Sleet Sugar

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.

A chapter book. Age 12 and up.

Mother freaking hockey players. 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 specifically 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. And I'm not the type of girl who takes things sitting down. And I only got caught on my knees that one time. In the museum. But when my decisions gets one of my friends hurt... I can't stop blaming myself. And him. Except he can't take a hint. And I can't keep my panties on.