Looking over to him, his brown skin pinches between his brows as he shoots me an apologetic smile.
“Glad you came to see us, Vee,” he says. “You probably have to get going, though. You have work soon, right? Headed to Philly tonight, yeah?”
My dad is the best, trying to give me an out from this visit. My showtime for work is still hours away, but I need to get out of this house.
“Yeah, I should get going.” I stand from my seat as my parents do the same.
“Stevie, darling. Brush your hair before work, please.” My mother quickly and awkwardly hugs me goodbye.
You don’t brush curly hair, is what I want to say. Because how dare my hair be big and bold instead of smooth and styled like hers.
“Will do,” is my answer instead. It’s just not worth it.
“You look beautiful, Vee,” my dad reassures, holding on extra tight. “And I’m so proud of you and everything you’re doing with work and volunteering. I’m so happy you found something you love so much.”
“Thank you, Dad.”
He eyes my mother before looking back at me. “Let me walk you out.” He swings his arm over my shoulder as I order a ride back to my hotel from my phone. As soon as we’re outside and the door is closed, he turns towards me. “Don’t listen to her, honey.”
“How can I not? It’s constant. She doesn’t let up.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“What good is that going to do? You’ve talked to her for years, and she’s still like this. There is nothing I can do to make her happy!”
“You know how she is, Vee.”
“Yeah, Dad, I do. But that’s not a good enough excuse anymore.” My car pulls up just in time, so I give him another quick hug goodbye. “Love you,” I toss over my shoulder as I walk down the walkway to my car in frustration.
“I love you, my beautiful daughter,” he adds just as I get inside.
I offer him a small wave as my car drives away from the house I never want to visit again.
14
ZANDERS
I like playing against Nashville. Their crowd is rowdy as fuck, and I live off that shit. Most athletes enjoy the buzz at their home games, earning cheers from the stadium full of loyal fans wearing their team colors. I, on the other hand, thoroughly enjoy the hate of being on the visiting team.
I call it road-ice advantage.
You want to “boo” when I step onto the ice? No problem, I’ll throw your star forward into the boards for that.
You want to call my teammates names or make up stupid fucking chants that make no goddamn sense just to taunt us? Please do. It’ll fuel me to skate even faster and hit a little harder.
You want to scream at me and hit the glass while I enjoy my well-earned penalty box minutes? Music to my ears, baby.
Just another reason I love life on the road.
“Turn that up!” I shout to Rio from across the visiting team’s locker room. “That’s my song!”
Rio does as I ask, adjusting the volume on his old-school boom box that he carries everywhere with him and filling the locker room with one of my favorite hype songs.
I stay seated in my locker stall, fully suited up for our game as the music focuses me, getting me ready for the next sixty minutes of hockey.
Pulling out my phone, I find a text waiting from my sister, Lindsey. Her schedule is almost as insane as mine. She’s the youngest lawyer to make partner at her firm in Atlanta. She’s thirty years old and a fucking badass. So, I appreciate any time she takes out of her busy schedule to reach out. And I’m thankful it’s not about my mom the way her last text was.
Lindsey: Happy National Siblings’ Day. I didn’t even know that was a thing. Good luck tonight, eleven!
Attached to her message is a link to an Instagram post I’m tagged in.
One of our local sports networks made a post with a bunch of pictures of different athletes around Chicago and their siblings, with the caption, “Happy National Siblings’ Day to our favorite brothers and sisters.”
The picture of Lindsey and me after one of my games is a good one. So much so that I screenshot it, adding it to my minimal camera roll. It’s mostly filled with selfies that Ella Jo took of herself on multiple occasions when she’s stolen my phone.
Swiping over, they also posted a photo of Maddison and his brother. After that, a few guys I know in town with their siblings—some play for the Devils, a couple for Chicago’s pro baseball team, the Windy City Wolves, and one for our football team, the Chicago Cobras.
But the last photo on this post is the one that catches my attention the most. It’s a picture of the point guard for the Chicago Devils, number five, Ryan Shay. But that’s not what I find so surprising. It’s the curly-haired flight attendant at his side, tucked under his arm.
Stevie.
I quickly press the “tag” button, but the only name or account that pops up is Ryan’s, so I click on it. Going to the list of people he follows, I type in her name.
And there she is—Stevie Shay.
I had no fucking clue that Stevie is Ryan Shay’s sister. Sure, their skin shares the same light brown tone and freckles, and their eyes are the same bright blue-green. But putting that together would’ve been nearly impossible. And she clearly didn’t want me to know. Otherwise, she would’ve told me who he was the night I ran into her outside of Maddison’s apartment or when I found her watching his game at the bar in Denver.
Now it completely makes sense why she lives across the street from me. Her brother makes ridiculous money.
Stevie’s Instagram account is private, of course. The only thing I can see is her thumbnail picture which is the view from an airplane window with the sun setting right outside. Her bio reads “probably out of town...” with an airplane emoji after that.
Without thinking twice about it, I request to follow the wild girl.
I feel good getting off the bus and onto the airplane after beating Nashville with ease. Or I should say I feel good about the game.
What I don’t feel good about is the fact that Stevie still hasn’t accepted my follow request on Instagram. It’s been hours. I’m sure she’s seen it.
Last night when she turned down my proposition, I kind of loved it. Also, I figured she would. She doesn’t give in to me easily, which makes this chase all the more fun. It keeps me on my toes, which very rarely happens anymore. But I wouldn’t mind her giving in a little bit, even if it’s as simple as accepting my stupid follow request on Instagram.
“EZ!” one of the rookies calls out from the back of the plane. I begin to loosen the tie around my neck when he asks, “Get laid by a Southern little thing last night?” loud enough for the entire plane to hear, including a particular flight attendant who happens to be walking down the aisle as we speak.