“Great game, son.” My dad is next to hug the superstar, and even though he’s equally as proud, it has nothing to do with him being a famous athlete. My dad only knows about basketball from watching Ryan growing up, but he’s not a “sports guy.” He just loves his kids and is proud of anything we do.
Ryan swings his arm around me, his sweaty armpit landing on my shoulder. “Well, you’re disgusting. Good game, though.”
“Thanks, Vee.” He pops a kiss on the side of my head in his brotherly way. “I’ll just shower at home. Let’s get going. I’m starving.”
“Ryan, I love your apartment building,” my mother says, as she has every single time she’s walked into it over the last three years.
“It’s Vee’s apartment, too.”
“Well, for now,” she mutters, and I take a deep, resigned breath, continuing to hold my tongue.
“Merry Christmas.” Our doorman opens the lobby door, ushering us inside from the cold. “Miss Shay, you received a package. It’s in your kitchen, and your dinner has been delivered.”
My brows crease in confusion. The only people who would send me a gift are here with me, and we’ve already exchanged Christmas presents this morning. But before I take off to find out what it is, I slip our doorman the card Ryan and I signed and stuffed with cash. It’s mostly from my brother, but I threw in what I could afford.
I’ve quickly grown to appreciate our doorman, simply because he doesn’t treat me like an outsider living in this building, even though I clearly am.
“Merry Christmas.”
He shoots me a wink before I hurry to meet up with my family in the elevator, eager to eat the Chinese takeout we ordered on the way back from the arena.
The wafting smell of chow mein noodles, broccoli beef, and orange chicken invade my nostrils as soon as I walk into our apartment, but before I can indulge, I snag the perfectly wrapped gift box from the kitchen island and slip into my room to change.
I’ve been wearing body-hugging jeans all day, but I’ve been dying to take them off. Some days I don’t mind tight denim, and some days if there’s any part of fabric touching my skin, I could murder someone. That’s why I’m always in sweatpants or baggy jeans. I don’t care if they’re not the most flattering things in the world. They’re comfortable and make me feel good. My body fluctuates almost daily. Having tight stuff in my closet that might fit one day and not the next just fucks with my body image.
The sky-blue wrapped box holds my attention as I change into my comfiest sweats. The chill of the apartment causes me to dance into them with urgency, but when I slip my left foot in, my toe gets stuck on one of the many tiny holes in the seam, causing me to trip over myself, ripping the entire bottom half of my pants.
I hit the ground with a loud thud, my pants halfway on.
“Vee, you good?” my brother calls out.
“Good.” I blow a deep breath, moving a curl from the front of my face.
My insane logic wants to yell at him for stealing all the athletic genes while we were in the womb and therefore ruining my favorite sweatpants. This is Ryan’s fault, really.
Rest in peace is the first thought that passes through my mind when they hit the bottom of the trash can.
The second thought is how happy Zanders will probably be, but I push that image away. Thinking about Evan Zanders while I’m not wearing any pants is a bad idea and has happened way more often than I’d like to admit.
Exchanging Ryan’s jersey for an oversized crewneck, I take a seat on the bed, eager to find out who the hell gave me a present. There’s no card on the outside, just perfectly crisp edges of light blue wrapping paper, orange ribbon, and a matching bow.
The box inside is some designer brand, though I don’t know which, but it’s clear from the quality of the box alone that this gift is too expensive.
And now I know exactly who it’s from.
The simple piece of cardstock, lying on top of the fancy folded tissue paper, confirms it.
Stevie-
Does me buying you pants qualify me to get back in your pants?
Kidding…sort of.
Merry Christmas,
-Zee
（Please get rid of those disgusting sweatpants. No one needs to see those.）
The smile on my face is painfully big. Zanders doesn’t seem like the type to buy presents for his past hookups, but he’s also surprised me in more ways than one since that night.
My hand grazes the soft black fabric of the top pair. It might be the most lux material I’ve ever felt, which is a very Zanders thing to find. Of course, he bought me designer sweatpants. I don’t even want to know how much they cost.