“Are you done with your part of setting up the plane?”
“Hmm?” I absentmindedly ask my coworker, keeping my eyes glued to my tiny phone screen.
“Are you done with your part of setting up the plane?”
Tara’s sharp tone causes my head to snap up and look at her. Her brows are lifted, eyes pointed, and arms crossed over her chest. “Yes. Everything is done. Just waiting for the game to end.”
Tara’s disapproving stare bounces from my face down to my phone and then back again before she slips past me to the galley.
Rolling my eyes, I slide into the nearest seat as I continue to watch the game on my phone—round two, game six, and currently seven minutes into the overtime period. Chicago is ahead three to two on this series against Vegas, and if they pull out the road win tonight, we’ll be headed for round three, only one series away from the Stanley Cup Finals.
“How are they doing?” Indy falls into the seat next to mine, but before I can answer, a deep throaty moan slips from her. “Holy shit, these seats.” She melts further into the lux leather. “No wonder the boys all pass out the second they get on the plane. These seats are amazing.”
“Overtime,” I tell her, wishing I could laugh along with her right now, but I’m far too stressed. “Seven minutes in. First to score wins.”
My index finger absentmindedly ghosts over the skin of my thumb, wishing I had my gold ring to spin.
“How’s Zanders doing?” Indy’s whisper is as quiet as can be.
“He’s doing well. He’s played a shit-ton of minutes tonight, though.”
“Oh, there’s Rio!” Indy points out as number thirty-eight hops the boards, and I know when Rio takes the ice, his blue-line partner is right behind as number eleven joins him in the game.
Zanders’ shift is spent primarily on the offensive end as Chicago controls the puck. Maddison gets a good look in front of the goal as the announcers’ voices raise, assuming he’s about to score, but one of Vegas’ defensemen picks it out of the pocket, clearing it out of their zone and extending their season’s life a little longer.
But before it makes it past the blue line, Rio pops his stick out, keeping the boys onside for another play.
The puck bounces around the team in white, exhaustion evident in their sloppy passes and slow maneuvers. Thankfully, Vegas is equally as careless, everyone on the ice just as tired from the lack of a shift change.
My heart is racing as I squirm in my seat, unable to calm myself down as I keep my eyes glued to the tiny screen in my hands.
The puck makes it back to Zanders as he quickly looks to pass it off but instead, he winds up, letting loose on a slap shot from the blue line in hopes it’ll find one of his teammates in front of the goal.
But it doesn’t find one of his teammates. Instead, it flies past the goalie, finding the back of the net and pulling out the overtime victory.
“Oh my God!” I yell out. Indy jumps up from her seat, screaming with me as we hold each other in a hug, jumping around and cheering.
“I don’t know what’s happening, but I know it’s good!” Indy adds.
“It’s really fucking good!”
“Since when do you two care about how the team does?” Tara suspiciously asks, cutting into our celebration.
Indy and I freeze, releasing each other as we stand a little straighter, smoothing out our uniforms.
“Uh…” I hesitate. “We should all care. The longer the season, the more flights we have, and the more money we make. Right?”
Tara’s gaze works the length of my body, clearing not believing me. “Sure.”
The boys are the rowdiest I’ve ever seen them as they fill the plane for our flight back home to Chicago. Rio’s boom box is blaring music, the team is in high spirits, and there are constant cheers as each player walks onto the plane.
But the plane gets its loudest when the giant defenseman with gold jewelry and a fitted three-piece suit who scored the game-winning goal walks on board.
My cheeks hurt from smiling so much, infinitely proud of him for continuing to show that the headlines and attention he brings the organization are about more than just his personal life. He has the talent to back up all the shit-talking, and he has the skill to earn a huge extended contract based on ability alone.
As he makes his way to the exit row, the cheers continue. The boys overflow in the aisles, not yet ready to settle down into their seats. Zanders’ smile is widely excited as he throws his bag into the overhead bin above his seat, until finally, his head snaps back to the galley, finding me.
“Yeah, I’m going to get out of here before I see something I wouldn’t mind seeing but probably shouldn’t.” Indy ducks into the aisle, getting lost in the crowd of hockey players.
But in exchange, Zanders emerges in the back galley, need burning in his hazel eyes. His large hands splay against my rib cage as his commanding steps push me against the side of the plane. He bends down, feverishly bringing his mouth to mine.
His lips are soft but urgent as he kisses me with hunger, stealing my breath when his tongue sweeps in. His powerful body pins me to the back of the airplane, one hand cupping my face, the other squeezing my ass, and just for a moment, I allow myself to get lost, forgetting where I am.
Finally, he pulls away, his chest rapidly rising and falling as we both attempt to fill our lungs with the oxygen we’ve been missing.
“You’re going to get me in trouble,” I remind him, but I’m starting to care less and less about that being true.
“Just wanted to celebrate with you.” He wears a genuine smile before taking off towards his seat.
“Okay, even I felt that one,” Indy admits, fanning herself off when she steps back into the galley.
“Tara—”
“Too busy kissing ass up front to notice.”
My phone dings on the galley counter.
Zee (Daddy) Zanders: I can still taste you.
“It feels good to be playing my best right now.” Zanders closes the passenger side door of his car behind me. “With the contract up in the air, I’m glad they’re seeing everything I have to offer. It wouldn’t make sense for them not to re-sign me.”
Pulling both our bags out of the back of his G-Wagon, Zanders slings them over his shoulder before draping his other arm over me. The chill in the evening air cuts right through my coat, regardless that it’s spring in Chicago, so I pull it a little tighter as we walk out the detached garage of Zanders’ building.
“Do you want to go first, or should I go?” I ask my boyfriend as we turn the corner to his building, stopping a fair distance away, the way we typically do.
We survey the front, where more and more fans have been camping out as the playoff run continues, but surprisingly enough, the front steps and surrounding street are empty.
“Looks like we’re in the clear tonight.” Zanders’ arm slides off my shoulders, his fingers intertwining with mine as he wears a proud smile, the two of us walking to his apartment together.
“I think we should get breakfast delivered tomorrow. That way, we don’t have to leave the bed,” Zanders suggests as we take his front steps. “What do you—”
“Evan Zanders!”
“EZ, over here!”
Flashes of light bounce off countless cameras as a hoard of paparazzi jump out from their hidden places.
“Zanders, who is she?” another reporter yells.
“Head down!” Zanders urges, trying to cover me with his body as we run up the steps to his front door.
“Evan Zanders, who’s the girl?”
Voices are yelling, shouting, asking for attention from the hockey star, and the lights and flashes from their cameras are distracting and hard to see past. All I want to do is get to that door and away from the crowd.
My feet are desperately trying to run away, frantic for some reprieve from the attention, and I could not be more thankful when Zanders’ doorman ushers us inside.
But the flashes don’t stop, and I can hear their shouting through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls.
Zanders holds his suit jacket over me, trying to block me from the media as we run to his elevator. “For fuck’s sake! Get them out of here!” he yells over his shoulder to the lobby staff.
As soon as we’re safe inside the four metal walls of the elevator, I fall back to the wall behind me, my body buzzing with adrenaline. My heart is racing from the scare, but more than anything, the possible repercussions are what terrify me the most.
“Are you okay?” he anxiously asks, running a gentle thumb across my cheekbone as his eyes search my face.
I nod, unable to speak.
Zanders paces the elevator as he pulls out his phone, looking for a signal, but it’s not until we reach his floor that he gets one.
As soon as he opens the door to his apartment for me, he tosses our bags to the side before dialing his agent.
All three attempts go to voicemail.
“Fucking, Rich. Answer your goddamn phone,” he mutters into the device, pacing the kitchen with nerves. “Rich!” Zanders shouts into his voicemail. “We have a fucking problem, and I need you to handle it before anything gets online. Call me back.”
Hanging up, he frantically texts away, his thumbs moving at the speed of light. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” But I can’t quite tell if he’s trying to assure himself or me.
Too many minutes pass as a knowing gut feeling flows through me. I take a seat at his kitchen table, opening his laptop. Heading straight to Google, I type out his full name.
As I assumed, pictures are already plastered online of our encounter outside as headlines cover my home screen.
“Mystery woman with Chicago’s Evan Zanders.”
“Who is she?”
“Want to know where Zanders has been hiding all season? Well, now we know.”
“It’s too late,” I tell him as he continues to urgently type away on his phone.
“What?” he absentmindedly asks.
“Zee.” My tone is sharp and focused, pulling his attention. Zanders’ brows crease in frustration as he looks at me, eyes dark, telling me he knows how bad this is going to be for us. “It’s too late. It’s already out there.”
