I take a good look at him, my own eyes widening for a different reason. He’s half undressed, sporting padded shorts that are held up by a pair of suspenders over his shoulders. He’s wearing the sort of skin-tight shirt that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination; it’s short sleeved, showing off the flow of ink down his arms. He’s so sweaty, the hallway lights reflect off his damp neck and face. I swallow, audibly. I believe I understand why hockey players are considered sexy.
