Sleet

There are a few things that life doesn’t prepare you for. Like what to do when a super-hot guy catches you sneaking around in his basement, or what to do when a mysterious package shows up with tickets to a hockey game (because, apparently, he’s a professional athlete). Nor how to handle it when you get to the game and realize he’s freaking famous, since half of the 20,000 people in the stands are wearing his jersey.

My friends have convinced me: no more hockey players. With a dad who is the Head Coach for the Minnesota Sleet, it seemed like an easy decision. My friends have also convinced me that the best way to boost my fragile self-esteem is through a one-night stand. A dating app. A hotel bar. A sexy-as-hell man who’s sweet, and funny...and did I mention sexy-as-hell?

My friends found their happily-ever-afters with a couple of sweet, doting, over-the-top, in-love athletes. They got nicknames like Kitten and Sugar. But me? I got stuck with a dickhead who riles me up on purpose and calls me Banshee. Yeah, he might have a voice made explicitly for wet dreams. And he might have a body and face carved by the gods. And he might have a level of Alpha-hole that gets me all hot and bothered. But when he presses my buttons, he presses ALL my buttons.

My trip to Mexico for my cousin's wedding was only supposed to be a few days of obligation and oceanside. I wasn't expecting Luke. Wasn't expecting the hot hockey player, with the smirks and the tattoos, who kept bumping into me. And I certainly wasn't expecting to spend a night on the beach, under the stars, underneath him. It was magical, but I thought it would end there. Instead, we exchanged numbers and stayed in touch. So when Luke invited me to watch him play in Vegas, I went. And it was great. Until we woke up the next morning and found the wedding certificate in my pocket.