“What do you have against hockey? You don’t believe all those stereotypes do you?” he says. “Suppose I do. Then you get the picture,” I say. Not even the hot new guy with the killer body, contagious laugh, and a ridiculous dimple in his strong chin–cliche much?–can convince me otherwise…
I have no business taking an interest in a woman bent on believing hockey is the sport of neanderthals and all pro athletes are spoiled puck heads. Her words, not mine. I can’t stand her no matter how smoking hot she is. There’s no excuse to her ignorant attitude. But tell that to my over-active dick whenever she’s around–which is always since she’s shooting the documentary.
How do we go from mortal enemies to obsessed, spending more time tangling the sheets than is healthy for our bodies or our careers?