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.
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