Ilike playing against Nashville. Their crowd is rowdy as fuck, and I live off that shit. Most athletes enjoy the buzz at their home games, earning cheers from the stadium full of loyal fans wearing their team colors. I, on the other hand, thoroughly enjoy the hate of being on the visiting team.
I call it road-ice advantage.
You want to “boo” when I step onto the ice? No problem, I’ll throw your star forward into the boards for that.
You want to call my teammates names or make up stupid fucking chants that make no goddamn sense just to taunt us? Please do. It’ll fuel me to skate even faster and hit a little harder.
You want to scream at me and hit the glass while I enjoy my well-earned penalty box minutes? Music to my ears, baby.
Just another reason I love life on the road.
“Turn that up!” I shout to Rio from across the visiting team’s locker room. “That’s my song!”
Rio does as I ask, adjusting the volume on his old-school boom box that he carries everywhere with him and filling the locker room with one of my favorite hype songs.
I stay seated in my locker stall, fully suited up for our game as the music focuses me, getting me ready for the next sixty minutes of hockey.
Pulling out my phone, I find a text waiting from my sister, Lindsey. Her schedule is almost as insane as mine. She’s the youngest lawyer to make partner at her firm in Atlanta. She’s thirty years old and a fucking badass. So, I appreciate any time she takes out of her busy schedule to reach out. And I’m thankful it’s not about my mom the way her last text was.
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.
“I don’t kiss and tell,” I call back to Thompson from my seat in the exit row.
The entire plane falls silent for a moment before hyena-level laughter takes over the cabin.
“Bullshit!”
“Did you take a hit to the head tonight?”
“That’s your favorite thing to talk about, EZ!” are just a few of the shouts that come from the back of the plane from my teammates. And I don’t miss the heckles from the front of the aircraft where the coaching staff sits either.
“I know you got some action last night,” Rio cuts in. “One second, you were at the bar, and the next, you disappeared. The only time that happens is when there’s a chick involved.”
My eyes dart to Stevie, who is trying to distract herself with meaningless tasks towards the front of the plane as people continue to find their seats. She won’t look at me, but her freckled face has some extra color.
Little does Rio know that I actually got turned down, which hasn’t happened to me since I hit puberty. Last night, the only action I saw was my right hand when I had to jerk one out after walking Stevie home. I had a hard-on pretty much the entire time, from when I pinned her up against the wall to when I took care of it in the shower.
Maddison turns around to face the rest of the guys. “How about instead of wondering where Zee put his dick last night, you guys think about how the fuck you’re going to fix the thirty-eight percent you two averaged in face-off wins tonight.”
“Yes, Captain,” Rio and Thompson say at the same time, the back of the plane finally letting go of the interrogation of how my night went.
For most of the flight to Philly, I’ve kept looking down at my phone, hoping to see that Stevie has accepted my follow request.
Shocking news…she hasn’t.
I even went to use the bathroom at the back of the plane, and when I did, I saw Stevie sitting in the back galley scrolling on her damn Instagram feed.
My Instagram has been flooded, however, with plenty of girls in Philly. I’m still holding out hope that Stevie will figure it out and have one wild night with me, but in case she really doesn’t want to, I have options.
I always have options.
Once the lights are out, and most of the boys are passed out asleep for our red-eye flight, I make my way back to the galley again.
“Need something, Zanders?” Stevie’s blonde coworker asks. Indiana, I think is her name. Or some shit like that.
“Hmm,” I hum in contemplation, trying to make my presence known, trying to get the wild one’s attention. But Stevie doesn’t acknowledge me standing behind her and blocking the entrance to the galley. Instead, she continues to mess around on her phone with her back to me.
“You know what,” her coworker says. “I think I’m going to go find Tara and distract her for a little bit.”
That earns Stevie’s attention as her eyes dart to her coworker. My brows shoot up just the same. Blondie over here is pretty intuitive because I know there’s no way in hell Stevie told her anything. Not after her freak-out last night, thinking there might be some leaked pictures of us “fraternizing.”
The flight attendant sneaks past me, adding a knowing pat on my shoulder, before leaving me alone with Stevie.
“Do you need something?” Stevie asks, still looking down at her phone and not facing me.
I slyly glance back over my shoulder at the rest of the plane, just to make sure no one is paying us any attention. The back galley is relatively dark, so I doubt her coworkers could see us from the front.
With most people asleep and her coworkers distracted, I take slow, leisurely steps to stand behind her, mere inches from her body.
I like being this close to her. I can almost count the freckles that decorate her nose and cheeks from here, plus she smells really fucking good. I’m a bit of a clean freak, but some of my teammates could really use a lesson in the hygiene department.
Stevie stiffens at my movement but refuses to turn around and face me. Placing my hands on the counter in front of us, on either side of her, I cage her in.
I can see the pulse in her neck quickening, but Stevie continues to try to play it cool.
“Need something?” she casually asks, her eyes still down on her phone screen as it sits on the counter in front of us.
I’m not going to make some big deal that I know she’s Ryan Shay’s sister. For some reason, she didn’t want to tell me, so I’m going to keep pretending that I have no idea. Not that it matters either way. If anything, that little fact will put Stevie and me in the same place more than the universe already has. Ryan is a big name in Chicago sports, the same as me. We do a shit-ton of city events together.
“Just one thing,” I whisper, my lips mere inches away from her ear and the tiny gold earrings that decorate it.
This moment is too much of a prime opportunity to pass up. Stevie’s phone is right there on the counter in front of us, unlocked, as she tries to keep herself preoccupied by scrolling on it.
Standing behind her, I take control, find her Instagram app, open it, and immediately go to her follow requests.
There’s only one—me.
“I’ll just pretend like you didn’t see this.”
I watch as the small smile lifts at the corner of her lips.
I accept the request for her. Then, without hesitation, I press the little blue button that says, “follow back,” adding Stevie to my ridiculously long list of Instagram followers.
Closing the gap between us, I make my chest flush to her back. “When you change your mind.” My tone is low, my lips ghosting the shell of her ear. “This is how you’re going to get ahold of me.”
I watch as Stevie’s body slightly trembles from a shiver, but her eyes stay glued down at her phone, avoiding eye contact with me.
“Got it, sweetheart?” I ask, needing the confirmation that I’m not crazy. That this is a two-way street. That she wants a night with me as badly as I want one with her.
The air is thick with tension and anticipation as I wait for Stevie’s response. The very subtle, almost nonexistent nod of her head is my confirmation, telling me that’s it’s going to happen, and it’s probably going to happen soon.
She ever so slightly melts into my body, her head resting on my chest. Leaning forward, I press into her as much as I can, needing to feel her, and needing her to know just how fucking badly I want her.
Stevie pushes her ass out subtly, rubbing against me, her hips moving in a small torturous circle, and I can only hope that the low groan I accidentally release is too quiet for anyone else to hear.
“Hey, Stevie?” Rio asks from behind me, startling us both.
The interruption causes Stevie to jump back and away from her phone, her ass rubbing against my dick even more. A quiet hiss escapes my teeth from the sensation, and there’s no chance in hell of hiding the hard-on I’m sporting because of it.
“Can I get a Gatorade?”
Rolling my eyes, I quickly turn to face the side of the airplane where the exit door is, needing to hide the fucking rock forming in my sweatpants.
“Sure thing, Rio.”
What the hell? She’s never that nice to me when I ask her to do her job.
“It’s in the fucking cooler, Rio!” I say much too loudly, completely frustrated. “It’s right there, man.” I motion over my shoulder to the giant white cooler less than a foot away from him. “Right fucking there.”
When Stevie’s eyes lock on the action happening in the front of my pants, her face sweeps with amusement. “Oh. So, you do know where it is?”
“Do not mess with me right now, sweetheart,” I warn, trying to readjust myself without my teammate seeing what I’m packing. But apparently, my warning isn’t all that stern because all it does is cause Stevie to chuckle to herself, fully satisfied with the effect her body has on mine.
