All three attempts go to voicemail.
“Fucking, Rich. Answer your goddamn phone,” he mutters into the device, pacing the kitchen with nerves. “Rich!” Zanders shouts into his voicemail. “We have a fucking problem, and I need you to handle it before anything gets online. Call me back.”
Hanging up, he frantically texts away, his thumbs moving at the speed of light. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” But I can’t quite tell if he’s trying to assure himself or me.
Too many minutes pass as a knowing gut feeling flows through me. I take a seat at his kitchen table, opening his laptop. Heading straight to Google, I type out his full name.
As I assumed, pictures are already plastered online of our encounter outside as headlines cover my home screen.
“Mystery woman with Chicago’s Evan Zanders.”
“Who is she?”
“Want to know where Zanders has been hiding all season? Well, now we know.”
“It’s too late,” I tell him as he continues to urgently type away on his phone.
“What?” he absentmindedly asks.
“Zee.” My tone is sharp and focused, pulling his attention. Zanders’ brows crease in frustration as he looks at me, eyes dark, telling me he knows how bad this is going to be for us. “It’s too late. It’s already out there.”
41
ZANDERS
Last night was a nightmare.
The worst possible thing that could’ve happened, happened.
Well, almost the worst thing. The only saving grace from our encounter outside was that no one got a shot of Stevie’s face. The only pictures floating around the internet show the back of her, though my face is in plain view. Thankfully, Stevie’s coat covered her work uniform, but her signature chestnut curls are on full display for the world to see and speculate over.
There are no questions, wondering if this is just another one of my hookups. By me trying to cover her and the look of utter shock on my face, it’s clear that she’s more important than that. “Girlfriend” was plastered next to our picture pretty quickly last night.
I barely slept.
Rich hasn’t reached out yet, and he and my PR team did fuck-all to help me out when I needed them most.
But the worst part of all isn’t the possible implications it’ll have over my contract extension or Stevie’s job. The worst part is the internet trolls hiding behind their keyboards while filling message threads with hateful words about my girlfriend.
Right now, my biggest worry isn’t about my future with Chicago hockey. It’s not about losing my image. What’s consuming my every thought is that I’m allowing my favorite person to be put on blast because people love to talk about me.
I’ve become overly protective of Stevie, especially with how she thinks about herself and her body. Now, because of me and my fucked-up image, endless comments cover the internet, tearing her down and reaffirming the internal dialogue that she already struggles with.
It was one thing when the cruel words were her own and the small company of shitty people she kept, telling her she wasn’t enough, but when the entire internet decides to do it? I’m afraid my voice isn’t loud enough to drown out the noise.
And of course, because people use the internet to spread hate, the comments aren’t happy for me or excited to learn who it is I’m dating. They’re disgusting and attacking, delivering low blows, and I’m worried they’re going to work.
After Stevie’s breakdown in the bathroom last week, this is the last thing she needs.
I should’ve known better. I did know better. We had been more careful, more cautious, and without thinking twice about it, I told her to walk into my building with me, hand in hand, and now we’re in this mess because of me.
I was on top of the world after our win, but everything came crashing down only hours later.
My penthouse is dead quiet. No televisions in the background or music playing. Only silence. The stillness is eerie, as if we both know there’s going to be a shitstorm to deal with as soon as we speak of it.
I’m on my third coffee of the morning as I bring another fresh mug into my bedroom for Stevie. I’ve been up, pacing the living room and scouring the internet most of the night, but the last time I left her in here, she had finally fallen asleep.
However, this time when I enter my room, I find Stevie awake with her back to me, still lying in bed. She’s got Rosie tucked under one arm as she scrolls on her phone with her other hand, and even from across the room, I recognize the images plastered on my screen. They’ve become ingrained in my mind from staring at them all night.