Lindsey: Happy National Siblings’ Day. I didn’t even know that was a thing. Good luck tonight, eleven!
Attached to her message is a link to an Instagram post I’m tagged in.
One of our local sports networks made a post with a bunch of pictures of different athletes around Chicago and their siblings, with the caption, “Happy National Siblings’ Day to our favorite brothers and sisters.”
The picture of Lindsey and me after one of my games is a good one. So much so that I screenshot it, adding it to my minimal camera roll. It’s mostly filled with selfies that Ella Jo took of herself on multiple occasions when she’s stolen my phone.
Swiping over, they also posted a photo of Maddison and his brother. After that, a few guys I know in town with their siblings—some play for the Devils, a couple for Chicago’s pro baseball team, the Windy City Wolves, and one for our football team, the Chicago Cobras.
But the last photo on this post is the one that catches my attention the most. It’s a picture of the point guard for the Chicago Devils, number five, Ryan Shay. But that’s not what I find so surprising. It’s the curly-haired flight attendant at his side, tucked under his arm.
Stevie.
I quickly press the “tag” button, but the only name or account that pops up is Ryan’s, so I click on it. Going to the list of people he follows, I type in her name.
And there she is—Stevie Shay.
I had no fucking clue that Stevie is Ryan Shay’s sister. Sure, their skin shares the same light brown tone and freckles, and their eyes are the same bright blue-green. But putting that together would’ve been nearly impossible. And she clearly didn’t want me to know. Otherwise, she would’ve told me who he was the night I ran into her outside of Maddison’s apartment or when I found her watching his game at the bar in Denver.
Now it completely makes sense why she lives across the street from me. Her brother makes ridiculous money.
Stevie’s Instagram account is private, of course. The only thing I can see is her thumbnail picture which is the view from an airplane window with the sun setting right outside. Her bio reads “probably out of town…” with an airplane emoji after that.
Without thinking twice about it, I request to follow the wild girl.
I feel good getting off the bus and onto the airplane after beating Nashville with ease. Or I should say I feel good about the game.
What I don’t feel good about is the fact that Stevie still hasn’t accepted my follow request on Instagram. It’s been hours. I’m sure she’s seen it.
Last night when she turned down my proposition, I kind of loved it. Also, I figured she would. She doesn’t give in to me easily, which makes this chase all the more fun. It keeps me on my toes, which very rarely happens anymore. But I wouldn’t mind her giving in a little bit, even if it’s as simple as accepting my stupid follow request on Instagram.
“EZ!” one of the rookies calls out from the back of the plane. I begin to loosen the tie around my neck when he asks, “Get laid by a Southern little thing last night?” loud enough for the entire plane to hear, including a particular flight attendant who happens to be walking down the aisle as we speak.
I’d assume the girls on board are used to our foul mouths at this point. The airplane is an extension of the locker room for us.
As I stand in the aisle next to my seat, I attempt to lean back, out of the way for Stevie to walk by, but let’s be honest, I’m not moving all that much. It’s a tight squeeze for anyone to walk through the fifty guys that just boarded the plane and have yet to sit, so I’ll pretend that I’m trying to be a gentleman as I “get out of the way.”
She refuses to look up at me as she makes her way from the back of the plane to the front, but when Stevie walks by me, I place my hand on her lower back and guide her as she squeezes through.
And when her ass brushes the front of my pants, my hand grips her hip as her body stiffens under my touch before she continues on her way.
“Zanders!” the rookie calls again, earning my attention. “C’mon, man, I need details!”
“Just because you can’t get laid, Thompson, doesn’t mean you need to hear every detail of Zee’s sex-capades,” Maddison chimes in, trying to help me avoid my teammates’ inquiries of what my night looked like.
Not that Stevie and I hooked up, and he knows that, but if and when the time comes, I really am going to have to keep that under wraps from the rest of the boys—which is something I’ve never done before.