“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.”