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. I thought I was a well-adjusted adult–reasonably prepared for life. But one date with Jackson Wilder, a viral video, and a "I didn't know she was your mom" incident, and I'm suddenly questioning everything I thought I knew. But he's fun. And great. And I think I might be falling for him. But I don't know if he's falling for me, too, or if he's as much of a player off the ice as on.

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? I fortified my courage and invited myself up to his room. Assumptions. There's a rule about them. I assumed he was passing through town. I assumed he was a businessman, or maybe an investor, or accountant, or literally anything other than a professional hockey player. I assumed I'd never see him again. I assumed wrong.