Until now.
Not only am I in his presence, but his eyes are squarely on me.
Whoa.
Don’t get me wrong. While I haven’t seen him, that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought of him. That I haven’t followed his career. That I don’t wonder why he hasn’t chosen a sport and if he still struggles with the choice. I follow him on social media, adding to his millions of followers, and I think I bought a fan he was promoting.
It’s a great fan that goes around my neck like a necklace. Keeps me cool when I’m cooking.
Listen, I don’t live under a rock.
Even before his hazel-green gaze met mine, I knew Dawson Sinclair was a walking wet dream. The kind that girls make TikToks about with songs like “Father Figure” by George Michael, and “I Wanna Be Your Slave” by Måneskin.
He is yummy.
Hell, his whole family is hot, and I’m secure enough in myself to say Baylor Sinclair is the hottest, with her flowing brownish-blond hair with gray streaks and hazel eyes, the perfect Cupid’s bow to her lips, and skin that looks more like a baby’s ass than that of a forty-year-old-plus woman. She’s gorgeous, and Dawson, well, he may have his dad’s build, but he is his momma made over.
Since I follow his career, I know his stats. Six feet five inches of pure muscle with a bubble butt that begs to be bitten. Twenty-four-year-old defenseman with a body to block any shot and the tenacity to protect his goalie without a second thought. He has ahard-ass shot too. I think the last time I heard, he was clocking in at 101 miles per hour.
And yet, he wants to play football.
Odd.
Above all that, I know he has a smirk that has made girls lose all sense and drop their panties. I’ve heard them at games, during class, and on social media. There is a Snapchat channel called “Thirsty for Dawson’s Creek.”
Yes, instant eye roll.
Pretty sure his momma didn’t name him that for future sexual innuendo.
But I doubt she enjoys his social media, which is a total thirst trap. He loves to post videos of the food he eats. Boring shit like broccoli and Brussels sprouts that he makes as a salad. Weird. He takes photos of his gear and posts them with one word.
Ball.
Stick.
Cleats.
I’m not kidding. I don’t know if he really is a dumb jock or if he’s just being funny. Either way, it’s fodder for the thirsty females of the world.
Me. I am a thirsty female.
I eat it up, leaving no crumbs behind. I only see photos of his face when someone else takes them. Like his parents.
Yes, I follow them.
Shh, we’re ignoring my obsession, okay?
But in those photos, he’s smiling, a real smile. He has a rather large mouth, but it fits his face and doesn’t make him look like an athletic version of the Joker. Better yet, it leaves me wondering what it’d be like to feel that wide mouth on mine.
Or other places…
Again, I may not have time for guys, but that doesn’t mean I can ignore a mighty fine specimen.
Dawson Sinclair? Yeah, he’s spank-bank material, with deep dimples, bright greenish-brown eyes with long lashes that are wasted on a dude, and a seriousness about him that makes him untouchable. He’s usually really clean-shaven, but today, he has a thick five-o’clock shadow coming in. It makes Dawson appear even older than his brother, leaving Louis to look like a baby, not only in looks but in size too. Dawson has high cheekbones and a straight nose. I don’t know how it hasn’t been broken yet. I don’t think I’ve met a hockey player who has all his teethanda straight nose, but Dawson does.
Damn, he is really fun to look at.
By the way he’s looking at me, it seems as if he likes what he sees.
