the ice was always there — but some things simply don’t take, and what took for these two was story. Anton is in front of the camera on one of Portland’s hit television productions; Hudson is behind the scenes, writing for that show and several others, and between them they are quietly building toward something bigger — their own production company, because when you’re a Worth you don’t just participate in industries, you eventually try to own a piece of them. Both of them are somewhere on the spectrum and both of them are exactly who they’re supposed to be, and I love them unreservedly for it.

And then there is Grayson.

Seventeen when our story opens. The only singleton in a family that otherwise arrived in matching sets. He’s young and he knows it and he is trying very hard not to let anyone see how much he already understands about the game — because what Grayson Worth has, underneath the youth and the quiet watching, is the capacity to be a better goalie than Deacon.

Deacon knows it too.

That particular dynamic is going to be very interesting.

The Worths are the kind of family that fills a room before they’ve finished arriving — loud and warm and complicated and fiercely, sometimes overwhelmingly, devoted to each other. Writing them has been one of the great joys of the PHLu universe. Getting to know each of them has been a privilege.


One more thing about the Worths, because I feel it requires its own mention.

The shortest of the Worth children is Sorrenson. The girl. The one who choreographs and performs and has the kind of stage presence that makes audiences forget to breathe. Sorrie stands 5’11” and is, by some margin, the most compact member of her generation.

Her brothers range from 6’2″ to 6’7″. The tallest clears 6’8″.

Now. Here is where it gets interesting.

Dalton Worth — ex-enforcer, formidable human, the man who raised this small army of enormous children — is 5’11”. He and his tallest son see eye to eye only in the metaphorical sense. Aspen Worth, the woman whose genetics apparently decided to simply ignore the laws of probability, stands 5’4″.

Between them they have produced seven children, the shortest of whom matches Dad exactly and the tallest of whom could rest his chin on his mother’s head without technically trying.

I don’t have an explanation for this. Neither does anyone in the Worth family, though it has been the subject of considerable dinner table discussion over the years. Dalton maintains there must be someone tall in a previous generation somewhere. Aspen just looks at her children and laughs.

Grayson, who is seventeen and still growing, recently measured himself against Bergen and came away looking thoughtful.

Nobody mention it to Dalton. 🏒

— Bella

In Which I Have Thoughts About Hockey Shows

So this morning I finally sat down and watched Off Campus.

And I have to admit something that may get my hockey romance card revoked:

…I was kind of underwhelmed.

Not because it was terrible. It wasn’t. The production value was there. The budget was clearly there. Everybody was pretty. The hockey looked fine. On paper, this should have been exactly my thing.

But the entire time I was watching it, I kept finding myself comparing it to HR.

And unfortunately for Off Campus, HR exists.

Maybe if Off Campus had been the first modern hockey romance style show released, I would feel differently. Maybe I would have fallen completely in love with it. Maybe I would have been screaming into the void about locker room tension and emotionally unavailable men in compression shirts.

But instead, it arrived after something that already nailed the thing I personally think matters most in hockey romance:

chemistry.

Not just romantic chemistry either. Team chemistry. Friendship chemistry. Banter. Warmth. That feeling that these people genuinely exist together when the cameras stop rolling.

HR has charm in a way that feels almost accidental. Like lightning in a bottle. It feels lived in. Messy in the best way. The relationships feel textured and weird and human. Even the background interactions feel natural.

Off Campus, weirdly, felt more polished and somehow less alive.

And maybe that sounds unfair because objectively it probably is the “bigger” production. Better funded. Cleaner. More cinematic in places. But I kept waiting for it to click emotionally for me and it just… didn’t.

It almost felt like they had all the ingredients and somehow forgot seasoning.

I don’t even know if the issue is the writing. It might genuinely come down to casting chemistry. Hockey romance absolutely lives or dies on whether you believe these people would choose each other in every universe.

If I don’t buy the longing, the protectiveness, the “I would absolutely help you hide a body” energy, then the whole thing starts feeling like actors reading attractive dialogue at each other.

And the frustrating part is that there are glimpses in Off Campus where you can see the potential. Little flashes where I thought, oh there it is. Then it would disappear again under another overly polished scene that somehow forgot to feel.

The boys living in the dorm house almost had it.

That was the frustrating part.

There were moments — particularly during the training scenes — where you could feel the shape of the thing it could have been. The burpees, the exhausted chirping, the half-feral team energy, everybody existing in each other’s pockets twenty-four hours a day… for a second I thought, oh here we go. There it is.

And then somehow it just vanished somewhere between the motivational speeches and the bro hugs.

Which sounds ridiculous because I am absolutely the target audience for this kind of thing. Give me emotionally constipated hockey players living in a chaotic share house and I should be seated immediately with snacks and emotional investment.

But I kept wanting more texture.

More quiet affection.
More stupidity.
More loyalty.
More “this idiot is my family now.”
More moments where the audience gets to live with them instead of simply watching plot happen around them.

And honestly? I think that’s what I’m discovering I want from television in general these days.

I would not remotely complain if every scripted drama on the boob tube (good lord, am I showing my age with that phrase?) was one of the following:

  • hockey players navigating life and feelings badly
  • firefighters saving everybody while emotionally imploding
  • deeply repressed soldiers trying to figure out how to exist in normal society

Apparently that is my entire media diet now.

But I think the reason those stories work when they do work is because underneath all the action and conflict and dramatic music, they’re fundamentally stories about people choosing each other.

Found family.
Loyalty.
Protection.
Love in all its messy forms.

And maybe that’s why some modern shows leave me a little cold. Everything feels so determined to be high stakes all the time that nobody remembers to let the characters breathe together.

I don’t necessarily want less drama.

I just want more love.

More scenes where people cook dinner together.
More exhausted conversations at 2am.
More teammates showing up without being asked.
More “I’ve got you.”
More humanity.

The world is already exhausting enough. Let fictional people care about each other properly.

Also let them do it while wearing hockey gear.

Obviously.

Meet the McKenzies. Your Life is About to Get Complicated.

So. The PHL is going live June 15. You know that. You’ve marked your calendar. You’re ready.

But before the puck drops on the whole glorious league, I want to introduce you to the family at the heart of it all — because everything, and I mean everything in the McKenzie Legacy series starts with five Australian kids who looked at their futures and decided to chase them across the world, no matter what it cost.

Let me paint you a picture.

Five siblings. One family. Ambitions too big for one country to hold.

Three boys — identical triplets, because their parents clearly believed in doing things at scale — who grew up dreaming of ice. Of rinks. Of the NHL, or something like it. Of making it in the sport that had absolutely no business being the obsession of kids growing up in Australia, and yet. There they were. Obsessed. Determined. Entirely unstoppable.

And two girls — identical twins — who were born to skate, but not the way their brothers wanted to. Figure skating. Blades and music and the kind of precision that makes your throat tight when you watch it done perfectly. These two wanted it so badly, so completely, that they did something that still gets me right in the chest when I think about it: they gave up their Australian citizenship to compete for the country that could give them their dream.

Let that land for a moment.

Five kids. Five enormous futures. One family watching them all fly away, one by one, toward the lives they were built for.

The McKenzie Legacy is five books. Five love stories. Five characters who carry the weight of everything they left behind, and everything they’re still becoming.

And the first book?

The First Line.

🏒

Lachlan McKenzie. Captain. The kind of man who leads from the front and holds everything together and has absolutely no idea what to do when a woman walks into his orbit and refuses to be managed, organised, or tidily categorised.

Dr Sienna MacLeod. The woman in question. She has not read the memo about being tidily categorised, and she would like it known that she is very busy and does not have time for whatever this is.

I will be honest with you. When I imagine these two — when I see them in my head, which I have been doing for longer than I should probably admit — I see Thor and Merida.

You’re welcome.

He is, in every sense, built like a Viking who also somehow learned to skate. She is all fire and independence and she will absolutely shoot an apple off your head if you give her sufficient motivation. They are, on paper, a disaster. In practice — well. That’s what the book is for.

The First Line is the beginning. The McKenzie Legacy is the whole story — and once you’ve met this family, the triplets and the twins and all the love and loss and history they carry with them, I’ll be taking you somewhere very special.

To the team that sits at the shining heart of the entire PHLu.

The Portland Pioneers.

But first — Lachlan. And Sienna. And the moment everything starts.

June 15.

Cover reveal: May 31. Be there.

🏒 — Bella

It’s Happening. The Puck Drops June 15.

Okay. OKAY.

I have been waiting to write this post for longer than I care to admit, and now that the moment is here I have approximately forty-seven things to say and absolutely no idea which one to lead with, so let’s just go.

Hi. I’m Bella Bruce. I write hockey romance. Specifically, I write hockey romance set in the Premier Hockey League — the PHLu, if you want to sound like an insider, and you do, trust me — and on June 15, those books are going live.

I need you to understand what this means to me.

I need you to understand that I have been living inside this hockey universe for years. Years. I have populated it with teams and rosters and rivalries and love stories and families so large and interconnected that I have, on more than one occasion, needed a spreadsheet just to keep track of who is related to whom and whether they’ve already kissed. I have statistics for players who don’t exist. I have opinions about games that never happened. I once interrupted a family dinner to explain, in considerable detail, why the PHLu salary cap structure is actually more competitive than the NHL’s, and I can tell you with great confidence that this was not received with the enthusiasm it deserved.

My family is very patient. They are also very tired.

But here is the thing about building an entire hockey universe in your head over many years: eventually you have to let it out. Eventually someone reads it and tells you it’s good. Eventually you find yourself writing a blog post announcing that the whole glorious, chaotic, romance-soaked enterprise is about to land in front of actual readers, and you feel approximately like a player stepping onto the ice for game one and also like you might be sick.

Healthy. Very normal. Let’s continue.

Mark your calendars:

🏒 May 31 — Cover Reveal

Yes. We have covers. They are gorgeous and I have been sitting on them like a very smug hen and I cannot wait to show you. May 31. Be here.

🏒 June 15 — The PHLu Goes Live

The Premier Hockey League. The teams. The players. The families. The rivalries. The love stories that will, if I’ve done my job right, make you feel things in your chest that you were not expecting to feel about a fictional hockey league in which I have an embarrassing level of emotional investment.

If you love hockey, you’re going to love this.

If you love romance, you’re going to love this.

If you’ve ever watched a game and thought yes, but what if the star player was also falling catastrophically in love at the same time — welcome home. You have found your people. I am your people. Pull up a seat, grab a snack, and let me tell you about the PHLu.

My family, bless them, will probably not be joining us. They’ve heard enough.

But you?

You’re going to want to hear all of it.

See you May 31 for the reveal. 🏒

— Bella

Why Team Stories Feel Like Home

There’s a reason sports romance readers fall hard for team stories, even if they didn’t grow up watching a single game.

On the surface, these books are about hockey, football, baseball, or whatever sport the characters play. But the truth is, the sport is only the setting. The real story—the one that hits readers right in the chest—is about belonging.

Because team stories are about family.

Not the one you’re born into.

The one you choose.


The Locker Room Is Chosen Family

Every team has a locker room. A space that outsiders rarely see.

It’s loud. It’s chaotic. It smells faintly like tape and sweat and whatever someone microwaved five minutes before a meeting. But it’s also where something important happens: people who started as strangers slowly become a unit.

They learn each other’s habits.

Who tapes their stick three times before a game.
Who sits in the same stall every day.
Who always forgets their gear and borrows someone else’s.

They argue. They chirp. They shove each other in the hallway.

And somewhere along the way, those strangers become the people who know you best.

In sports romance, the locker room isn’t just background scenery.

It’s the heartbeat of the story.


Rituals Matter More Than You Think

Every team develops rituals.

The same playlist before every game.
The same diner after late practices.
The same terrible pre-game speech that somehow still works.

These rituals look small from the outside, but they do something powerful: they create stability.

Athletes live in high-pressure environments. Wins and losses can change everything. Careers can shift overnight. But the rituals—the music, the meals, the dumb superstitions—remain constant.

They say: You’re part of this.

And readers recognize that feeling.

Because most of us are looking for those small rituals too. The routines that make us feel like we belong somewhere.


Teasing Is the Language of Affection

One of the most recognizable elements of team dynamics is the teasing.

Someone gets roasted for a bad haircut.
Someone else gets chirped for a terrible playlist.
A rookie gets stuck carrying bags for a month.

On the surface, it looks like chaos.

But underneath it, there’s affection.

Teasing on a team is often a form of acceptance. It’s how players say you’re one of us now. The moment someone stops being polite and starts chirping you is often the moment you know you’ve been fully absorbed into the group.

Sports romance captures that dynamic beautifully.

The jokes.
The running gags.
The way teammates show up for each other when things get serious.

Readers fall in love with the romance—but they stay for the team.


The Desire to Belong

At its core, sports romance taps into a universal human desire: the need to belong somewhere.

Everyone wants a place where they’re expected.

Where someone notices if they don’t show up.

Where their presence matters.

Teams embody that idea in a very visible way. You can see it on the ice, on the field, on the bench. A team only works when every player is part of the system.

Remove one person and the structure changes.

That kind of belonging is powerful.

And it’s deeply comforting to read about.


Why Sports Romance Hits Harder Than Expected

Many readers come into sports romance expecting something light.

A fun story.
Some competitive banter.
Maybe a few locker room antics.

What they often find instead is something deeper.

Because sports romance isn’t just about two people falling in love.

It’s about finding a place where you’re accepted completely—strengths, flaws, and all.

It’s about teammates who become brothers.
Coaches who become mentors.
Fans who become community.

And sometimes, right in the middle of that found family, two people realize they’ve fallen in love.

Not despite the team.

But because of it.


Everyone Wants Somewhere They’re Expected

That’s the real magic of team stories.

They remind us that belonging doesn’t have to be complicated.

Sometimes it looks like a crowded locker room.

Sometimes it looks like a late-night team meal.

Sometimes it looks like a group chat that never stops buzzing.

And sometimes it looks like love growing quietly in a place where everyone already feels like family.

Because at the end of the day, most of us are searching for the same thing:

A place where we’re expected.

A place where someone saves us a seat.

A place that feels like home.

Timeline Architecture: Keeping Seasons, Trades, and Career Arcs Consistent Across Books

I’m going to be honest with you in a way that I suspect will make a lot of writers feel significantly better about their own process.

I have 58 books in a fictional hockey universe. I have a 385 page series bible. I know the roster of every team in two leagues, the front office of every franchise, the names and numbers of cheer squads, the career arcs of players across three league levels, and the precise emotional geography of a family of twins and singletons whose love stories span multiple continents and decades.

And the timeline is the thing that keeps me up at night.

Not the characters. Not the plots. Not the emotional arcs or the romantic beats or the question of whether a particular scene is doing enough work. The timeline. The question of whether the events of Bergen’s book are sitting correctly in relation to the events of Deacon’s book, whether Grayson’s shoulder injury happened in the right season relative to Isla’s labral tear, whether Niklas’s rookie year overlaps precisely with Sorrenson’s story in the way it needs to for the secret to be the secret it has to be.

I have all 58 stories written. My current editing run — the one I am living inside right now, the one that is simultaneously thrilling and mildly terrifying — is dedicated almost entirely to making sure the timeline works. That every season is the right season. That every trade lands in the correct moment. That nobody is in two places at once and no career arc contradicts itself and the through-lines that connect all 58 books into a single coherent universe are actually doing what I need them to do.

It is the hardest part of building a universe at this scale.

It is also, I have come to believe, the most important.


Why Timeline Breaks Everything

A timeline error in a standalone novel is unfortunate. A timeline error in a 58 book universe is a fault line that runs through everything built on top of it.

This is the particular vulnerability of interconnected series — the same quality that makes them so rich and rewarding for readers, the fact that everything connects to everything else, is exactly what makes a single continuity error so consequential. If Bergen’s book establishes that Per died in the off-season between two specific years, then every subsequent book that references Per’s absence has to be consistent with that timing. If Grayson’s Seattle chapter covers a specific number of seasons before he returns to Portland, then his age at every point in the timeline has to reflect that accurately. If Isla McKenzie’s rehab overlaps with Grayson’s rehab in the way the story requires, the timing of both their injuries has to be architecturally possible within the hockey season calendar.

None of this is insurmountable. All of it requires rigorous, unglamorous, painstaking attention to detail that is about as far from the romantic inspiration of first-draft writing as it’s possible to get.

This is the part of universe-building that nobody tells you about when you fall in love with the idea of writing a series.


The Hockey Calendar Is Your Spine

The single most useful thing I can tell you about managing timeline in hockey romance specifically is this: the hockey calendar is not a constraint. It is your architecture.

An NHL season runs from October through April for the regular season, with playoffs extending into June for the teams that go deep. The draft happens in late June. Free agency opens in July. Training camp begins in September. This annual cycle — absolutely fixed, publicly documented, consistent year over year — is the spine on which every career arc in your universe hangs.

This means that certain things can only happen at certain times. A trade deadline move happens in late February or early March — not November, not May. A rookie arriving from the draft is arriving in September for training camp, not January. A player rehabbing from an injury sustained in the playoffs has a very specific window of recovery time before the next season begins, and whether they make it back or don’t make it back is determined by the nature of the injury and the length of that window.

These fixed points are gifts. They mean that if you know what season a story is set in and what time of year key events occur, a significant portion of your timeline is determined for you by the sport itself rather than by your creative choices. You’re not inventing when things happen. You’re discovering when they have to happen given the constraints of the world you’ve chosen.

Build a master calendar that maps your entire universe onto the actual hockey calendar. Every book, every key event, every career milestone — anchored to a specific month and year. This document is not exciting to create. It is absolutely essential to maintain.


Career Arcs Across Multiple Books

The particular complexity of a hockey romance universe isn’t just that multiple books are happening simultaneously — it’s that your characters appear across each other’s stories at different stages of their careers, and those appearances have to be consistent with where each character actually is at that moment in time.

Bergen Worth appears in Deacon’s book as a 28 year old captain who has already lost his parents. He appears in Grayson’s book as an older brother watching his youngest sibling fall for an Australian figure skater. Every time Bergen appears in someone else’s story, his age, his circumstances, his relationship status, and his emotional state have to reflect where his own timeline has placed him at that point.

Multiply this across 58 books and an ensemble cast of hundreds of characters and you understand why the editing run I’m currently doing exists.

The tool I’ve found most useful for managing this is a character timeline document that sits alongside the series bible — a linear record for each significant character that maps their age, career stage, relationship status, and key life events against the master calendar. When Bergen appears in chapter four of someone else’s book, I can check his timeline document and confirm exactly who he is at that moment.

It sounds like an enormous amount of administrative work.

It is an enormous amount of administrative work.

It is also what stands between a universe that feels coherent and alive and one that quietly undermines itself through accumulated inconsistency.


The Particular Problem of Trades

Trades are the element of hockey timeline architecture that cause me the most specific difficulty, and I suspect I’m not alone in this.

A trade is by definition a disruption — a player moving from one team to another, which changes their relationships, their living situation, their professional context, and their proximity to everyone they know. In a universe where multiple teams are interconnected — where the Pioneers play the Trade Winds, where the California teams share family members with the Portland world, where the women’s league exists alongside the men’s — a single trade has ripple effects across multiple storylines.

If a trade moves a character at the wrong moment in their timeline, it doesn’t just affect their own story. It affects every other story that character touches at that point. The timing of trades therefore needs to be determined not just by what makes sense for individual storylines but by what the entire universe can accommodate at that moment.

I plot trades on the master calendar before I finalise them in any individual book. I need to see the impact across the whole before I commit to any part of it.


When You Find the Error

You will find errors. I want to say this clearly and without softening it because I think writers who are building complex universes sometimes feel that finding a continuity error is evidence of failure rather than a normal and inevitable part of the process.

I have found errors in my editing run. I will probably find more before it’s complete. Some of them are small — a character’s age stated incorrectly in a throwaway line, a reference to an event that the timeline places in the wrong season. Some of them are larger — a career arc that doesn’t quite work when you lay it against the master calendar, a relationship development that is moving faster or slower than the established timeline permits.

The process of finding and fixing these errors is not failure. It is the editing run doing exactly what it’s supposed to do. The errors existed whether you found them or not. Finding them means your readers won’t find them first.

When you find an error in a complex interconnected universe, the fix has to account for every place that error has consequences. Change the date of one event and you may need to adjust three other books. This is painstaking and occasionally maddening and absolutely worth every minute it takes.


Making Peace With Imperfection At Scale

Here is the truth that I have had to make peace with across 58 books: at this scale, absolute perfection of timeline is probably not achievable. Not because the work isn’t worth doing — it absolutely is — but because the sheer volume of interconnection means that the number of potential conflict points is staggering, and the human brain, even one that has been living inside this universe for years, has limits.

What you are aiming for is not perfection. You are aiming for coherence — a timeline that feels consistent and trustworthy to your reader, that doesn’t break their immersion in the world you’ve built, that honours the investment they’ve made in following these characters across multiple books.

Most readers are not reading your 58 book universe with a spreadsheet open beside them tracking dates and ages and career statistics. They are reading because they love these people and they trust you to take care of the world those people live in. That trust is what you’re protecting with every hour you spend on the editing run that nobody will ever see.

The timeline work is invisible when it’s done right.

That’s exactly how it should be.

Do it anyway. Do it thoroughly. Do it with the same love you brought to creating January Jones Jarvis and Kon and Isla McKenzie and every other person you’ve built a life for inside these pages.

They deserve a world that holds together.

So do your readers.

Developing a Team Culture: What Makes Your Fictional Franchise Unique

I am not a sporting person.

I want to put that on the table immediately, because I think it matters. I don’t play sport. I have never played sport in any serious or organised way. I am the sibling who sat in the stands while the athletes in my family did their thing, the one who watched from the sidelines and noticed things that perhaps the people actually playing didn’t have the headspace to observe. I have spent a lifetime watching sporting culture from the outside — the dynamics, the rituals, the unspoken hierarchies, the way teams either cohere into something greater than the sum of their parts or quietly fracture along lines that were always there, just never quite pressurised enough to show.

And here is what I know from all of that watching: a locker room is a locker room.

The professional version may smell more expensive and have better towels and contain people whose faces appear on merchandise, but the fundamental human dynamics playing out inside it are not meaningfully different from the amateur locker rooms I watched my siblings inhabit across years of weekend sport. The way status gets established without anyone explicitly establishing it. The veteran who doesn’t need to raise their voice because everyone in the room already knows where they stand. The newcomer feeling out the culture with careful, watching eyes. The joke that lands perfectly and the one that lands wrong and how the room responds to both tells you everything about who these people are to each other.

I built the Portland Pioneers’ culture on that knowledge. And I supplemented it with something that didn’t exist when I was a child sitting in the dark watching a fuzzy Olympic hockey game on a screen I was practically touching — social media, behind-the-scenes content, and the extraordinary access that the Washington Capitals have given fans into the living, breathing, bickering, laughing organism of an actual NHL team.

Those two things together — a lifetime of watching amateur locker rooms and years of careful attention to what professional teams reveal about themselves online — gave me everything I needed.


Culture Is Not What Teams Say. It’s What They Do.

Every franchise has a mission statement. Every organisation can tell you about their values, their commitment to excellence, their dedication to community. This is not culture. This is marketing.

Culture is what happens when nobody is watching. It’s the veteran who quietly helps the struggling rookie with his technique without being asked, and without telling anyone he did it. It’s the way the room goes silent when a specific person walks in — whether that silence is respect or wariness tells you everything. It’s the unwritten rules that new players absorb in their first few weeks without anyone ever explicitly stating them: what gets laughed at and what doesn’t, who you defer to and in what circumstances, what kind of vulnerability is permitted and what kind will cost you.

Culture is lived, not declared. And as a writer, your job is to show it rather than tell it — to let the culture of your fictional franchise reveal itself through a hundred small moments rather than through a single scene where someone explains it.

My younger siblings played sport with genuine commitment and I watched that world across many years. I watched how teams that looked similar on paper — same age range, same neighbourhood, same sport — could have completely different feels. One team was tight and raucous and looked out for each other in ways that extended well beyond the pitch or the court or the ice. Another was technically competent and emotionally cold, a collection of individuals who happened to wear the same colours. The difference was never really about talent. It was always about culture, and culture was always traceable back to specific people making specific choices — usually a small number of people, sometimes just one or two, whose values and behaviours set the tone that everyone else either adopted or struggled against.

Your franchise is the same. Somewhere in your roster and your coaching staff are the two or three people whose character is shaping the culture that everyone else inhabits. Find them. Know them completely. Then let them do their work on the page.


What Social Media Has Given Hockey Writers

I grew up watching one game per week on a television set small enough that I could practically hold it. Now I follow the Washington Capitals on multiple platforms and they give me access I genuinely cannot believe is real.

The behind-the-scenes content that professional sports organisations produce for social media is a research gift of extraordinary generosity. Not the polished stuff — the official highlight packages and the interview clips where everyone is saying the approved things. I mean the other content. The practice footage where someone does something embarrassing and gets absolutely destroyed by their teammates for the next thirty seconds. The locker room celebrations that are obviously partially performed for camera and partially completely real and the line between those two things is genuinely interesting to observe. The travel content that reveals how these groups of men actually interact when they’re bored and tired and crammed onto a charter flight for the fourth time in ten days.

What social media reveals, if you watch it with careful eyes, is the genuine texture of team relationships. You learn who is actually funny and who just thinks they are. You learn the genuine affection between certain players that no official team communication would ever make explicit because it’s just the background noise of shared life. You learn which veterans are magnets for the rookies and which ones are slightly untouchable. You learn the team’s sense of humour — what they laugh at, the jokes that recur, the bits that have been running so long that the participants are barely aware it’s still a bit.

The Capitals have an extraordinary culture that I have studied with the intensity I once reserved for sitting three inches from a fuzzy television screen. They are physically affectionate in a way that reads as genuinely unselfconscious. They are fiercely protective of each other in public. Their sense of humour is specific and layered and has the quality of in-jokes that go back years. The veterans carry themselves with the particular ease of people who have been somewhere long enough to know that they belong there, and the newer arrivals move into that ease at different speeds and in different ways that are fascinating to observe.

None of this is directly transcribed into the Portland Pioneers. But all of it informed how I understand what a team with genuine culture actually looks and feels like from the outside. That understanding is in every scene I’ve set in the Pioneer locker room.


Building a Culture That Is Specific to Your Team

Generic team culture is useless. Your fictional franchise needs a culture that is theirs and theirs alone — that couldn’t belong to any other team in your universe, that is the product of this specific combination of people in this specific city at this specific moment in the franchise’s history.

To build that, you need to know the origin. Culture in sports teams is almost always traceable to founding conditions — to what the organisation was built around and what it was built in reaction to. Was your franchise built on grit and defensive hockey by a coach who believed offence was overrated and toughness was everything? That choice, made fifteen years ago, is still living in the walls of the building even if the current roster looks completely different. Was your franchise built on a particular kind of player that the founder loved — creative, offensive, willing to take risks — and did that philosophy attract a certain kind of character that then reproduced itself through the culture they created?

For the Portland Pioneers, the coaching staff and the ownership structure are the origin of the culture. A head coach who is also the father of players on his own roster has created a family culture that is genuine rather than performed — these people are actually looking out for each other in the way that families do, with all the complication that entails alongside all the warmth. The front office full of women who belong to this world on their own professional terms has created an organisational culture where the assumptions that sometimes poison sports environments never got the foothold they might have had elsewhere.

That culture attracts certain kinds of players and repels others. It creates an environment where specific kinds of stories are possible and others are not. It is the invisible architecture that every book in your series is built inside.


Culture as the Source of Conflict

Here is the craft truth that took me longest to fully articulate: team culture is not just atmosphere. It is conflict engine.

The friction between individual characters and the team culture they inhabit — the player who doesn’t fit, the newcomer who challenges assumptions, the veteran whose methods worked for twenty years and are suddenly inadequate in ways they can’t quite name — is the source of some of the richest character drama available to you in sports fiction.

A trade brings someone into your franchise who was shaped by a completely different culture. They’re a good player. They want to contribute. But the way they understand what it means to be a good teammate is different from the way your franchise defines it, and that difference is going to create friction before it creates understanding. That friction is story.

A young player whose talent is undeniable arrives and finds that the team’s culture demands a kind of humility that doesn’t come naturally to someone who has been the best player in every room they’ve ever entered. How they navigate that — whether they fight it or learn from it or find a way to be themselves within it — is character development that the culture is generating for you.

Your culture is not the backdrop for your conflicts. It is actively producing them. The more specific and real your franchise culture is, the richer the conflict it generates — because culture that is truly lived, rather than gestured at, has edges. And edges create the friction that stories need.


The Amateur Truth in the Professional World

I said at the beginning that a locker room is a locker room, and I want to return to that because I think it carries something important for writers who feel that their lack of professional sports experience is a gap they need to apologise for.

The fundamental human dynamics of a team environment — the belonging and the exclusion, the loyalty and the betrayal, the way status is negotiated without anyone ever discussing it explicitly, the particular kind of love that forms between people who have been through something genuinely hard together — these are not exclusive to professional sport. They are human. They happen at every level, in every sporting context, in workplaces and families and communities that have nothing to do with sport at all.

You have been watching these dynamics your whole life. In the stands, on the sidelines, in the carpark afterwards. You’ve watched teams that had it and teams that didn’t, and you know the difference in your bones even if you’ve never had the language for it.

Trust that knowledge. Supplement it with everything you can find — the social media, the memoirs, the journalism, the conversations with people who have lived inside professional sport. But trust the fundamental human understanding you have already built, because that is what your characters are made of.

The locker room on a bad night after a bad loss, when the room has to find its way back to itself — I promise you that is not so different at the amateur level and the professional level that your experience of the first cannot illuminate the second.

Human nature is the research. You’ve been doing it your whole life.