The Nordic Lightning

Hockey is my game. She's my goal. Erik Sorenson. Fast. Hot. Electrifying. With a grin that could melt ice. My life was going just fine here in Brooklyn where I've lived all my life. Then, the player they call the Nordic Lightning came skating into it. What I know about hockey I could fit on the tip of my little finger. I know even less about Erik Sorenson. But I'm a fast learner. Almost as fast as he is in those skates. I've learned he's a Swedish import . . . or is it Norwegian? I've learned he does things on the ice that make my head spin. I've learned he's the playmaker, the one that helps his teammates score—both on and off the ice. Which is why I'm more shocked than anyone when he's the one asking me out . . . in the most public way possible. But our worlds are as different as night and day. So what happens when the player who is constantly on the move meets up with the woman who is happily rooted in place? Contains mature themes.