“I love road games.”
“I hate road games.” Maddison pulls his suitcase out of the back of my Mercedes Benz G-Wagon, my newest purchase, before
shrugging on his suit jacket.
“You hate them for the exact reason why I love them so much.” I lock my car, throw my keys in my bag, and take a deep breath as Chicago’s crisp fall air fills my lungs. I love hockey season, and this week is the start of hockey season on the road.
“Why, because you have girls lined up waiting to see you in every city we visit? Whereas the only woman I want to see is my wife who is here in Chicago with my daughter and newborn son.”
“Exactly.” I pat Maddison on the shoulder as we enter the private airport entrance here at O’Hare International.
We show our IDs to the security before being let out onto the tarmac. “Did we get a new plane?” I stop in my tracks, cocking my head at the new bird with our team logo on the tail.
“Seems like it,” Maddison absentmindedly adds, looking down at his phone.
“How’s Logan doing?” I ask in reference to his wife, whom I know he’s texting right now. He’s obsessed with her. He’s never not texting her.
“She’s a badass, man.” Maddison’s voice drips with pride. “MJ is only a week old, and she’s got his schedule down.”
No surprise there. Maddison’s wife, Logan, is one of my closest friends and probably the most capable person I know. They’re my only friends who have kids, but their family of four has become my extended family. Their daughter calls me Uncle Zee, and I refer to their kids as my niece and nephew, regardless of the lack of blood ties between us. Their dad is my best friend and practically my brother at this point.
Which wasn’t always the case.
Eli Maddison was once my most hated rival while we were growing up. We were both raised in Indiana, playing travel hockey for two different teams. He was the golden boy who got everything he ever wanted, and it annoyed the shit out of me. His life was perfect. His family was perfect, and mine was anything but.
Then he went on to play for the University of Minnesota while I played for Ohio State, and our childhood rivalry turned into a heated five years of college hockey. I had some family stuff going on at the time, and I took all my anger out on the ice. Maddison ended up being the recipient of my shit when I threw him into the boards with a dirty hit early in our college years. I fucked his ankle up enough to pull him out of his sophomore season and, subsequently, the NHL draft.
Ironically enough, I also had to sit out my sophomore year, thanks to a few classes I was failing.
He hated me for it, and I hated myself for a whole lot of other reasons.
Then I started going to therapy. Religiously. I worked on my shit, and by our senior year, Maddison and I were the best of friends. We still played for different teams, but we respected each other and found common ground through our mental health struggles. He dealt with anxiety and panic attacks, and I dealt with so much bitter anger it would result in panic attacks simply because it would consume me, blinding me from reality.
And as fate would have it, Eli Maddison and I landed on the same team here in Chicago, playing professional hockey for the Raptors. This season is the start of my seventh pro year, and I couldn’t imagine playing anywhere else.
Which is why I need to make sure I get re-signed when my contract is up at the end of the season.
“Scott, did we get a new plane?” I ask one of our team managers, walking ahead of us.
“Yeah,” he calls over his shoulder. “All the Chicago pro teams did. New charter company. New plane. Some big deal they signed with the city.”
“New plane. New seats… New flight attendants,” I suggestively add.
“We always had new flight attendants,” Maddison chimes in. “And they all tried to sleep with you.”
I smugly shrug my shoulders. He’s not wrong, and I’m not ashamed. But I don’t sleep with women who work for me. It gets messy, and I don’t do messy.
“That’s the other thing that’s new,” our team manager shouts back. “Same flight crew for the whole season. Same pilots and same flight attendants. No more random crew members coming on and off our airplane, asking for your autographs.”
“Or asking to get into your pants.” Maddison shoots me a pointed look. “I didn’t mind.”
My phone dings in my suit pant pocket. Pulling it out, I find two new messages waiting for me in my Instagram DMs.
Carrie: Saw your game schedule. You’re in town tonight, I see. I’m free, and you better be too!
Ashley: You’re in my city tonight. I want to see you! I’ll make it worth your while.
I go into my Notes app, finding the note titled “DENVER,” trying to remember who these women are.
Apparently, Carrie was a great lay with a fantastic rack, and Ashley gave one hell of a blowjob.
It’s going to be hard to choose where I want my night to take me. Then there’s the option of going out and seeing if I can widen my Denver roster with some new recruits.
“We going out tonight?” I ask my best friend as we ascend the stairs onto our new plane.
“I’m grabbing dinner with a buddy from college. My old teammate lives in Denver.”
“Ah shit, that’s right. Well, after, let’s grab some drinks.” “I’m having an early night.”
“You always have an early night,” I remind him. “All you want to do is hang in your hotel room and call your wife. The only time you go out with me is when Logan makes you.”
“Well, I have a one-week-old son, so I can guarantee that I’m not going out tonight. I need some sleep.”
“How is little MJ?” Scott asks at the top of the stairs.
“Cutest little shit.” Maddison pulls out his phone to show off the countless pictures he’s sent me over the week. “Already ten times more chill than Ella was as a newborn.”
Stepping in front of them, I walk into our new plane, taken aback by how amazing it is. It’s completely brand new with custom carpet, seats, and our team logo plastered everywhere.
Bypassing the front half of the plane, where the coaches and staff sit, I make my way to the exit row, where Maddison and I have sat for years now, ever since he became Captain and I became Alternate Captain. We run every aspect of this team, including where we sit on the airplane.
Veterans sit in the exit row, and as your seniority on the team falls, the further back you sit, with rookies all the way in the last row.
“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” I quickly state, finding our second-year defenseman, Rio, sitting in my seat. “Get up.”
“I was thinking,” Rio begins, his goofy-ass grin taking up his entire face. “New plane, maybe new seats? Maybe you and Maddison want to sit in the back of the plane with the rookies this year?”
“Fuck no. Get up. I don’t care if you’re not a rookie this season. I’ll still treat you like one.”
His curly hair falls over his dark green eyes, but I can still see them shining with amusement as he tests me. Little fucker.
He’s from Boston, Massachusetts. An Italian mama’s boy who likes to test my patience. But almost every time he opens his damn mouth, I end up laughing. He’s pretty fucking funny. I will say that.
“Rio, get out of our seats,” Maddison commands from behind me.
“Yes, sir.” He quickly stands, snagging his boom box from the next seat over, and hurries to the back of the plane where he belongs.
“Why does he listen to you and not to me? I’m ten times more intimidating than you.”
“Maybe because you take him out whenever we’re on the road and treat him like your little wingman, whereas I’m his captain and keep the line clear.”
Maybe if my closest friend would come out with me, I wouldn’t have to recruit a twenty-two-year-old to be my backup when we’re out on the
town.
Throwing my bag in the overhead bin, I take the seat closest to the window.
“Fuck no.” Maddison stands, staring down at me. “You had the window last year. You’re in the aisle seat this season.”
I look at the seat directly next to mine then back to him. “I get motion sickness.”
Maddison bursts into a fit of laughter. “No, you don’t. Stop being a little bitch and get up.”
I unwillingly move to the next seat over, each row on this plane only having two seats on either side of the aisle. A couple of other long-time vets sit in the row opposite us.
Pulling my phone out, I reread the messages from the girls in Denver, contemplating how I want my night to go. “Would you go for a great lay, a mind-blowing blowjob, or take your chances with someone new?”
Maddison completely ignores me.
“All three?” I answer for him. “I might be able to swing that.”
Another text comes through. This time it’s a group message from our agent, Rich.
Rich: Interview with the Chicago Tribune before the game tomorrow.
Play it up. Make us that money.
“Rich texted,” I tell my captain. “Interview tomorrow before the game.
Wants us to play up our little schtick.”
“What’s new?” Maddison sighs. “Zee, you know you have the short end of the stick on this one. Whenever you’re ready to let people know you’re not the dickhead they all think you are, you let me know, and we’ll stop the act.”
This right here is why Maddison is my best friend. He might be the only person, other than his family and my sister, who knows I’m not the bad guy that the media makes me out to be. But my image has its perks, one being that women throw themselves at the self-proclaimed “unlovable bad-boy,” and our contrasting personas make us both a ton of money.
“Nah, I’m still enjoying it,” I tell him honestly. “I gotta get that renewed contract by the end of the season, so until then, we have to keep it going.”
Ever since Maddison came to Chicago five years ago, we’ve created this storyline that the fans and media eat up. We make a shitload of money for the organization because our duo puts fans in the seats. The once-hated
rivals turned best friends and teammates. Maddison has been married for years to his college sweetheart, and they have two kids together. I have nights where two different women come over to my penthouse. We couldn’t be more different from the outsider’s perspective. He’s hockey’s golden boy, and I’m the city’s troublemaker. He scores the goals, and I score with the ladies.
People eat this shit up. We play it up for the media, but the truth is I’m not the piece of shit people think I am. I care about a lot more than just the women I take home from the arena. But I’m also confident in who I am. I like having sex with beautiful women, so I’m not going to apologize for it. If that makes me a bad person, fuck it. I make a hell of a lot of money from being the “bad guy.”
As I scroll on my phone, I spot a figure in my peripheral, but I don’t look up to see who is standing in front of me. Though from my sightline of vision, I can tell the curvy frame belongs to a woman, and the only women on board are flight attendants.
“Are you—” she begins.
“Yes, I’m Evan Zanders,” I cut her off, keeping my eyes down on my phone screen. “And yes, that’s Eli Maddison,” I add with exhaustion. “Sorry, no autographs.”
This happens almost every flight. The new flight crew drools over meeting professional athletes. It’s a bit annoying, but it’s part of the job, being recognized as much as the two of us are.
“Good for you. And I don’t want your autograph.” Her tone is entirely unimpressed. “What I was going to ask is, are you ready for me to give you your exit row briefing?”
Finally, I look up at her, her blue-green eyes piercing and pointed. Her hair bounces with chestnut curls, unable to be tamed. Her skin is a light brown, speckled with soft freckles across her nose and cheeks, but her expression could not be less impressed with me.
Not that I give a fuck.
My eyes wander her body. Her tight work uniform hugs every curve of her full frame.
“You do realize you’re in the exit row, right, Evan Zanders?” she asks as if I’m an idiot, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing.
Maddison snickers next to me, neither one of us ever hearing a woman speak to me with such disdain.
My eyes form into slits, not backing down, a little shocked that she just spoke to me that way.
“Yes, we’re ready,” Maddison answers for me. “Go for it.”
She gives her spiel, and I zone out. I’ve heard this more times than I can count, but it’s some legal thing they have to tell us before every flight, I guess.
I scroll on my phone as she speaks, my Instagram feed littered with models and actresses, half of which I’ve dated. Well, dated is probably the wrong word.
Maddison nudges me. “Zee.”
“What?” I absentmindedly reply.
“She asked you a fucking question, man.”
Looking up, the flight attendant stares down at me. Her expression full of annoyance as her eyes wander down to my phone screen, a half-naked woman on full display right there on my feed.
“Are you willing and able to help in an emergency?” she repeats.
“Sure. I’ll take a sparkling water, by the way. Extra lime.” My focus shifts back to my phone.
“There’s a cooler in the back row for you to grab it yourself.”
My eyes dart up once again. What’s with this chick? I find her name tag
—a pair of wings with “Stevie” in the center.
“Well, Stevie, I would really like if you brought it to me.”
“Well, Evan, I would’ve really liked if you paid attention during my safety demo instead of assuming I wanted your autograph like some little puck bunny.” She condescendingly pats me on the shoulder. “Which I don’t, and I’m not.”
“You sure about that, sweetheart?” My smug smile overtakes my face as I lean forward in my seat, closer to her. “Could be worth a pretty penny for you.”
“Gross.” Her face contorts with disgust. “Thanks for listening,” she says to Maddison before taking off towards the back of the plane.
I can’t help but turn around and watch her in shock. Her round hips sway, taking up more space than the other flight attendants I’ve seen on board, but her little pencil skirt dips in at the waist.
“So, Stevie is a total bitch.”
“No, you’re just a total asshole, and she called you on it,” Maddison laughs. “And Stevie?”
“Yeah, that’s her name. It was on her name tag.”
“You’ve never known a flight attendant’s name before.” His tone is laced with accusation. “But clearly, she could give two shits about you, my friend.”
“At least she’s off the plane next flight.”
“No, she’s not,” Maddison reminds me. “Same flight crew for the whole season. Remember what Scott said?”
Fuck, that’s right. We’ve never had the same girls on board for an entire season.
“I like her already, only because she doesn’t like you. This is going to be fun to watch.”
I turn around to peek into the back of the plane just as Stevie’s gaze finds mine, neither of us backing down or breaking eye contact. Her eyes are probably the most interesting pair I’ve ever seen, and her body is perfectly full, with plenty to grab onto. But unfortunately, her pretty outside that I like is tainted by the attitude I don’t like.
She might need a reminder that she’s working for me, but I’ll make sure she understands. I’m petty that way. I’ll remember that little interaction for as long as she’s on my airplane.
