MILE HIGH

12

“Are you okay?” a soft voice asks.

“Huh?” I look up, finding Stevie’s blue-green eyes gentle and concerned.

My confidence has faltered at the moment, and there are only a select few I break down my walls in front of. The flight attendant with an attitude is not one of them.

“I’m fine,” I snap, feeling seen.

“Damn, never mind.”

The bar suddenly seems overcrowded and hot. I’m not claustrophobic, but it currently feels like I might be. I close my empty fist. My palms are clammy as a rush of warm air hits my cheeks, my vision slightly blurring. I attempt to take a breath, but there’s no air in the room.

Fuck. I haven’t had one of these in years.

Without a word or a second thought, I bolt out the front door of the bar.

Once outside, I glance in both directions, looking for some space. The streets are crowded with people, most of which have turned their attention to me. Usually, I live for the stares, the cheers, the recognition. But tonight, I need to get as far away from anyone with eyes as I can.

Jogging across the street, I instinctively turn down a few blocks, having no idea where I’m going, but relying on my panic-stricken body to find a quiet space.

A park comes into view, but people are taking up all the benches in sight. I find a large tree with a big enough trunk to hide behind. Without thinking twice, I sink my ass to the grass, my expensive-as-s**t Armani pants instantly cooling from the wet ground.

Inhale. Exhale. Anchor yourself.

Where am I? Denver. A park.

What color are the benches? Blue.

Why am I feeling this way? Because my mother is a gold-digger who left her children and husband for someone with more money. Because my mother is selfish as f**k, and now she wants my money. She doesn’t want me. She doesn’t love me. She just wants my money.

Rage seeps in again. The only thing that brings on panic attacks for me is blind rage, but I can’t let it control me. The near-decade of therapy has taught me that. I can’t let the panic win. I can’t let my mother win.

Why am I feeling this way? Because she doesn’t love me. Because she chose money over my sister and me. But it doesn’t matter because I love myself.

That’s what therapy has taught me—to love myself. And I do. Unapologetically and without question, I love myself.

Someone’s got to.

Inhale. Exhale.

The panic is gone. I no longer feel hot and flustered, unable to breathe. I fought it off. I didn’t let it get me. I stopped it before it really started.

Letting out a deep breath, I drape my elbows on my knees and drop my head between my shoulders.

I completely bailed on my tab at the bar, but Rio can cover me. I’ll get him back next time. Pulling out my phone without re-reading my sister’s text, I respond.

Me: Thanks for letting me know, Linds. Love you. Please visit soon.

I’ve only ever loved a handful of people in my life, and those people are the Maddisons and my sister. That’s it, and that’s all I plan on. That’s all I need.

Lindsey: Looking at my calendar now! I’ll get something on the books as soon as the office slows down. Please do me a favor and stay out of the penalty box this year.

Me: That’s what they pay me the big bucks for. I’m the asshole from Chicago who doesn’t give a s**t about anyone, remember?

Lindsey: Sure.

She finishes with a crying, laughing emoji because she knows me. I’m not that guy, but that’s what I let people believe. It’s easier that way. I don’t get hurt that way.

ZANDERS

“H

ere we are with the notorious duo from the Chicago Raptors, Eli Maddison and Evan Zanders,” the reporter from the Chicago Tribune states. His voice is wafting through the speakerphone as we sit in a random conference room in Denver’s arena, pre-game.

I look over to Maddison, the only other person in this room. “Notorious duo,” I silently mouth.

Maddison rolls his eyes, but his chest heaves with a quiet laugh.

“Maddison, congratulations on your newborn son.”

“Thanks, Jerry.” My best friend leans forward, so the phone in the center of the conference table finds his voice more clearly. “My wife and I are stoked to add another to the Maddison family.”

“And Ella? How’s she liking being a big sister?”

“She loves it,” Maddison laughs. “She’s a fiery little one, and she’s stoked to have a sibling to boss around in the future.”

“Well, we can’t wait to see you, your wife, and the kids at the next home game in Chicago.”

This is typically how the conversation goes. Reporters start off with all sweet, sentimental stuff with Maddison, then move on to me.

“And EZ,” Jerry begins, using my nickname.

“How we doing, boss?”

“Doing good. Doing good. Not as good as you are, I assume. Your mug was plastered online last week with your latest flavor leaving the arena after your home opener. Someone we should know about?”

Why these reporters feel the need to constantly talk about my s*x life is beyond me. But my persona perceived in the media makes me a hell of a lot of money, so I let it slide. Though, I have no idea who he’s referring to from last week. At a certain point, they tend to blur together.

“Come on, Jerry,” I tease. “It’s me you’re talking to. When has there ever been someone you need to know about?”

“My bad,” he laughs. “I almost forgot I’m talking to Evan Zanders here. You probably haven’t cared about a woman for more than twenty-four hours since your mother.”

My eyes dart to Maddison’s at the mention of my mother. No one knows about my family situation outside of my family and his. I pay good money to my PR team to keep it that way.

Maddison gives me an apologetic half-smile.

“Sounds about right.” I force a laugh into the speakerphone, hating the way the words taste as they come off my tongue.

“Jerry, let’s talk hockey,” Maddison quickly changes the subject.

“Yes, let’s. You two have quite the team behind you this year. How do we feel about the Cup?”