MILE HIGH

13

“This is our year,” Maddison states.

Nodding in agreement, I add, “No doubt about it, we believe the group of guys wearing a Raptors jersey this year has the potential to be holding the Stanley Cup by the end of the season.”

Maddison and I look across the conference room table at each other, laser-focused. When it comes to hockey, and especially this season, we don’t f**k around. This is our year to win it all. At twenty-eight, Maddison and I are both going into our seventh NHL season, and we finally have all the pieces to bring it home.

“Zanders the enforcer, do you think you’ll ease up on the penalty box minutes this year?”

“Depends.” I lean back in my chair.

“On?”

“If these other teams play clean, I will too. But if you come after my guys, I’ll be the one you’re answering to. The penalty box doesn’t scare me. That’s what I’m on this team for, to protect my guys and make sure they don’t get hurt. But judging by my last six seasons, I can’t imagine this year being any different.”

“You do love yourself a good hockey brawl,” Jerry laughs.

Well, he’s not wrong there.

“And what do you have to lose?” he continues. “You throw your punches, get your minutes in the box, then leave with a different woman on your arm each night. We all know you, EZ. You don’t give a s**t about anyone other than yourself. And that’s why Chicago loves you. You’re the biggest asshole in the league. But you’re our asshole.”

Maddison leans back in his chair, his brows furrowed, and arms crossed over his chest. He shakes his head in frustration, but he knows how this works. We’ve been doing it for years.

I take a deep breath, plastering on a smile even though the reporter can’t see it. “You got that right!”

“The city’s golden boy and Chicago’s unlovable bad boy,” Jerry adds. “My favorite headline to use when it comes to you two.”

We continue to talk about the team and our goals for this season, but every few questions revert to me and my personal life. Talking about the women I leave the arena with, my photographed nights out in the city, drinking and partying. Though, I always remind him those nights are never before a game.

Anytime Maddison or I try to shift the conversation to Active Minds of Chicago—our charity foundation supporting underprivileged young athletes that don’t have the mental health resources they need, Jerry steers the conversation back to me and my bachelor lifestyle.

I get that this is the image I’ve built for myself over the last seven years, and it’s the reason my paychecks are as big as they are, but I would really like to advertise our charity work too. It’s the one thing in my life that I’m genuinely proud of.

Maddison and I started building the foundation back when he first moved to Chicago. We both needed to start donating our time and money to charities, so creating this organization made sense. We’ve rallied professional athletes from around the city to share their own mental health journeys in an effort to try to break the stigma surrounding the topic in athletes, especially male athletes. We raise money through monthly events to cover the costs of therapy sessions for kids who might not be able to afford it but need the help, as well as reach out to doctors and therapists who are willing to donate their time.

I can’t imagine how different my life would be if I had these kinds of services when I was younger. A lot of the anger and abandonment I felt could’ve been expressed through words instead of dirty plays on the ice.

“Thanks for your time, Jerry,” Maddison says once all the probing questions have been asked. He ends the call on the conference room phone. “We aren’t doing this s**t anymore.”

“We have to.”

“Zee, they make you look like a prick. You can’t even talk about Active Minds without them changing the subject to who you’re f*****g or fighting.” Maddison stands from the table in frustration.

I’m frustrated too. I don’t give a s**t if they want to talk about my personal life, but it would be nice if the media would mention the good things I do for the community too. Most people don’t know I’m half the face of our foundation. They assume that it’s Maddison’s charity because it fits the whole nice, family guy image. It wouldn’t make much sense for the media’s narrative that I’m this asshole who doesn’t give a s**t about anyone but also happens to be the co-founder of a charity for underprivileged youth suffering from mental illness.

“We aren’t doing this anymore. I’m tired of everyone thinking you’re this d**k who doesn’t have feelings. The way they talk about you, Zee...” Maddison makes his way to the door of the conference room, shaking his head.

“I don’t have feelings,” I quickly counter. “At least not until June when I’m holding that Stanley Cup and a new extended contract in my hands.”

“You don’t have feelings?” Maddison asks, unconvinced. “You cried while watching Coco with Ella. You have f*****g feelings, man. You should start letting people know.”

“Don’t use Coco against me! That s**t was sad!” I stand from my seat, following him to the locker room to get suited up for our game. “That song at the end? It gets me every time.”

As soon as my ass hits my seat on the airplane for our flight home, I melt into it with a sigh. That loss was brutal, and I played like s**t. I wasn’t focused tonight, and I take full responsibility for that.

I didn’t expect for us to take an L so soon. In fact, I figured we would go at least ten games without putting a tally in the loss column. That’s how good we are. But tonight just wasn’t our night.

It’s a long season, though. We’ll be fine.

My phone dings in my pocket, and I pull it out as the rest of the team boards the plane, finding two texts waiting for me. I reluctantly open the first one from my agent.

Rich: EZ, my guy. I had a girl waiting for you outside of the locker room tonight, and you blew right past her. It would’ve been a prime time for the media to get some pictures of you two leaving the arena. What’s up with that?

In frustration, I stretch my neck and blow out a deep exhale. I can get my own girls, and it happens plenty without Rich setting it up for me. The media gets the whole man-w***e thing. I don’t need to act it out. That was evident by our pre-game interview with the Chicago Tribune when we couldn’t get two words in about hockey or our charity.

After the shitty loss and hearing about my mother twice in twenty-four hours, I wasn’t in the mood to add fuel to the fire. Most of North America knows that I’m a playboy. Taking a night off isn’t going to change my image and therefore lose me my contract next season.