As the morning sun glimmered through the bedroom window, he began to stir, his bed head hair still falling beautifully atop his chiselled face (maybe he was born with it). A murmur of life escaped his delicate lips, providing the yearning world with signs of life and, after several more beams of golden light completed their pilgrimage from sun to what is known on earth as perfection, and laid themselves across his broad chest, he opened his dazzling eyes, illuminating not only the room but the whole day in a pool of dripping sapphire*. He drew back the duvet to unveil a torso of which Zeus himself would be proud, throwing a fleeting glance at the – now, blushing – ceiling mirror and exchanging a morning wink with the god-like figure that was smouldering back at him. But today was not about Tom Marchant, today was about hockey.**

On his way to the match, he was one of the first of the South team to make it to the pitch. The city traffic that was holding up other members of the team had parted as our handsome Moses came close. The astroturf – which, due to the cold weather, was covered in a sheen of white crystals, waiting in anticipation for a glimpse of him – was clear and playable within seconds of his entrance as it quite simply melted at the sight of him, such was his aura.

With many of the rest of the South squad appearing at the battleground, one man was still missing: it came to be that, earlier in the week, Panos had peered into the (aforementioned) eyes of our striking warrior. The piercing yet serene blue*** had hypnotized him, leaving him unable to comprehend basic directions and, therefore, lost ever since. Thankfully, he finally found his way, homing in towards the beacon of beauty (who by now was warming up in front of his swooning team mates).

Imagine not only playing in front of the most sensational man on the planet, but having to play alongside him…

Just picture it for a moment…

Is it what dreams are made of?

Or

…is it too much pressure for any mere mortal to cope with?

Seconds into the match****, Anns found it all too much and – weak at the knees due to the sheer wonderment of being so close to such a luscious creature – he immediately fell to the floor after making a pass. Not long after, Walsh suffered the same fate although, rather than completing a pass, while he fell at the feet of the immaculacy of human form, he scored.

The first half continued with more goals – nobody quite knew the half time score as they were more distracted by the sumptuous man playing at the back. After the initial scramble to be next to the picture of enchantment or to try and drink from the bottle that his moreish lips had touched, skipper Menzies, trying to focus amid the impossible temptation to just ogle at the perfection of human form that was stood in front of him, debated the throwing of several virgins into a volcano to honour the alluring individual although settled on the scoring of more goals by the team as a tribute to him.

They did.

Many times.

In an after-match statement, Artaman, scorer of four goals*****, dedicated his goals to the pulcritudo******.

The team were met in the changing rooms by ice-cold showers – thankfully forcing blood into the cores of their bodies and away from whichever extremities the presence of Tom Marchant had led it to.

A perfect win, fit for a perfect man. We don’t just like him. We like like him.

*If the man in question actually has brown eyes, then please replace the phrase with ‘wisps of smokey quartz’.
**Fake news: it was about him, not hockey – ask anyone. Don’t be a mug.
*** If the man in question actually has brown eyes, then please replace the word ‘blue’ with ‘ebony’.
****Although the basis of this extract is primarily about our glamourous hero, unfortunately some reference to hockey is apparently required.
*****It should be noted that although four goals were scored (and a post was hit, but this is not relevant), no jug was purchased… And there are rumours that he will not be attending the team social…
******Latin noun for beauty/attractiveness. Of the team, Menzies and Artaman are the only two members of the team who are fluent in Latin due to their specialist schooling.