Can I call you Foppa, sweetie? Good. You can call me Lotusland, Vansterdam, Terminal City, sugar, or whatever you like. I’m writing because there have been so many rumours about us lately, I feel like we’ve already hooked up even though, you know, we haven’t. Kind of like that time at the office Christmas party when that cute mailroom guy and I had too many martinis and . . . er, never mind.

But that’s the thing, Fops. There have been all these rumours flying around and well – it’s true, Peter. I want you. I want you bad.

There. I said it.

You can ask anyone I know. I’m not usually the kind of girl to make the first move – or any move – but there’s just something about you. I can’t help myself. You, with your 871 points in 697 games and your no-look goals and your drawing all the defenders. Oh, I’m getting hot just thinking about it. Even your injuries are sexy, baby. They show you’re tough, and you’re not afraid to mix it up. And don’t even get me started on your eyes. You could give Taylor Pyatt a run for his money with those baby blues.

I think you’d really feel at home at my place. I have the ocean and mountains. I have a lot of Swedish friends. We like to get together for pickled herring and meatballs and Absolut martinis and those orange chocolate things you get at IKEA. We’re 4:20 friendly, too, if you know what I mean. They can’t wait to meet you.

You don’t need those other girls. Sure, you’ve been with Colorado before, and it was mind-blowingly good. She was pretty hot in those days. But time hasn’t been kind, honey. (Have you seen Ryan Smyth?) Do you know what they call the place you go when you can’t quit an old flame? Chachi Park. And do you know why they say the way you get to Chachi Park after dark is by going left and left and left and left again? That’s right, sweetie, because you’re going in circles. Is that really what you want?

And Philly? What do you want with that gap-toothed old hag? Honestly, sweetie, I don’t know what you ever saw in that mean old battleaxe. All she ever wants to do is drink and fight. She probably wears steel-toed boots and eats cheese-steak in bed. You can do better, honey. Trust me.

Ottawa? Puh-LEASE. Bitch thinks she’s the shit, just because she wins all the time in the regular season. But when the lights go down and it’s time to deliver, she’s got nothing. NOTHING. Just lays there like a wet blanket. And what are you going to do with her when you’re not playing? Go see the Parliament buildings? BOOOOORing.

I think your choice is clear, Foppa, you big, sexy stud, you. I mean, look at me. Look at my picture. I’m way prettier than those other bitches. So call me.

Kisses,

Vancouver

XOXOXO

P.S. That stuff with Mats Sundin is totally not true. Unless you want to have a three-way. Then I’m totally in.