Chelsea Curto

God damn.

She’s hot as sin.

Exactly the kind of woman I could get into trouble with.

I’m staring, but it’s hard to look away. There’s this energy about her that makes my palms sweaty and my heart pound in my chest like I’ve been running for miles.

It’s not the hangover, either.

It’s her

Hartwell’s hockey skills are on a different planet, and I think I might be a little bit in love with her.

I’ve never wanted someone the way I want Emerson—repeatedly.

Consistently.

Every second of every day.

I don’t need performance enhancing drugs when I’m having the best sex of my life,

For the girls who don’t only like to read about sports, but like to play them too.

(And for the girlies who love to see the six-foot-four NHL captain get on his knees and beg like a good boy–Maverick Miller is for you)

That’s because you’re prickly, not because you’re a woman. You’re my little cactus.”

If she’s the sunshine, I’m the storm cloud

There’s still time to walk away, sweetheart.”

Given them a lesson on what hockey should look like, because she’s the gold fucking standard.

A smile—the tiniest, faintest smile I’ve ever seen—pulls at her lips, and I’m the proudest motherfucker in the world.

I want to set off a confetti cannon. Hang a banner from the rafters of the Civic Center that says I MADE EMERSON HARTWELL SMILE. Put it on a T-shirt and wear it around town.