Sleet Kitten: Book One of the Sleet Series

The last forty-eight hours have been an absolute disaster. 

First, Lacy shows up in Philadelphia, acting like there’s even the slightest chance in hell that we could try again. There’s not. I’d rather quit hockey and join a monastery than spend one single night in her toxic presence. 

After I walked away from the table, I wanted nothing more than to call my Kitten back so I could hear her voice, like a palate cleanser. But we’d already said goodnight and I didn’t want to wake her.

To make matters worse, seeing Lacy completely killed the buzz I’d gotten from Kitten almost saying she loved me. I know that’s what she was going to say. And I know that she knows that I know. And I want her to know that I liked it. That I wanted to hear it. But no, she hung up, Lacy sat down, and my mood went to garbage.

Fast forward to yesterday, and the pile of shit that was seeing Lacy officially hit the fan. Thank the hockey gods for my sister and her warning. Steph called me about five minutes before the media conference that was scheduled right ahead of our game. She doesn’t call often, so I answered. And I’m glad I did, or else I would’ve been blindsided by that asshole reporter. 

When Steph called me, it went a little something like this:

Me: Hello.

Steph: What the fuck is wrong with you? Lacy? Are you serious! That vile plastic hoe bag? You’re picking her over Katelyn? Fucking Hell, Jackson, what is wrong with you?

Me: Uh, what?

Steph: The pictures are everywhere, Jackson.

Me: What pictures? What are you talking about?

Steph: Of you and Lacy, last night, getting all cozy. She’s got her hands all over you and you’re staring at her tits like a baby waiting for a feeding.

Me: You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!

Steph: There better be a damn good explanation for this. And you need to tell me. Like right now.

Me: I’m not with Lacy. I would never pick Lacy over Katelyn. Fuck, I wouldn’t pick Lacy over an enema. She showed up at the bar last night. I got off the phone with Kitten and then all the sudden Lacy’s sitting across from me. I didn’t even know she was there. And I don’t know what those pictures look like, but I sat there shell-shocked for about half a second before I shoved away from the table. If she was touching me in those pictures, then they were taken the moment she sat down.

Steph: Do you promise?

Me: Yes, Steph, I fucking promise. I swear on Dad’s grave. And if it looked like I was staring at her chest… well, it’s hard to miss. But I wasn’t looking. Honestly, I was wondering what I’d ever seen in her.

Steph: Well, no shit. I wonder that every time I see her.

Me: When do you ever see her? Last I knew, she was in New York with that photographer guy. 

Steph: We ran into her at the mall, just this past week.

Me: We? You and mama.

Steph: No. Me and the girls. Izzy, Meghan, and Katelyn.

Me: Are you serious?

Steph: Yep.

Me: Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t Kitten tell me?

Steph: Lacy stopped us in the hall so she could flaunt her tits in our faces and ask about you. I said how great you were and introduced Katelyn as your girlfriend. Then we ditched the hag.

Me: And you told Kitten who Lacy was?

Steph: I said she was your ex.

Me: Shit.

Steph: Have you told her anything about Lacy?

Me: No.

Steph: What do you expect is going through your Kitten’s mind right now? Looking at these shots of you and Lacy from last night, knowing that she’s your ex?

And that’s when I had to hang up to start the media panel. All with a sinking feeling in my gut, worried about what Kitten might think. 

I hadn’t told her about Lacy yet because I didn’t want to think about Lacy. I didn’t want to poison a conversation with her name. And I sure as shit didn’t know that Kitten had met Lacy, let alone knew about her existence. I trusted Kitten when she said she wouldn’t snoop about me online, but it was obvious that those stupid photos wouldn’t require snooping. They’d no doubt be all over the place by the time our game started. And no doubt Kitten would see them. She’d see the pictures. Pictures from the night when she almost said she loved me.

So, I said the only thing I could. No comment.

The game followed the day’s theme of shit show. We managed to pull out a win, with a one-point lead, but we lost a defenseman and a center to freak injuries by the end of the night. So, by the time I was getting on the plane to fly home, the best I could think of was messaging Kitten and asking her to come over so we could talk. She agreed but didn’t say anything else. No goodnight, no nothing. I tried not to read into it, but that sinking feeling I’d been having started to feel more like drowning. 

Continuing the slide downhill, I bring you to today. I had meetings with the coaches all morning, practice all afternoon, and this evening has been consumed with strategy. It started hockey related, dealing with injury replacements and a coaching change for the team we’re playing against tomorrow. Luckily, it’s a home game so at least I don’t have to travel. 

But now Coach just told me I have to hang on and talk with the team’s publicist. This thing with the pictures, right on the heels of the Kiss Cam videos, has gotten more traction than I thought it would. Being that I have a bit of a “golden boy” image, according to Coach and the publicist, it means that this is turning into quite the scandal. It’s total crap, but now I need to wait for yet another meeting so we can fix this.

As I sit here waiting, all I can think about is Kitten. I just want to see her, and hug her, and smell her hair. I wish she could be with me right now, just to hold my hand and tell me she’s not going anywhere.

Where is this goddamn publicist? Looking at the time I see that it’s just after seven. Then it hits me. I asked Kitten to come over to talk tonight. Fuck fuck fuck. There’s no way I’ll be done with this and home in time to see her. She said she’d come over, but we didn’t discuss a time. I should call her.

I’m pulling up her contact when the door to the conference room opens. Coach and the publicist are here. Shit. I’ll have to settle for a text.

Me: Sorry to cancel last minute but I won’t be able to see you tonight. Hope you haven’t left your house yet. Can you talk after the game tomorrow?

That will have to do for now.