“Here we are with the notorious duo from the Chicago Raptors, Eli Maddison and Evan Zanders,” the reporter from the Chicago Tribune states. His voice is wafting through the speakerphone as we sit in a random conference room in Denver’s arena, pre-game.
I look over to Maddison, the only other person in this room. “Notorious duo,” I silently mouth.
Maddison rolls his eyes, but his chest heaves with a quiet laugh.
“Maddison, congratulations on your newborn son.”
“Thanks, Jerry.” My best friend leans forward, so the phone in the center of the conference table finds his voice more clearly. “My wife and I are stoked to add another to the Maddison family.”
“And Ella? How’s she liking being a big sister?”
“She loves it,” Maddison laughs. “She’s a fiery little one, and she’s stoked to have a sibling to boss around in the future.”
“Well, we can’t wait to see you, your wife, and the kids at the next home game in Chicago.”
This is typically how the conversation goes. Reporters start off with all sweet, sentimental stuff with Maddison, then move on to me.
“And EZ,” Jerry begins, using my nickname.
“How we doing, boss?”
“Doing good. Doing good. Not as good as you are, I assume. Your mug was plastered online last week with your latest flavor leaving the arena after your home opener. Someone we should know about?”
Why these reporters feel the need to constantly talk about my sex life is beyond me. But my persona perceived in the media makes me a hell of a lot of money, so I let it slide. Though, I have no idea who he’s referring to from last week. At a certain point, they tend to blur together.
“Come on, Jerry,” I tease. “It’s me you’re talking to. When has there ever been someone you need to know about?”
“My bad,” he laughs. “I almost forgot I’m talking to Evan Zanders here. You probably haven’t cared about a woman for more than twenty-four hours since your mother.”
My eyes dart to Maddison’s at the mention of my mother. No one knows about my family situation outside of my family and his. I pay good money to my PR team to keep it that way.
Maddison gives me an apologetic half-smile.
“Sounds about right.” I force a laugh into the speakerphone, hating the way the words taste as they come off my tongue.
“Jerry, let’s talk hockey,” Maddison quickly changes the subject.
“Yes, let’s. You two have quite the team behind you this year. How do we feel about the Cup?”
“This is our year,” Maddison states.
Nodding in agreement, I add, “No doubt about it, we believe the group of guys wearing a Raptors jersey this year has the potential to be holding the Stanley Cup by the end of the season.”
Maddison and I look across the conference room table at each other, laser-focused. When it comes to hockey, and especially this season, we don’t fuck around. This is our year to win it all. At twenty-eight, Maddison and I are both going into our seventh NHL season, and we finally have all the pieces to bring it home.
“Zanders the enforcer, do you think you’ll ease up on the penalty box minutes this year?”
“Depends.” I lean back in my chair.
“On?”
“If these other teams play clean, I will too. But if you come after my guys, I’ll be the one you’re answering to. The penalty box doesn’t scare me. That’s what I’m on this team for, to protect my guys and make sure they don’t get hurt. But judging by my last six seasons, I can’t imagine this year being any different.”
“You do love yourself a good hockey brawl,” Jerry laughs.
Well, he’s not wrong there.
“And what do you have to lose?” he continues. “You throw your punches, get your minutes in the box, then leave with a different woman on your arm each night. We all know you, EZ. You don’t give a shit about anyone other than yourself. And that’s why Chicago loves you. You’re the biggest asshole in the league. But you’re our asshole.”
Maddison leans back in his chair, his brows furrowed, and arms crossed over his chest. He shakes his head in frustration, but he knows how this works. We’ve been doing it for years.
I take a deep breath, plastering on a smile even though the reporter can’t see it. “You got that right!”
“The city’s golden boy and Chicago’s unlovable bad boy,” Jerry adds. “My favorite headline to use when it comes to you two.”
We continue to talk about the team and our goals for this season, but every few questions revert to me and my personal life. Talking about the women I leave the arena with, my photographed nights out in the city, drinking and partying. Though, I always remind him those nights are never before a game.
Anytime Maddison or I try to shift the conversation to Active Minds of Chicago—our charity foundation supporting underprivileged young athletes that don’t have the mental health resources they need, Jerry steers the conversation back to me and my bachelor lifestyle.
I get that this is the image I’ve built for myself over the last seven years, and it’s the reason my paychecks are as big as they are, but I would really like to advertise our charity work too. It’s the one thing in my life that I’m genuinely proud of.
Maddison and I started building the foundation back when he first moved to Chicago. We both needed to start donating our time and money to charities, so creating this organization made sense. We’ve rallied professional athletes from around the city to share their own mental health journeys in an effort to try to break the stigma surrounding the topic in athletes, especially male athletes. We raise money through monthly events to cover the costs of therapy sessions for kids who might not be able to afford it but need the help, as well as reach out to doctors and therapists who are willing to donate their time.
I can’t imagine how different my life would be if I had these kinds of services when I was younger. A lot of the anger and abandonment I felt could’ve been expressed through words instead of dirty plays on the ice.
“Thanks for your time, Jerry,” Maddison says once all the probing questions have been asked. He ends the call on the conference room phone. “We aren’t doing this shit anymore.”
“We have to.”
“Zee, they make you look like a prick. You can’t even talk about Active Minds without them changing the subject to who you’re fucking or fighting.” Maddison stands from the table in frustration.
I’m frustrated too. I don’t give a shit if they want to talk about my personal life, but it would be nice if the media would mention the good things I do for the community too. Most people don’t know I’m half the face of our foundation. They assume that it’s Maddison’s charity because it fits the whole nice, family guy image. It wouldn’t make much sense for the media’s narrative that I’m this asshole who doesn’t give a shit about anyone but also happens to be the co-founder of a charity for underprivileged youth suffering from mental illness.
“We aren’t doing this anymore. I’m tired of everyone thinking you’re this dick who doesn’t have feelings. The way they talk about you, Zee…” Maddison makes his way to the door of the conference room, shaking his head.
“I don’t have feelings,” I quickly counter. “At least not until June when I’m holding that Stanley Cup and a new extended contract in my hands.”
“You don’t have feelings?” Maddison asks, unconvinced. “You cried while watching Coco with Ella. You have fucking feelings, man. You should start letting people know.”
“Don’t use Coco against me! That shit was sad!” I stand from my seat, following him to the locker room to get suited up for our game. “That song at the end? It gets me every time.”
As soon as my ass hits my seat on the airplane for our flight home, I melt into it with a sigh. That loss was brutal, and I played like shit. I wasn’t focused tonight, and I take full responsibility for that.
I didn’t expect for us to take an L so soon. In fact, I figured we would go at least ten games without putting a tally in the loss column. That’s how good we are. But tonight just wasn’t our night.
It’s a long season, though. We’ll be fine.
My phone dings in my pocket, and I pull it out as the rest of the team boards the plane, finding two texts waiting for me. I reluctantly open the first one from my agent.
Rich: EZ, my guy. I had a girl waiting for you outside of the locker room tonight, and you blew right past her. It would’ve been a prime time for the media to get some pictures of you two leaving the arena. What’s up with that?
In frustration, I stretch my neck and blow out a deep exhale. I can get my own girls, and it happens plenty without Rich setting it up for me. The media gets the whole man-whore thing. I don’t need to act it out. That was evident by our pre-game interview with the Chicago Tribune when we couldn’t get two words in about hockey or our charity.
After the shitty loss and hearing about my mother twice in twenty-four hours, I wasn’t in the mood to add fuel to the fire. Most of North America knows that I’m a playboy. Taking a night off isn’t going to change my image and therefore lose me my contract next season.
Ignoring Rich, I move on to my next text. My expression completely shifts, contrary to the frustrated one I’ve been sporting all night.
“Your wife texted me.” I nudge Maddison to show him the text and picture Logan sent me.
It’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve seen in a while. My unbiological niece, Ella Jo, is posted up about two feet away from their TV, her necked craned and her eyes glued to the screen watching our game. The big-ass bow somewhat tames the crazy hair on her head, but the best part is the jersey she’s wearing. She’s sporting number eleven, with “UNCLE ZEE” stitched right there on the back.
Logan: Do not show my husband this. He will kill me for letting her wear this, but I thought you’d get a kick out of seeing your favorite girl wearing your number.
“What the fuck?” Maddison says in shock, seeing his three-year-old daughter decked out in someone else’s jersey other than his.
Three little dots dance along my screen before another text from Logan rolls in.
Logan: And since you love to piss my husband off, I assume you’re showing him right now.
She knows us both way too well.
Logan: Hi, baby. I love you. Please don’t kill me.
Maddison finally laughs.
“If Ella was wearing that shit tonight, it’s no wonder we lost.” A smug smile slides across his lips as he leans back and laces his hands together, contently resting them on his stomach.
“Dick,” I mutter with a smile.
“Asshole.”
“Are you guys ready for your exit row briefing?”
I send Logan a quick response, thanking her for the picture of Ella in my jersey before I give Stevie my full attention.
This is my newest tactic to get under her skin. She wanted my attention last time? Well, from now on, I’m gonna hang on every word she has to say, and it’s going to be awkward as fuck.
“Yes, please!” I tuck my phone away and cross my hands in my lap, sitting forward in anticipation.
Her head jerks at my eager response, her brows furrowed as she looks at me, puzzled.
Maddison snickers next to me, knowing exactly what I’m doing.
“Okay…” she drags out the word in confusion.
Stevie continues to explain how the window exit works if we need to use it in case of emergency, though she’s much quicker this time than last. I assume because she’ll be repeating this to us every flight for the remainder of the season.
I enthusiastically nod at every little thing she has to say, but whenever her blue-green eyes find mine, they narrow in annoyance.
“Are you willing and able to help in case of an emergency?” she asks both Maddison and me.
“Yes,” Maddison quickly answers.
Me? Not so much.
“Question,” I begin. “How exactly do I open the window again?”
Maddison shakes his head, but his chest moves with a silent laugh.
Stevie takes a deep breath, I’m sure in frustration, before she repeats what she’s already told me. “Remove the plastic placard, pull the red handle inward, and release. The window will lock against the aircraft.”
I nod my head repeatedly. “I see. I see. And when do I open it?”
Stevie inhales sharply, and I can no longer contain the sly grin on my lips. This shit is fun.
“When instructed by a crew member to do so.”
“And how—”
“For fuck’s sake, Zanders! Are you willing and able to help in case of an emergency or not?”
I can’t help but break into a laugh. I already feel ten times better than I did when I left the arena.
Thankfully, a smile pulls at Stevie’s mouth even though she’s trying to contain it. She presses her full lips together, trying to bite it back, but finally, a laugh escapes her.
“Yeah, I’m willing and able,” I resign with a big-ass smile on my face as I lean back in my chair.
She shakes her head in amusement. “I need a new job,” she mutters before walking away.
After the airplane doors are closed, Stevie comes back up to the exit row, standing a few mere inches from me in the aisle. Her blonde coworker is up at the front while the third flight attendant speaks over the PA system.
Stevie starts doing the safety demonstration, showing how to use your seat belts and oxygen masks if they happen to fall from the ceiling. No one else is paying attention, but I keep my eyes laser-focused on her.
She can sense my stare, and her cheeks are becoming flush under her freckles.
“This aircraft is equipped with six emergency exits,” the flight attendant says over the PA system. “Two forward door exits, two window exits over the wings, and two door exits in the rear of the aircraft.”
“You’re doing great, sweetheart,” I whisper.
Stevie shakes her head, her lips pressed together.
“Flight attendants are now pointing out the exits closest to you,” the speaker system echoes throughout the airplane.
Stevie uses her index and middle fingers on each hand to point out the exits in the back of the plane, then does the same, motioning towards the window exits in the middle of the plane, where I sit. But when she points to the window exit on my side, she tucks her index finger in and points to the window with only her middle finger, clearly flipping me off.
I can’t hold back my laughter.
There’s a smug, satisfied smile on Stevie’s lips, as there should be. Her unwillingness to back down or give in to my charm, the way most women do, is officially intriguing, with equal parts frustrating.
“Zee!” is the first thing I hear as soon as I walk into the Maddison’s penthouse the next day, quickly followed by a sweet little three-year-old throwing herself at my legs, wanting me to pick her up.
“Ella Jo!” I lift the crazy-haired girl, holding her tight. “How’s my favorite girl?”
“Only girl,” she counters, pushing her little fingers into my cheeks.
Damn right she is.
“Present?”
“Ella!” Logan calls from down the hall in the nursery. “That’s not how we ask for things from your uncle.”
I give little EJ a pointed glance as I try to hold back my amused smile, needing to have Logan’s back on the whole parenting thing. But Ella could ask for absolutely anything from her other two uncles or me, and there’s no way in hell any of us are saying no.
She lets out a little huff to correct herself before her sweetest smile overtakes her lips, her dimples popping out like you wouldn’t believe. She cocks her head, tilting it and bringing her shoulder to her rosy cheek. “Present, please?” She bats her lashes.
A rumble of laughter shakes in my chest. I adjust her on my hip before digging my hand into my pocket.
When Ella was one, I started buying her a onesie-type thing from each city her dad and I played in, not that she knew or remembered that. But it was a fun way to make sure I got to come over and see my baby niece after each road trip. They’ve all been handed down to her little brother, MJ, now.
Last year when she was two, I switched to postcards. She liked all the bright, pretty pictures on the front, and she was easily entertained by a piece of paper.
This year, she’s three, and we are upgrading to magnets.
Pulling out the little magnet with the Colorado flag on it, I watch as Ella’s deep green eyes shine with excitement.
It’s a fucking magnet, but she looks like she was just given a winning lottery ticket.
“Wow!” she exclaims, and I can’t help but laugh again.
She might not have asked for her gift in the most polite way, but the way she’s treasuring this little rubber magnet in her tiny hands makes up for it.
She flips it over, examining it with a massive smile on her lips.
“It’s for the fridge,” I explain. “I’ll get you one from every city we play in.”
She excitedly nods her head and squirms in my grasp, wanting to get down. I set her on her feet as she scurries to the refrigerator. She sits on her knees, putting the magnet on the bottom of the fridge, where only she can reach, before tucking her tiny fists under her chin, admiring it.
“What do you say, baby?” Logan comes shuffling into the kitchen with newborn MJ in her arms.
“Thank you, Uncle Zee!” Ella practically yells from the floor in the kitchen.
“You’re welcome, girly.”
As Logan walks by, I pop a kiss on her cheek as she places her sleeping and swaddled son in my arms, not even asking if I want to hold him. She already knows the answer. Sometimes (most the time), my reasoning for coming over has nothing to do with spending time with my two closest friends. I come over to see their kids.
“How are you feeling, Lo?” I ask one of my best friends, who is less than two weeks post-partum.
“I feel good.” She wears a bright smile as she takes a seat on the couch, tucking her legs underneath her.
I take the opposite side of the couch, careful not to wake MJ in my arms. This baby sleeps like a rock, though, so I doubt I could anyway. “You look good.”
“Zee, you better watch it!” I hear Maddison’s amused voice from somewhere down the hall.
“Sooooo good!” I call out just to piss him off.
“If you weren’t holding my son, I’d kick your ass.” Walking into the living room, he picks up his daughter on the way over to the couch. “But she does look good,” Maddison continues. “Ella Jo, doesn’t your mama look pretty?”
“So pretty,” Ella sighs before resting her head on her dad’s shoulder, seeming sleepy.
Maddison walks around the back of the couch behind Logan. “I think it’s someone’s nap time. I’ll be right back, baby.” He gives his wife a quick kiss.
Before he carries Ella off to her room, he rounds the couch to me and bends down, puckering his lips. “Be right back, baby.”
“Frick off.” I shove his face away from me with a laugh.
My eyes flicker to the floor-to-ceiling windows behind Logan. “Damn, sometimes I forget how much you guys can see into my apartment.” Squinting my eyes, I can spot my marble kitchen island from here.
Logan turns around, looking out the windows and across the street. Facing me again, she can’t hold back her blushed smile as her dimples pop out.
“Trust me. We don’t forget. Do you know how many times Eli or I have caught you with someone in your kitchen? Why do you think we installed these drapes?” She motions towards the extra-long black-out curtains currently pushed to the wall, letting the sunshine through. “I’m surprised I haven’t gouged my eyeballs out yet.”
“You know how many women would kill to have your guys’ view? Just appreciate the show.”
“So gross,” she giggles.
I laugh right along with her before noting the shift in her expression.
“Eli said your mom got ahold of your sister.”
I let out a heavy sigh, but I’m also kind of thankful for this topic change. Logan is sort of my makeshift therapist, regardless that I have a licensed one I see once or twice a week. I tell Logan almost everything, and I’ve needed to get this off my chest since that night in Denver.
“Yeah, Lindsey said she’s been blowing her up nonstop, trying to get in touch with me.”
“I’m sorry, Zee. Is there anything we can do?”
“I don’t know. Just hope she doesn’t show up again or get my number, I guess.”
Logan stays silent for a moment before her eyes dart to me then back to the ground. “Have you told your dad?”
Have I told my dad? I haven’t told my dad much of anything since I left his house for college. He isn’t exactly the most caring or supportive man these days. I don’t think he could give two shits about the fact I’m a professional athlete, making millions of dollars a year. Which vastly contradicts my mother’s current intentions for wanting to worm her way into my life.
He wasn’t always this way, though. In fact, when I was a kid, we couldn’t have been closer. My dad was at every one of my travel hockey tournaments. We would talk sports all day, he’d help me work on my technique in the backyard, and he was always on my ass about my grades, knowing I needed to keep them up in order to qualify for a scholarship.
My dad is an overall good person, but he buried himself in work as soon as my mom left us. Maybe he was trying to be the man she wanted, or at the least make the kind of money she wanted, hoping she would come back to him, I’m not sure. But he abandoned me like my mother did, just in a different way.
He no longer cared about my grades or came to watch me play high school hockey. Instead, he would stay late at work, distracting himself from his broken heart. By the time he would come home, I was usually in bed after microwaving something to eat for dinner. Lindsey was already off at college at the time, and I had never felt so alone.
That’s when the panic attacks started. That’s when the anger started. That’s when the constant reminder that no one loved me started. That’s when I realized no one had ever loved me enough to stick around.
It wasn’t until years later, when I was in my third year of college, that I started going to therapy and working on my shit. I realized it was no one else’s responsibility to love me. So, I started loving myself. No one else was going to.
“Zee,” Logan softly says.
“Hmm?” Pulling myself out of the daze of my past, I softly stroke MJ’s swaddle with my thumb as he sleeps soundly in my arms.
“Have you told your dad that your mom has been trying to reach you?”
I shake my head, shooting her a half-smile. “I don’t want to bother him with it.” Which is code for, I don’t want to talk to him more than necessary. But I don’t say that. Logan is big on me and my dad repairing our relationship. She lost her own parents at a young age and would kill to have another conversation with her dad. I feel like a complete prick anytime I tell her I have no desire to speak to mine who is alive and healthy.
“Okay.” She ends the conversation with that, giving me a sad smile.
I look down at the sweet boy in my arms, thankful to have this family as my own, blood ties or not.
“Hey, Zee,” Logan says from across the couch. “We love you a whole lot.”
Somehow this girl always knows what I need to hear, the same way her husband can read me like a book. Sometimes I’m not great at admitting what I need, regardless of how blunt and honest I can be. But I’m thankful to have these people know me so well.
“I love you guys too.” Which are the only people I’ve said those words to, besides my sister, in the last decade of my life.
