Sleet Kitten: Book One of the Sleet Series

“Okay, that’s a little strange,” I say to myself, looking at a life-size cutout of Jackson. He’s all dressed up in his hockey gear, holding a stick, but no helmet so you can see his handsome face. There’s a family waiting for their turn to take a picture, while a trio of teenage girls takes endless selfies with the fake Jackson. 

I mean, I get it… he’s super hot, but it’s still a little weird to be watching this. I just found out who real Jackson is. Plus, he’s got to be literally twice the age of these squealing fans. Ugh, who am I kidding… my teenage celebrity crushes knew no bounds, nor age restrictions.

This arena is huge. I did have to look that term up, since I was pretty sure it wasn’t called a stadium. And being that I have no frame of reference, I have to assume that it’s always this packed. Wall to wall, shoulder to shoulder, crowds of people. Everyone milling around, getting their food and beer. 

The nachos look like a pile of greasy wonderfulness, but I’ll be honest, I’m stupid-nervous right now. I think I’ll wait to see how I’m feeling until after the first period before indulging. 

See, I studied. I know there are three periods in a game.

I also learned that Jackson Wilder is a big damn deal. He plays the right wing position. He’s played for a couple of teams since he went professional, and this is his fifth year playing for Minnesota. I read an interview where he said that he’d like to stay here for the remainder of his career, since he loves the team and the fans so much. That could be total bullshit, but I’m hoping he meant it.

I did limit my Jackson research to his time spent playing for the Sleet. I’m sure being in the limelight is hard, and I didn’t want to read a bunch of stuff about his personal life. Especially since there’s a chance it could be untrue. Just learning about his five years with the Sleet has me a little embarrassed that, as a resident of this state, I didn’t know who he was. 

And he was clearly being sarcastic in his note when he said that “a few people” would be wearing his jersey. I think you could tally up his fans as a percentage of this crowd. Like, a majority percentage of the people here are wearing his number.

I’m taking this as a positive sign. He must be a good player, and a decent guy, or else all these people wouldn’t be spending their money buying his gear. 

I fit in pretty well with my Wilder jersey, skinny jeans, and knee-high leather boots. Since the jersey is long sleeved, I put it over a long-sleeved white tee, which was warm enough that I didn’t have to lug a jacket around with me.

Friendly arena staff are posted all over the place, and they help direct me towards my seat. 

Shuffling past a few bodies I get to where I need to be. Dropping into the fold-down seat, I find myself right near center ice, three rows back from the glass and in the middle of the row. Damn, this must be an expensive ticket. I internally roll my eyes at myself for that inner monologue. The man who gave me this ticket is on the freaking team. It would’ve been more ridiculous if it wasn’t a good seat.

There’s a family to my left. The little boy in the seat next to me has his face painted with a big 33 and has an honest-to-god foam finger on his hand. As we get closer to game time, the rest of the row fills up, but the seat to my right remains empty.

Why am I so nervous?! It’s not like I’m the one playing out there. And Jackson has played dozens, probably hundreds, of games by now. I’m sure me being here isn’t going to make a single bit of difference to how well he performs.

A startled yelp escapes me when the pump-up music starts blasting through the speakers. When the announcer begins to introduce the team, I have to physically hold down my bouncing knees. I should have looked on YouTube for a clip of this introduction mayhem, because I was not expecting this level of theatrics. The music is vibrating the air around me. There are laser lights and projections and the announcer is still yelling out names. The whole thing is quite overwhelming.

When they announce Jackson as a starting player, the crowd – already going nuts – gets even louder. I hardly know the man, but I can’t help feeling proud of him. And wow, he looks good. Hockey pads are not exactly what you’d call a sexy outfit, but – on him? – it works. It makes his already large frame look even more impressive and climbable.

As the teams line up for the national anthem, the crowd stands, and I lock eyes with Jackson. He’s all the way across the ice, but it feels like he’s right next to me. The corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk and my heart starts to beat faster. He knows I’m here. And he seems pleased. With his eyes on mine, heat starts to crawl up and down my body. 

When cheers break out around me, I realize that we stared at each other for the entire anthem. Well, if lusting after one of our great nation’s professional athletes isn’t patriotic, I don’t know what is. 

The teams face off. The puck drops. And the game starts.

With my face still warm, I tell myself to calm down and pretend to be a normal person for the remainder of this game.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever watched an NHL game before, but I should have. These guys fly across the ice like dancers, but crash into each other like freight trains. The combination of grace and violence is fascinating. And sexy. I’m not even ashamed to admit that watching Jackson skating out there has me all sorts of hot-and-bothered. With the level of turned-on that I am, you’d think I was at home, watching porn, with my hand in my pants. Not sitting in a packed arena, watching fully clothed men crash into each other.

The first period is about halfway over when someone bumps into my elbow as they drop into the empty seat next to me. 

Looking over I smile as the lady shuffles around a box of popcorn, a large beer, a bag of cotton candy, and her own foam finger sporting the number 33. She’s wearing a jersey similar to the one I have on, and her short curly brown hair is streaked with grey.

“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry, dear! I just knocked right into you.” She chuckles. “You’d think I’d learn that carrying all this shit at once is a dumbass idea. But I do it every time I come here.”

I like this lady already. Her laugh is infectious, she curses like it’s second nature, and her light blue eyes, accented with chunky purple frames, exude friendliness. Handing me her cotton candy to free a hand, she reaches over to shake mine.

“I’m Mary, and you are just the prettiest thing this side of the Mississippi.” 

Mary is probably in her late sixties, and I think I want to be her best friend.

Grinning I take her hand. “Aw, thank you! I’m Katelyn. And I’m thrilled that you’ll be sitting next to me.”

“Go on and open up that bag for me, will ya? I like to mix all my snacks while I watch. Can’t stick with one flavor for too long or else I get jittery.” Giving me a once-over she asks, “You refraining from eating or some such bullshit? You don’t even have a drink with you.”

Laughing I say, “Yeah, no, long story. I think I’m ready to snack now though.” She tips her head forward and peers at me over the top of her glasses, a question clear in her eyes, so I elaborate. “This is my first game and I was a little nervous when I got here. Or, well, a lot nervous. I wasn’t sure I could handle eating anything. But now that it’s started, and he’s doing so well, I feel better.”

Mary tilts her head. “You said he.”

“Huh?”

“You said, ‘he’s doing so well.’ Are you here for one of the players?”

“Oh, umm . . . yeah, but not like you’re thinking. We just met last night. He was just being really sweet, surprising me with a jersey and a ticket for this game. We aren’t like dating or anything. I don’t think… No, probably not. That’d be crazy…” I trail off and Mary and I just look at each other, both blinking. Then she bursts out laughing, laying a hand on my forearm.

“Oh, honey. You are too precious. If this guy invites you to his game the very next day after meeting, I’d say it’s safe to assume he’s interested in being more than friends.” Then she pulls on my shoulder a little bit. “Let me see who this jersey belongs to.”

I lean forward so she can see the Wilder scrawled across my back.

“Well lookie here, we’re wearing matching numbers!”

Sitting back up, I can see that Mary has a large and genuine smile on her face, and a twinkle in her eye. She is clearly enjoying this predicament of mine.

She gestures to my hands. “All right, you start on that cotton candy. I’m digging into this popcorn. When I say switch, you switch with me. We can share this beer until one of those handsome beer guys makes his way over here.” I nod in agreement. There’s no way to turn this woman down. “And while we watch this game, I want to hear all about how you met the real live Jackson Wilder.”