I only had a few quick work trips between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Those were spent avoiding the exit row as much as possible and locking myself in my hotel room in an attempt to avoid Evan Zanders. Spending
time with him isn’t the problem per se, but every time I’m around him, I feel like a dog in heat, wanting to jump his bones.
Somehow though, I successfully evaded him.
However, if I would’ve seen Zanders at the shelter with Rosie before those works trips, I’d be telling a different story. That day last week, seeing him around all my favorite pups, I had never been more attracted to him than I was at that moment.
And for the second time since I’ve known him, my attraction had nothing to do with the way he looks and everything to do with the sliver of his heart he showed.
“Vee, you ready to go?” My dad’s voice pulls me out of my daydream.
Looking around the family box at the United Center, I hadn’t noticed that the previously crowded space had essentially cleared out in the final minutes of the game. The Devils are about to pull off a dominant home win, and I’m sure most family members are eager to see their players outside of the locker room on this Christmas Day.
Slinging my cross-body bag over my shoulder, I follow my dad out of the suite and down the hall to the locker room’s private back entrance for family members. My mom is at least ten feet ahead of us, eager to see her beloved son, but I’m trying to ignore the fact she’s never been that excited to see me.
It’s been years since I spent Christmas with my family. It’s a basketball holiday, so when I was flying for the NBA, I was on the road, my work being the perfect excuse to avoid a get-together with my mother. But the NHL takes the day off, so here I am.
“Do you know any of these guys?” My dad wraps his arm over my shoulders as we walk down the long private hallway in the United Center, the walls plastered with photos of the two professional sports teams who play in this building—the Devils and the Raptors.
“Some of them.”
My dad stops us in front of this year’s team photo. “Who is that?” He points to the curly-haired, green-eyed goofball.
“That’s Rio,” I laugh. “He’s kind of like the class clown. He’s a defenseman, and he carries this old school 90s boom box around with him everywhere he goes.”
“And this one?” He points to number thirteen.
“That’s Maddison. Team captain. Star forward and really nice guy. His family lives a few floors above Ryan, actually.”
“And him?”
My dad’s finger taps on the one player I’m trying not to look at. In fact, I’ve tried to avoid looking at him all day, but as the alternate captain, his face is plastered all over this arena. Not that he minds. Knowing Zanders, he probably volunteered for the photoshoot.
Clearing my throat, I pull my gaze away from number eleven. “That’s Evan Zanders.”
“Well, what’s he like?”
“Arrogant. Show-off. In love with himself. Takes more time getting ready than most women. Gets in a lot of fights on the ice.”
Loves his niece. Softer than he lets people know. Makes me feel good in more ways than one.
“Mm-hmm, I see.” “See what?”
“You like him.”
“No, I don’t.” Snapping my head around, my dad looks down at me with a knowing smile. “I can’t stand him, actually.”
A deep laugh rumbles in his chest. “Vee, I love you, but you’re a terrible liar. You have a crush.”
“I do not have a crush. I work for him.” Which is something I’ve been trying to remind myself for weeks now, ever since that night we hooked up in DC.
“Okay.” My dad lets it go with that, but the slight smirk he wears as we continue our walk to Ryan’s locker room tells me that he doesn’t buy my lie.
“Ryan!” my mother squeals as my sweaty twin brother comes walking into the family waiting room. She’s far too excited, acting as if she didn’t already see him this Christmas morning.
“Hey, Mom.” He squeezes her in a hug, my mother’s face lit up and beaming, the way it usually is when my brother is involved. He’s her pride and joy, and I’m, well…I’m here.
“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.
And not only did he buy me one pair, he bought me three in all different sizes.
This guy is the strangest mix of cliché and unpredictable that I’ve ever met, and he has me constantly guessing which version of him is the real one.
The box smells a little like him, like maybe it was sitting in his apartment for a few days before he wrapped it and sent it over.
I’m not going to lie, my heart flutters more than I want to admit. This is thoughtful as hell and as random as it may seem to an outsider looking in, it’s not. He’s given me shit about my sweatpants ever since the first time I saw him off the airplane, and him not only remembering, but also picking something he knows I’ll be comfortable in, as much as he compliments when I show off my body, makes me feel…understood.
The crush I lied to my dad about earlier seems more and more unmistakable.
But just as bad of an idea.
There’s nothing that can come from this situation other than me eventually getting my feelings hurt, but I decide just for today, I’ll ignore that reminder and bask in Zanders’ thoughtful gift.
The material feels like straight-up butter as it glides over my thick thighs. And I shaved my legs this morning. Well, my lower legs because I’m too lazy to do the whole thing, so the soft fabric feels extra lovely and creamy.
I didn’t know you could feel bougie while wearing loungewear, but here I am, feeling bougie as hell.
Although he got me different sizes, I can make all three pairs work, so the other two get their own shelf in my closet, and Zanders’ note gets its own spot in the top drawer of my dresser where my brother won’t find it.
Ryan is protective as it is, but if he finds out that I slept with someone with Zanders’ reputation, he’ll be beyond disappointed.
“Who was it from?” my dad asks as I shuffle to the kitchen table wearing my brand-new fancy pants.
My eyes dart to Ryan, who seems just as curious.
“Uhh…a Christmas gift from someone I work with.” Not a lie.
“That’s awesome, Vee. I’m so glad you’re making friends here.” Yeah, that’s one way to describe Zanders.
Taking a seat at the dining room table, I fill my plate with a little bit of everything until you can barely see the white porcelain underneath all my food. Ryan and my dad pop up from their seats to grab themselves fresh beers, and my mother uses it as a prime opportunity.
“That’s an awful lot of food, Stevie. There’s so much added salt.” Her voice is hushed, quiet enough that my brother and dad can’t hear. As I mentioned before, Ryan is protective but rarely recognizes that the person I need protection from the most is our own mother.
As soon as my brother and dad come within hearing distance, her faux innocence is back as she brings her cloth napkin to her mouth, dabbing the corners of her perfectly lined lips.
“I’m glad you guys could all make it to the game.” Ryan takes a seat, clearly out of the loop to my mother’s antics, before putting a fresh beer in
front of me. As soon as the glass touches the table, I grab it and chug half of it without taking a breath.
“Me too, Ryan. We are so proud of you.”
The beer is thick as it runs down my throat, but it’s my mother’s words that almost cause me to choke. Could it be any more obvious who her favorite child is? I swallow the cold liquid, but I do so with an exaggerated eye roll.
“Do you have something you want to say, Stevie?” My mother places her hands in her lap, cocking her head while looking at me, testing me to speak up.
Don’t ruin Christmas. Don’t ruin Christmas. Don’t ruin Christmas.
“Nope.” Pushing my food around my plate with my chopsticks, I keep my focus away from the judgmental woman sitting across the table from me.
“Do you not think we’re proud of you?”
Well, that sincere question is a little shocking. My eyes dart across to my mom’s blue-green ones, expecting her to keep surprising me by telling me she is proud of me.
“We are so proud of you, Vee,” my dad cuts in, but I already know he feels that way. I want to hear my mother say it.
“Mm-hmm,” she hums, which sounds a lot more like a disagreeing hum than an agreeable one.
Dinner continues, and I stay quiet. Anything I want to talk about—the shelter or the funky little thrift store I stumbled upon last week, are all going to be met with my mother’s disapproval, and I don’t want her to taint the things I love. She can hate on my body or my job that I’m not all that passionate about, but the things that bring real joy to my life, I don’t want her to touch those.
As the three of them are deep in conversation, my mother enthralled with Ryan’s life here in Chicago, I pull out my phone, thinking maybe I should send Zanders a message on Instagram to thank him for my new loungewear.
And I kind of want an excuse to talk to him, too.
You’d think something as simple as sweatpants wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but just that small piece of being comfortable during this uncomfortable family dinner means a lot. Plus, Zanders made my gift
entirely about me, besides the price tag that is very Evan Zanders. Vastly different than the pair of nude pumps my mother gave me.
I don’t have his number, and he doesn’t have mine, but access to his DMs is enough to connect to the famous hockey player.
I figured his Instagram would be showing off his extravagant Christmas, but there’s nothing on display. Over the last six weeks, since I started following the Chicago defenseman, he almost always has something posted to entertain his fans. He’s rarely quiet, so this is strange.
“You done, Vee?” Ryan stands over me, his hand on my plate, ready to clean up the table.
“Uh, yeah.”
“You didn’t eat anything.” “Not hungry,” I lie.
He bends down, looking over my shoulder at my phone. “Is that Evan Zanders’ Instagram?”
Fuck.
“Nope.” Exiting out of the app, I hide my phone in my lap.
“I can’t stand that guy.” Ryan continues to the kitchen, hands full of dishes. “He gives a bad name to Chicago sports.”
“Have you ever even talked to him?” My tone has too much of a bite as it comes out of my mouth, and Ryan catches on right away.
“I don’t need to. He gets plenty of coverage in the media. I know exactly the kind of guy he is.”
“Well,” my dad interrupts, wearing a sly grin. “Vee actually knows the guy. So, why don’t we ask her? What do you think about him, Stevie?”
All eyes turn towards me, and suddenly I feel like my family can read every inappropriate thought I’ve ever had of Zanders. Too many vivid details from that wild night in DC flood my mind, causing heat to creep up my cheeks.
“He’s fine.”
“Fine, huh?” One too many brow pumps come from the old guy at the table.
“Thank you for that, Dad, but can you not?” Turning back to my brother, I add, “He’s not as bad as you think. The media doesn’t do a very good job at portraying him, but there’s more to him than just the bad boy stuff.”
Ryan’s eyes are lasered in on me, doing that twin thing where he tries to read my mind.
“Or so it seems.” I casually shrug, keeping my head down as I scurry to the couch, needing to avoid my brother’s stare and his mind tricks.
“Brett’s coming to town,” are the words Ryan uses to change the subject.
Well, thank God I didn’t eat because it’d be coming back up right about now.
“Oh, is he?” my mother bursts. “Stevie, did you hear that?” “Heard it.”
“That’s so exciting. I love Brett. What’s he doing here?”
“There’s a charity gala coming up, and all the major sports teams in the city will be there. He needs to network, so hopefully, I can introduce him to some people I know. Get him a job here.”
“Here?” Quickly turning around, my eyes widen with bewilderment. “Yeah, here. I told you about him coming a few weeks ago.”
“I know, but I didn’t think that meant he would be trying to work here.
Live here.”
“I think it’s great,” my mom interrupts. “Brett is such a handsome boy. Stevie, you should be grateful he’s coming to town. Maybe he will give you another chance.”
What the hell? “I don’t want another chance!”
Oh shit. Don’t ruin Christmas. Don’t ruin Christmas.
“Vee, you don’t need to give him another chance if you don’t want to,” my sweet dad adds.
My mother, on the other hand? Mortified that a woman would be so loud.
“What went down between you two?” my brother asks.
My eyes ping-pong between all three of my family members, not wanting to spill the details and embarrassment of how I realized I was being used for three years by my ex-boyfriend.
I love my brother, but some things are better left unsaid. Me sleeping with the most notorious playboy in the city, for one. The other is that his friend is a piece of shit and made me feel like an unworthy option for years. But he doesn’t even see that our mom makes me feel like garbage, let alone his former college teammate, so what’s the use in elaborating?
“Nothing.” Quickly shaking my head, I stand from the couch, needing to get out of this apartment and fill my lungs with some fresh air.
My eyes dart to the large sprawling windows on the backside of our apartment. Chicago’s Navy Pier is brightly lit up for Christmas, but my gaze is glued on a tall, built figure across the street sitting on the front steps of his apartment building.
Zanders.
“I’m going for a quick walk.” “Now? It’s late.”
Slipping on my coat, I tuck my feet into my Nikes before reassuring my dad. “I’m not going far. I just need a minute.”
Grabbing two fresh beers out of the fridge, I make my way downstairs and outside to see the only person who has made me feel good today.
