“And the thumb?” Lewis asks.
Stealing Stevie’s thumb ring was because I wanted a piece of her, but partly because twirling it was a nervous habit, and maybe somewhere subconsciously in my mind, I assumed that if she didn’t have it as a crutch, she’d be less anxious. Maybe her confidence would take over.
“No thumb ring,” she states with certainty.
A proud smile overtakes my face as I stand behind her, watching from above, my hand casually holding her hip.
“Thank you,” she whispers when Lewis heads off to make a few adjustments. “But I think you may have created a monster.” Stevie holds up her hand to examine her brand-new designer jewelry. “A bougie monster.”
“My favorite kind.” I pepper her neck and shoulder with kisses from behind. I like bringing her to the expensive dark side, but let’s be real. Stevie, at her core, will always be the thrift-store-loving, shelter-volunteering, baggy-jeans-and-dirty-Air-Force-wearing girl that I’m obsessed with.
“You go first,” I tell Stevie when we’re a block away from my place. There’s a ton of people out today for some reason, and the area in front of my building is packed.
“I wish your building had a back entrance.”
I give her ass a little squeeze before sending her on her way. “You’ll be all right. My doorman knows who you are.”
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 dick on the ice and protect my guys when needed, I’ll gladly fill that role. But the more I’ve settled into a relationship and recognize the way it feels to have Stevie like and want the real version of me, the more I want to be that guy to the rest of the world. And I hope that’s enough to get resigned by the only team I want to play for.
I offer a quick wave over my shoulder to the mob outside as my doorman ushers me into the lobby.
“More people come by here every day,” he says. “The further you guys get in the season, and the higher you guys rank, the more everyone wants a piece of you, huh, Mr. Zanders?”
“I typically love this shit, but this season, not so much.” My eyes wander past the glass doors where fans are pointing and waving like I’m some kind of animal in the zoo, here to do tricks for them.
And for the first time in my career, I wish no one was looking at me.
“Miss Shay is upstairs.”
I give him a thankful pat on the shoulder before riding my private elevator to my floor.
“Zee, you’ve got to stop feeding me.” Stevie stretches out on the couch, trying to get comfortable. “My pants aren’t going to fit soon. Shit, even your pants aren’t going to fit soon.”
She’s not wrong. Regardless that I work out every single day and burn more fuel than the average person, Stevie and I get takeout almost every night, and I fucking love seeing her all happy while we scarf down on our favorite junk food. There’s not many other choices when I’m a shit cook, and we’re staying in hotels every night on the road.
“I like feeding you, though.” I take a seat on the couch, urging her head up before Stevie drapes her chestnut curls over my lap, resting on my thigh. Rosie joins in, jumping on the sofa opposite my girl, curling up with her big head on my lap.
“I can’t even think about food right now,” Stevie groans. “But if I were able to think about food, I’d tell you we need to try that pizza place on twenty-eighth, then I want to try that new taco truck that parks down on the pier on Tuesdays. Then after that, we should check out that new Indian restaurant that’s opening up next to the arena.”
My laugh shakes both Stevie and Rosie in my lap.
“Make a list.” I hand her my phone, unlocking it. “In the Notes app, let’s start a list of all the takeout we want to try.”