Page 1 of Full Body Check

“Jesus, Nik, you said it’d be cold, not the damn Tundra!” I’m able to complain, despite my chattering teeth and numb lips.

My beloved best friend Nikki, who I’m gonna kill as soon as I can feel my extremities again, laughs. “You’ve really got that whole Southern bellething down pat, don’t you? It’s not that cold, princess. And you’re wearing what, five layers? Quit whining and come on.” She grabs my gloved hand to drag me through the crowd, up a few steps, and down an aisle until we reach our seats, pointing to the one I assume is mine. “Park it.”

I glare at her while getting situated. “Oh,” pops out of my mouth in surprise, “we’re right in the thick of it, huh?”

“You think I’d have shitty seats?” She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “You know better, G. I-, never mind, here we go!” She bounces in her chair and squeals just as ear-splitting music starts blaring in time with the sudden neon light show.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Get. On. Your. Feet. For. Your. Lakeeee Cityyyy Freeeezeee!” a deep-voiced announcer drawls, everyone jumping up as directed, while I slowly rise, trying to take it all in at once.

Everything around me — the raucous crowd, flashing lights, chill in the air — has a certain electricity to it, and I must admit, the excitement is contagious. Adrenaline the likes of which I’ve never felt riots through me like liquid fire, and my hands clap themselves to the thunderous beat of “Light ‘Em Up” as I watch, in absolute awe, the biggest bunch of men I’ve ever seen skate out onto the ice. Not big as in numerous, there are only twenty, give or take a few, of them. No, I mean big as in behemoths.

I sense Nikki’s stare and turn my head, meeting her dancing eyes with my, what have to be bulging, own. “Get it now?” she yells over the music.

“Yup.” I nod. Oh yeah, I’m so starting to understand her fascination with hockey.

Life and geography had separated us long ago, leaving me to attend college in the South while Nikki’s scholarship sent her north, and our visits to each other since then have been sorely lacking in frequency. She’s been begging me to come up, have some much-needed girl time and of course, attend one of her coveted hockey games for a while now, so, last week, I finally said fuck it… and here I am… freezing my ass off in all my fascinated glory. Although, I’m not quite as cold as before, because, it seems, thus far anyway… Hockey. Is. Hot.

“Well, woohoo, look at you! Getting some of your groove back there, cat lady?” Nikki whoops, nudging my shoulder.

She knows me too well, distance no match for the kindred bond we’ve shared since grade school. I still have to try and ‘one up’ her though, another of our long-standing traditions. “I can’t be a cat lady anymore, asshole. My cat died, remember?”

Take that — straight shot of guilt — no chaser.

“Nice try,” she scoffs, does the “Sign of the Cross” (she’s not even a little bit Catholic), and blows a kiss skyward. “Tink, if you can hear me, pray that your mommy gets some of those cobwebs cleaned out tonight!” she shouts in the same upward direction, to my poor, deceased cat… who I seriously doubt hears her… unlike the people, alive and sitting by us, who pick up on her meaning, and share in her amusement… at my expense.

Sadly, yet mercifully, my old-as-dirt tabby, Tink, had gone to kitty heaven last week, denouncing me as an official member of the “Cat Lady Club,” and eliminating the only excuse I had for sticking close to home. So, I’d shocked myself, and even more so my coworkers, with my drastic, daredevil move — of finally cashing in on a mere fraction of my saved-up vacation time — and flew my ass up here to Nikki’s neck of the woods.

“Holy… something real holy. Who. Is. That?” I lean in to ask, not only to ensure that I’m heard, but also hoping I’m only heard by her. “Number thirty-eight, Nik, who is he?”

“That’s my girl; you’ve always had a good eye.” She beams with pride. “You, hot pants, have masterfully spotted one of, if not the, best of the bunch. That’s Brewer Hayes. Captain, and star center; a lean, mean, scoring machine. He leads the league in the power-play points and assists, but not goals, even though he easily could,” she finishes with a dreamy sigh.

Dutiful best friend that I am, I give her exactly what she’s waiting for — prompt to actually finish her SportsCenter audition. “If he could lead that too, why doesn’t he?”

“Because he’s a real captain, leading by example; a true team player. Thus his record in assists. He sacrifices for his teammates, wants them to be great too. So inspiring.” She proves the impossible by sighing even more dreamily this time.

“He sounds great; no wonder he’s your favorite.” I suppress disappointment and smile. Rule numero uno of being a best friend — do not spend all night ogling the man she saw first. In fact, don’t even, ever, look in his general direction again. He no longer exists.

“I didn’t say he was my favorite,” she drawls with a knowing tease in her tone, her lips curling in nostalgic surety, reminded of why we get along so well — we never zero in on the same guy, avoiding any girl-on-girl crime and punishment — our tastes in boys/men havealways been cohesively different.

I must let out a sigh of relief or something, because Nikki snickers and throws an arm around my shoulders. “Yeah, you’re good; he’s all yours; eye-fuck away.”

“If you insist,” I play along, back to my great mood now that I’m free to openly admire my choice. “You just give me a minute though, then watch… I’ll figure out your favorite.”

And I will. Bet on it.

“Holy shit!” I shriek, jolting a good two inches off my seat, treating Nikki to another laugh. I’ve kept her entertained all night, our front row seats seeming a little tooclose when mythically-sized men body-slam each other against the what I fear may be flimsy glass not nearly far enough away from me.

The game of hockey is barbaric. Chaotic. Mesmerizing. Honestly, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s the overwhelming amount of testosterone in the air that’s calling to my long-neglected core on some weird, biological level, or if I just find the sport sexy as all hell.

Or an intoxicating blend of both.

Methinks it may be the last.

I’ve always found athletes the most attractive of men; the male form in precise motion a beautiful thing, but hockey? Totally different game. Thesemen are huge — hulks of raw, potent power, primal force oozing off them as they clash like titans — and my thighs clench harder with every collision. But the particular mash-up, currently in my front and center, has more than just my thighs quivering; my whole body’s tingling, heart racing, and breathing labored… because one of the warriors in battle is him. Number thirty-eight.

“You’re welcome,” Nik taunts me as I gawk, gape-jawed and enthralled, at my close-up of the man who’s kept my rapt attention since warm-ups.

‘And he’s gorgeous,’ I think, I only think, finally getting a good look at him, struck stupid by his sheer beauty. Dark eyes, yet vibrant with virility, a strong, unfortunate nose (obviously broken more than once, but looks perfect on him), and a light dusting of scruff, the same shade as his eyes, failing to hide a chiseled jawline.

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