If I could live off taking care of these animals and giving them the love that no one else will, I would. But unfortunately, it’s a nonprofit barely surviving off slim to no donations. So those of us who volunteer do so because we love the animals.
And I relate to them.
Not necessarily the senior thing. I mean, I am only twenty-six, but the idea of not being someone’s first choice. I get that.
These dogs are passed up for puppies, left to live the rest of their short lives in a shelter. I’m not going to be dramatic and say I get passed up by every man I meet because that’s not the case. But after that conversation about Brett, I remember all too well how it feels to be the backup choice. So, for these sweet senior dogs who just want a warm home and someone to love, I make them my first choice.
And if my twin brother weren’t allergic to dogs, I’d have an apartment full of them.
Surfing the channels to find something decent to watch, I stumble upon the Raptors game. There are only two minutes left in the final period, and Chicago is up 4-2 on their opponent. Seems like an easy win for them.
Their stadium is packed to the brim, the way it is when I get to watch Ryan play in person.
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 shit.
“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 dick to or who he’s putting his dick 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?