“Rich texted,” I tell my captain. “Interview tomorrow before the game. Wants us to play up our little schtick.”
“What’s new?” Maddison sighs. “Zee, you know you have the short end of the stick on this one. Whenever you’re ready to let people know you’re not the dickhead they all think you are, you let me know, and we’ll stop the act.”
This right here is why Maddison is my best friend. He might be the only person, other than his family and my sister, who knows I’m not the bad guy that the media makes me out to be. But my image has its perks, one being that women throw themselves at the self-proclaimed “unlovable bad-boy,” and our contrasting personas make us both a ton of money.
“Nah, I’m still enjoying it,” I tell him honestly. “I gotta get that renewed contract by the end of the season, so until then, we have to keep it going.”
Ever since Maddison came to Chicago five years ago, we’ve created this storyline that the fans and media eat up. We make a shitload of money for the organization because our duo puts fans in the seats. The once-hated rivals turned best friends and teammates. Maddison has been married for years to his college sweetheart, and they have two kids together. I have nights where two different women come over to my penthouse. We couldn’t be more different from the outsider’s perspective. He’s hockey’s golden boy, and I’m the city’s troublemaker. He scores the goals, and I score with the ladies.
People eat this shit up. We play it up for the media, but the truth is I’m not the piece of shit people think I am. I care about a lot more than just the women I take home from the arena. But I’m also confident in who I am. I like having sex with beautiful women, so I’m not going to apologize for it. If that makes me a bad person, fuck it. I make a hell of a lot of money from being the “bad guy.”
As I scroll on my phone, I spot a figure in my peripheral, but I don’t look up to see who is standing in front of me. Though from my sightline of vision, I can tell the curvy frame belongs to a woman, and the only women on board are flight attendants.
“Are you—” she begins.
“Yes, I’m Evan Zanders,” I cut her off, keeping my eyes down on my phone screen. “And yes, that’s Eli Maddison,” I add with exhaustion. “Sorry, no autographs.”
This happens almost every flight. The new flight crew drools over meeting professional athletes. It’s a bit annoying, but it’s part of the job, being recognized as much as the two of us are.
“Good for you. And I don’t want your autograph.” Her tone is entirely unimpressed. “What I was going to ask is, are you ready for me to give you your exit row briefing?”
Finally, I look up at her, her blue-green eyes piercing and pointed. Her hair bounces with chestnut curls, unable to be tamed. Her skin is a light brown, speckled with soft freckles across her nose and cheeks, but her expression could not be less impressed with me.
Not that I give a fuck.
My eyes wander her body. Her tight work uniform hugs every curve of her full frame.
“You do realize you’re in the exit row, right, Evan Zanders?” she asks as if I’m an idiot, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing.
Maddison snickers next to me, neither one of us ever hearing a woman speak to me with such disdain.
My eyes form into slits, not backing down, a little shocked that she just spoke to me that way.
“Yes, we’re ready,” Maddison answers for me. “Go for it.”
She gives her spiel, and I zone out. I’ve heard this more times than I can count, but it’s some legal thing they have to tell us before every flight, I guess.
I scroll on my phone as she speaks, my Instagram feed littered with models and actresses, half of which I’ve dated. Well, dated is probably the wrong word.
Maddison nudges me. “Zee.”
“What?” I absentmindedly reply.
“She asked you a fucking question, man.”
Looking up, the flight attendant stares down at me. Her expression full of annoyance as her eyes wander down to my phone screen, a half-naked woman on full display right there on my feed.
“Are you willing and able to help in an emergency?” she repeats.
“Sure. I’ll take a sparkling water, by the way. Extra lime.” My focus shifts back to my phone.
“There’s a cooler in the back row for you to grab it yourself.”
My eyes dart up once again. What’s with this chick? I find her name tag—a pair of wings with “Stevie” in the center.