With a deep exhalation, I take a step toward him just as a group of sorority girls call out his name and run up to say hi, rapt expressions on their faces as if he’s the big present on Christmas morning. I have balls, don’t get me wrong, but when it comes to him, nerves abound. I mean, I have to start somewhere, but I’m not a flirty person.

That night I sat in a back booth, sipping on a shot of smooth tequila, trying to conjure up the backbone to go up to him and introduce myself. (It was right there in his bio that he frequented the popular bar, so I wouldn’t call it stalking.) It was the same last week when I showed up for ladies’ night at the Tipsy Moose to spy on him. It’s impossible to see his eye color in this dim lighting, but I already know from his online HU bio that they’re grey.Īs if he senses me staring, he flicks his eyes in my direction and I stiffen, part of me terrified he’ll find me, the other part hoping he does. His nose is rather long, fitting for his height, but there’s a slight imperfection, a small dent, which I imagine came from a hockey injury.

And his long, wavy, dirty blond hair? Good Lord, I’ve heard jokes about “hockey hair” and how hot it is-and now I see why. Chiseled and firm and strong, his jaw is spectacular. It’s definitely not just his toned, athletic grace in the arena that captures people’s attention. Apparently, he’s so slick on the ice that the Nashville Predators drafted him this past June, willing to wait a year for him to finish his senior year at HU. I examine the six-foot, six-inch frame of the NHL’s number one draft pick. On anyone else, that jacket would come off as pretentious-like a wannabe biker-but he looks like he just stepped off a movie screen.

Without being too obvious, I study him from the bottom of his black motorcycle boots up to the tight jeans that cling to his thighs, all the way to the fitted, super-sleek dark grey leather jacket encasing his well-built upper body. He’s hot as hell and it slams into you when you look at him, like a great wind in a hurricane. The players move, the sea of people parting enough that I see the entirety of him in his full-blown glory and a tingle of something zips up my spine.įiner than frog hair is what my southern mama would have said about him, and there’s no doubt it’s true. The DJ turns down the music to announce the hockey team has arrived, and a buzz goes through the crowd as partiers clap and cheer. Two other players-one blond and one a redhead-flank him on each side like chess pieces protecting their king. I’m not here to discuss societal stereotypes of future pro athletes. Standing on my tiptoes, I watch as Zack Morgan, AKA Z, AKA the Heartbreaker, AKA Douchebag (that one’s my own contribution to the list) strides through the ground-level basement door, dipping his head so he doesn’t bang it on the frame. No one else has this kind of stupid effect on people.

Boyfriend bargain by ilsa madden mills