Mile High (Windy City Series Book 1)

Last night was a nightmare.

The worst possible thing that could’ve happened, happened.

Well, almost the worst thing. The only saving grace from our encounter outside was that no one got a shot of Stevie’s face. The only pictures floating around the internet show the back of her, though my face is in plain view. Thankfully, Stevie’s coat covered her work uniform, but her signature chestnut curls are on full display for the world to see and speculate over.

There are no questions, wondering if this is just another one of my hookups. By me trying to cover her and the look of utter shock on my face, it’s clear that she’s more important than that. “Girlfriend” was plastered next to our picture pretty quickly last night.

I barely slept.

Rich hasn’t reached out yet, and he and my PR team did fuck-all to help me out when I needed them most.

But the worst part of all isn’t the possible implications it’ll have over my contract extension or Stevie’s job. The worst part is the internet trolls hiding behind their keyboards while filling message threads with hateful words about my girlfriend.

Right now, my biggest worry isn’t about my future with Chicago hockey. It’s not about losing my image. What’s consuming my every thought is that I’m allowing my favorite person to be put on blast because people love to talk about me.

I’ve become overly protective of Stevie, especially with how she thinks about herself and her body. Now, because of me and my fucked-up image, endless comments cover the internet, tearing her down and reaffirming the internal dialogue that she already struggles with.

It was one thing when the cruel words were her own and the small company of shitty people she kept, telling her she wasn’t enough, but when the entire internet decides to do it? I’m afraid my voice isn’t loud enough to drown out the noise.

And of course, because people use the internet to spread hate, the comments aren’t happy for me or excited to learn who it is I’m dating. They’re disgusting and attacking, delivering low blows, and I’m worried they’re going to work.

After Stevie’s breakdown in the bathroom last week, this is the last thing she needs.

I should’ve known better. I did know better. We had been more careful, more cautious, and without thinking twice about it, I told her to walk into my building with me, hand in hand, and now we’re in this mess because of me.

I was on top of the world after our win, but everything came crashing down only hours later.

My penthouse is dead quiet. No televisions in the background or music playing. Only silence. The stillness is eerie, as if we both know there’s going to be a shitstorm to deal with as soon as we speak of it.

I’m on my third coffee of the morning as I bring another fresh mug into my bedroom for Stevie. I’ve been up, pacing the living room and scouring the internet most of the night, but the last time I left her in here, she had finally fallen asleep.

However, this time when I enter my room, I find Stevie awake with her back to me, still lying in bed. She’s got Rosie tucked under one arm as she scrolls on her phone with her other hand, and even from across the room, I recognize the images plastered on my screen. They’ve become ingrained in my mind from staring at them all night.

And the confirmation she gives me that she’s been reading the hateful comments as well is when she tries to wipe a tear without being noticed.

“Vee, please don’t look at that,” I plead as I take a seat next to her on the bed. Placing her coffee on the nightstand, I gently take her phone from her hands. “You don’t need to read that stuff.”

“Why are people so mean?” Her voice is weak, almost inaudible.

“I don’t know, baby, but I don’t want you reading that.”

“Has your agent called?” Hope. So much hope shines in her red-rimmed eyes.

“No, not yet.” Exhaling a long deep breath, frustration flows through me. Rich is on my ass all the time, and now he decides to stay silent? When I need his fucking help? “Anything from your coworkers?” I run a soothing hand over her leg.

“Indy texted me to check in, but nothing from Tara.” She nods her head, reminding herself that’s a good thing. “Yet.”

Studying her, I can’t seem to find the fire my girl typically emanates. “Vee, are you okay?”

Her shoulders lift, a sad half-smile pulling at her lips.

Silence lingers between us, neither of us quite sure what to say.

“Can I even leave the building?” she finally asks.

“Yeah. Security cleared the area, but I’m going to have someone walk you out when you decide to go.”

“I think I’m ready to go.”

My heart drops. “You want to leave?”

She nods, pulling her gaze away from mine, but I can still see the sadness swimming in those blue-greens. “I want to go talk to my brother.”

Of course, she does, but I wish she wouldn’t. I wish she’d stay here and talk to me. Tell me how she’s feeling. Tell me if she’s ready to be out in the open, but she doesn’t need to tell me because it’s evident on her face.

She’s not ready for this. She can’t handle the negative attention that comes with being associated with me, and I don’t blame her.

“Okay,” I resign. “I’ll let you get ready then.”

Stevie meets me by the front door after she’s showered and dressed. It’s not lost on me that her signature curls are slicked back into a bun, and her sweatshirt has a hood so she can hide on the walk to her apartment.

Exhaustion covers her pretty features thanks to the cruel words beating down on her, and I couldn’t feel more at fault than I do right now.

She shouldn’t be hurting this way. Her deepest insecurities wouldn’t be reinforced if it weren’t for me.

She’s hiding because of me.

“It’ll be okay.” I wrap her up in a heavy hug, holding on a little longer than usual. Because the truth is, it is going to be okay. One way or another, I’m going to make it better for her.

Her hand snakes around to the back of my neck, pulling me down to meet her. Her lips are soft, but there’s an edge of desperation in her kiss, and I’m not sure why. I’m not sure why this one feels different.

“I’ll call you later.” I search her face as the words leave my mouth, looking for some kind of reprieve from the knot in my stomach, but it doesn’t work. She seems like she’s on the edge of a breakdown.

I keep my eyes on my girl as Stevie walks down the hall to the elevator. Her head hangs low as she pushes the button, but it isn’t until I see her back begin to vibrate that I take a few quick strides and pull her into my chest.

“Vee, come here.”

Her desperate cry is the most painful thing I’ve ever heard, knowing I’m the one who caused this. She’s hurting because she’s with me. People think they have the right to say hateful things about her because she’s with me.

Pulling her face from my chest, I cup her cheeks, thumbs wiping the fresh tears from under her swollen eyes. Her brows pinch together as she swallows hard, and the utter defeat that covers her face fills my chest with guilt.

How do I beg her not to listen to them? How do I remind her that the only person’s opinion that should matter is her own?

The elevator stops on my floor as the words stay stuck in my throat.

I’m sorry.

Please don’t listen to them.

Who cares what others have to say about you?

But the words don’t feel right. They feel hypocritical because I should be reminding myself of the same thing. The nasty comments online aren’t just about Stevie. They’re about me too. And I’m having an equally hard time reminding myself that the only opinion of me that matters is from the people closest in my life.

Stevie steps into the elevator, facing me. Part of me wants to hold my arms out and keep the doors from shutting. Pull her out of there and force her to talk to me. Make sure she knows how important she is. Assure her that she’s worthy. But at the same time, she asked for a moment alone.

I remain still behind the threshold as the metal doors close. Stevie stays standing tall for a moment until she sinks back onto the wall behind her, burying her head in her hands just as the elevator shuts with her inside.

My throat is thick with guilt as I walk back into my apartment. My eyes are burning from seeing her this way. I’ve seen my girl hurt before, but this is different. She’s as confident as she is insecure. It just depends on the day, the moment, the people she surrounds herself with. But right now, at this moment, the insecurities are breaking her down like I’ve never seen.

Rosie’s whimper adds to the pain as we stand at the window, watching Stevie walk safely across the street, unbothered.

The anger begins to build, taking away from the overwhelming concern. This is as much Rich’s fault as it is mine. If he would’ve answered my fucking phone call last night and taken care of it the way I pay him to, then we wouldn’t be in this situation.

I grab my phone, assuming I’m going to call and reach his voicemail for what feels like the hundredth time today when I find a text waiting for me.

Rich: Call me. Now.

Rosie curls up on the couch, eyeing me as if she can sense something is wrong while I pace the living room. Holding my phone tightly to my ear, I wait for Rich to answer.

“Zanders, what the fuck is going on?”

“I could ask you the same goddamn thing! Where the hell have you been all night?”

“You don’t get to yell at me when you’re the one who fucked up.”

“I fucked up? I fucked up?” I blow out a condescending laugh. “If it weren’t for this bullshit image you forced me to buy into all these years, I wouldn’t be in this mess. People wouldn’t give a shit that I have a girlfriend. Do you know how fucking weird that is? I’m the only guy in the league that makes headlines for having a fucking girlfriend.”

“This bullshit image has made you millions of dollars. Then millions more on top of that. And you’ve enjoyed every second of it. Don’t lie, Zanders. You’re not very good at it.”

“I want out. I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to live my life in peace and play hockey.”

“You don’t get it, do you? There is no out. This is who you are to the hockey world. This is what people want.”

“Things can change. Fans can change their opinion. I’ve changed. Just because I’m not fucking a new girl every night or getting into fights every chance I have, doesn’t mean people aren’t going to want to watch me play.”

“You sure about that? Have you read the comments online? The message boards are littered with comments about you. And trust me, Zanders, it’s not as easy as you think. You’re selling a brand, a lifestyle. They want EZ. What you bring to hockey is more than just the sixty minutes you’re on the ice. You bring a persona. Someone fans can vicariously live through. People pay the money they do to support you because they can come watch you knock heads on the ice, leave with a new chick on your arm each game, all while making a stupid amount of money that they like to watch you flaunt around. Then they go home to their sad little lives, all while wishing they could step into your shoes. No one gives a fuck that you have a girlfriend. They just don’t want you taking away their fantasy.”

“That’s not my responsibility.”

“Yes, it is! That’s quite literally part of your job. You make the kind of money you do because of it.”

“You really think Chicago won’t re-sign me because of a few comments online? That’s bullshit.”

“Have you read them? If you think Chicago, who is already close to maxing out their budget for next season, by the way, isn’t going to consider the opinions of fans who financially support the franchise, you’re wrong. Chicago expects you to play dirty, cause an uproar, and fill the stands with fans eager to see the jerk from the tabloids. And it’s more than a few comments. It’s tens of thousands, Zanders. It’s not good.”

Have I read them? A few, but I was more concerned with the ones about Stevie than I was the ones about me.

“I warned you this was going to happen. I told you all season long,” Rich continues.

Those words ring an alarm in my mind. Too many connections. Too many coincidences.

“Rich, how did the reporters know where I live?”

He hesitates for a moment. “You’ve had fans camped out for weeks. You thought the word wouldn’t get out?”

“Yeah, but the timing, and they were hiding. It seems set up.”

“You think I did that?” He breathes out a condescending laugh. “I want the opposite of this. I want the old EZ back. I want the guy who would be an easy sell to Chicago. This is the last thing I wanted.”

“I need you to pull the pictures offline.”

“Too late.”

“Fuck that, Rich! The comments about her are fucking brutal. Do it. Now.” The desperation in my tone doesn’t go unnoticed.

“It’s too far circulated. There’s no way. And I’d be less concerned about the comments regarding your little girlfriend and more worried about the ones addressing you. The best advice I can give you right now is to get back to the guy people love to hate.”

Looking up to the ceiling, I throw my head back in defeat. “I don’t want to be hated anymore.”

“At least they’re talking about you. At least we finally have their attention. That’s what we want. That’s what we need for a new contract. Honestly, at this point, Chicago might be off the table. I’m starting to look where else we can move you.”

“That can’t be true.” My words are rushed, frantic. “I’ve been playing my best hockey. We’re one series away from the finals.”

“Then why haven’t I heard from them? I told you all season the kind of guy they wanted. They already have Maddison as their golden boy. They want the duo that’s been selling tickets for the last five years. If you’re not going to do it, they’ll find someone else. Someone a lot cheaper too, I’m sure.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the money. I just want to stay here.”

“If you want to stay in Chicago so badly, you know what you need to do. And you only have a couple of weeks left to do it.”

If it weren’t against regulation for me to reach out to the Raptors’ upper management myself, instead of going through my agent, I’d call them right now and ask what the fuck is going on. But unfortunately, for legality reasons, I can’t.

“I need to go so I can deal with this mess.” Rich hangs up the phone with that.

The anxiety buzzes through my body as I take a seat on the couch next to my dog. Rosie buries her head under my arm, dropping on my lap, but my knees won’t stop bouncing, so she immediately gets off and instead lays on the couch next to me.

The websites I spent hours on last night are the same ones that pop up first again today.

The notorious photo, the one that’s plastered online, is the back of Stevie and me, racing up the stairs of my building. My face is turned over my shoulder, looking like a child who just got caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Stevie’s chestnut curls are bouncing the way they typically are, and her long coat covers her button-down shirt and uniform skirt. But the jacket still outlines her shape.

The comments won’t stop flooding in. It’s endless. It’s cruel.

The words they use to describe her are ones you wouldn’t want your worst enemy to read, let alone the person you care about the most.

It’s all out of jealousy and hate. I know this, but I don’t know if Stevie does. She couldn’t even see that her own mother was jealous of Stevie’s life. How the hell is she going to decipher that from strangers online? And there aren’t just a few comments. There are thousands on thousands shaming her, calling her names, ridiculing her.

All because she’s with me. People have always talked shit about me, and now that she’s associated, it’s as if people think they have the right to do it to her as well.

This photo is just the back of her. It’s just a figure in a coat. They can’t see her blue-green eyes that make me weak in the knees every time the corners of them crinkle from her laughter. They can’t see the freckles that decorate her cheeks, the same ones that create patterns and shapes I’ve memorized. They can’t see her smile that melts me every time it beams.

On top of that, no photo will ever show her wit. Her sense of humor. Her wild charm or her overwhelmingly open and kind heart. No picture will ever show how sweet she is.

But it doesn’t matter because the endless hate thrown her way is because she’s with me. I watched her light dim this morning because she’s with me.

She shouldn’t have to experience this.

Shifting my attention to the other comments of concern, my stomach drops just from reading them. They’re exponentially worse than they were last night. Initially, it was only speculation in the comment section, wondering if this is where I’ve been all season, commenting on the change they’ve noticed.

But of course, internet trolls feed off one another, and the things they’re saying have gone from bad to worse.

“No wonder Zanders is so soft this season. He’s busy playing fucking house.”

“The only thing I liked about him was seeing what hot girl he was fucking, but nope. I’m good now.” 

“No wonder Chicago hasn’t re-signed him. This comment section is speaking the truth. He’s old news.” 

“Such a little bitch.”

“Chicago isn’t going to re-sign him, but I don’t want him coming onto my home team either.” 

I was wrong. I thought I could have it all. I thought I could play both ends, being the asshole the hockey world expected while being my authentic self behind doors. But it didn’t work, and now I’m going to lose my contract because of it.

I knew deep down fans didn’t want the real me. They wanted the showman, the extravagant, the fighter, the playboy, but even though I thought I was doing a good job at continuing to wear that mask in public, I clearly wasn’t. No one was buying it. No one believed my lie.

This reputation is going to follow me for my entire life. It’s who I am. It’s who I’ve always been, and I made the mistake of thinking maybe I could change it. I thought as soon as my contract was extended, I could drop the act. But no one wants the real me. No one is paying to support the real me.

I used to thrive off the hate. I used to crave it, but now it’s like a heavy burden on my shoulders, stunting me. And this time, it’s not just me and my name getting dragged through the mud.

Ryan’s warnings flood my mind.

“I don’t want Vee wrapped up in your reputation.”

“My sister cannot handle the type of attention you get.”

He was right. Why am I doing this to her?

There’s no out for me, but there can be an out for her.

No one is ever going to love me for me, and at this point, I may as well be the man they love to hate.