MILE HIGH

21

I don’t know much about hockey, but I suppose I should learn now that it’s my job, so I watch the final two minutes. And in those last minutes, all I learn is that there’s a thing called icing—like cake. But I have no idea what it means. Though, they call it twice.

They do some sort of announcements of the best players for the game, and low and behold, Evan Zanders gets the first star, which apparently, is a good thing.

“How are you feeling tonight, Zanders?” one of the announcers asks.

He lifts his jersey to wipe the sweat off his brow before his hazel eyes lock with the camera, shooting his signature megawatt smile. It’s all attractive and smug and s**t.

“I feel good. Good win for the boys tonight.”

“Congratulations on being named the first star of the game. Are we celebrating with someone special tonight?”

I’ve watched plenty of professional games, and I’ve never heard a question like this, though, from the bit I’ve learned about Zanders’ reputation, most of the media seems to only care about who he’s being a d**k to or who he’s putting his d**k in.

His lips slide up into a smirk, looking right back to the camera. “A couple of special someones.”

Gross. I lift the remote and shut off the TV.

Grabbing my laptop, I delve into the FBI-level stalking that Indy already did. If I’m going to be stuck on an airplane with these guys, I may as well figure out who the hell they are.

Rio is the first name to pop up. There’s not much information about the green-eyed defenseman, but he’s clearly the team clown. There aren’t many pictures of him where he’s not wearing his goofy smile or carrying his old-school boom box.

I don’t find much about the other guys on the team except where they went to college, their home countries, and a few images that pop up from my Google search with them and their girlfriends or friends.

The team captain is a different story. When I click on Eli Maddison’s name, an endless list of websites comes up. His old university, the teams he played for previously, and most notably, the charity he’s the founder of. The name sounds familiar—Active Minds of Chicago.

As all the pieces connect, I realize that the gala I’m going to with Ryan is a charity event for Maddison’s organization to support kids and teens suffering with mental illness.

There are also plenty of pictures online of him and his family. His wife looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place her, though her red hair stands out to me, and I’m almost positive I’ve seen this woman before.

There’s also an endless supply of pictures of Maddison with his daughter, including a clip of her bombarding a press conference last year that took over the internet.

It’s clear that Maddison is the family guy on the team.

Contrary to that is Evan Zanders. There’s about as much information on Zanders as on Maddison. However, there’s no family represented on Zanders’ Google search. But there are countless images of him leaving the arena with a different girl on his arm, no two pictures having the same woman. And below those photos are numerous headlines, including:

“Chicago Raptors’ Evan Zanders out at the club until 4 AM.”

“Number eleven, ejected from game for fighting. Facing fines.”

“Evan Zanders. Chicago’s resident bad boy.”

Jesus. Cliché much?

Unintentionally, I roll my eyes, finding exactly what I knew I would before I close my laptop and toss it back on the couch.

Standing, I whip my curls into a quick bun, throw on an oversized sweatshirt, and slip into my Air Force Ones. Before I hit the door, I grab a bag of dog treats from the console table and take a quick glance in the mirror.

I look like a hot mess.

My sweatpants are stained, the fabric so thin from being overly worn, and my hair is untamable. I don’t have a touch of makeup on, and there’s a good chance there’s dried mustard on my chin from my hot dog earlier. But these pups don’t care, and neither do I.

Grabbing my phone, purse, and keys, I leave the apartment and slip into the elevator.

I’m excited to see all my furry friends who I haven’t seen for days at this point. And that’s the thing with some of these older dogs—you don’t know how much time you’ll get with them. You just have the give them as much love as you can because you don’t know how much longer they have on Earth.

I ride the elevator alone down to the lobby floor as the low hum of violin strings pours out from the speakers and fills the metal box. As I said, my brother’s apartment is bougie as hell, and only the extremely wealthy live here. I’m sure the kind doorman has a mini heart attack anytime he sees me enter or exit wearing my baggy flannels, oversized T-shirts, and dirty sneakers. Though, he’s always polite and never says a word.

The elevator stops on the main floor, and as soon as the doors open, I step out, walking smack dab into something solid.

“Jesus,” someone says, holding me steady with a heavy arm. “You good?”

My head feels a little wobbly from vibrating off a chest of pure muscle, but I can see perfectly clear.

My eyes trail the stranger’s body, noting the contrast between my dirty sneakers and his shiny dress shoes. His legs are thick, but his suit pants are perfectly tailored to fit his strong thighs. His crisp white shirt is practically see-through, showcasing his tatted skin, and when my gaze falls on the thin gold chain around his neck, I realize who I ran into.

My body, thanks to the warmth flowing through me from the unexpected contact, knows too.

I lift my eyes slightly higher, hazel irises staring back at me as the most mischievous grin slides up his lips.

“Stevie,” Zanders says. “You following me?”