Watching as Stevie keeps her head down, I stay a fair distance away. With no issue, she slips through the crowd, my doorman opening the large glass lobby door and ushering her inside.
Waiting another minute to separate us, I eventually make my way through the mass of bodies with my hands in my pockets, my head down towards the ground, and my winter layers covering me up.
But it’s no use.
“EZ!”
“Evan Zanders!”
“I knew he lived here!” someone calls out as I’m rushed and bombarded right there on my front steps.
“Can I get an autograph?” someone else begs, and I do my best to sign as many as I can as I continue my quick strides towards my door.
Over the last couple of months, I’ve been attempting to separate my bad guy hockey image from my real-life one. If Chicago wants me to be a d
